Hope
She’d been the kind of breathtaking baby that stopped people short. A baby with a mesmerizing gaze who would engage your eyes as though regarding the core of your being—the very truth, as it were, of you. She’d been the kind of happy and happy-go-lucky child who could infuse everyone around her with a feeling of inexplicable and ineffable gladness.
And yet, in spite of the sparkling start, her life had evolved as a more or less steadfast march from bundle of joy to bundle of nerves; nerves relentlessly assaulted by a mean-drunk husband and an emotionally distant, possibly demented, son.
She had tended toward undercooked poultry and overcooked meat—yet charmingly so for all the assiduous effort she unflaggingly put into getting it right. But it had been Hope’s fate that no one would find these charming tendencies endearing, or rightly appreciate her facile mind or capacity for provocative thought. One such thought Hope’s facile mind had come to harbor was that her destiny had turned out to be that of a figurative and literal conduit for pointless perpetuation. Nothing more, nothing less.
There had not been, and would not be, a pot of gold at the end of her rainbow. No rainbow, as far as that went. Just a tangerine-colored Corelle plate of chicken-fried steak, buttered green beans, and mashed potatoes.
# # #
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
296
Milena
When Milena saw the TV commercial for Mirena, an intrauterine contraceptive offering up to five years of pregnancy-thwarting hormone-delivery directly into her uterus, she thought of her mother’s Japanese-American friend, Mrs. Iwasa, who never could get the hang of Milena’s name, being herself thwarted by the letter L, and was always calling her “Mirena” instead. And no, maybe that wasn’t exactly in the nature of a fortuitous portent, but it was at least a provocative coincidence, and so she decided that, yes—yes, she would go ahead and ask her doctor, as the promotional message strenuously recommended, if Mirena was “right” for her, even though the tiny plastic implement bore a somewhat discomfiting resemblance to a miner’s pickax. A resemblance all the more menacing for its ability to dig into, and sometimes pierce, a woman’s uterine wall, as the commercial lightly, if not liltingly, cautioned.
It also cautioned Milena about back pain, headaches, nausea, irregular bleeding, ovarian cysts (but the good ones that usually disappear), a decrease in libidinous impulse, and the fact that if pregnancy should occur with Mirena in place, it could threaten Milena’s life. The commercial didn’t say anything about having to check the thing’s threads once a month, but no matter; Milena had pretty much stopped listening after hearing the potential blessings: no more having to take that pill (so busy!) and no more baby worries for five sweet years. Just set it and forget it, like her Showtime Rotisserie, and what a godsend that was!
So she asked her doctor to put one in, and he of course was only too happy to oblige, money being money. But Milena’s hear-no-evil indifference to Mirena’s less sanguine attributes made him think she might be as big a nut case as her boyfriend David.
# # #
When Milena saw the TV commercial for Mirena, an intrauterine contraceptive offering up to five years of pregnancy-thwarting hormone-delivery directly into her uterus, she thought of her mother’s Japanese-American friend, Mrs. Iwasa, who never could get the hang of Milena’s name, being herself thwarted by the letter L, and was always calling her “Mirena” instead. And no, maybe that wasn’t exactly in the nature of a fortuitous portent, but it was at least a provocative coincidence, and so she decided that, yes—yes, she would go ahead and ask her doctor, as the promotional message strenuously recommended, if Mirena was “right” for her, even though the tiny plastic implement bore a somewhat discomfiting resemblance to a miner’s pickax. A resemblance all the more menacing for its ability to dig into, and sometimes pierce, a woman’s uterine wall, as the commercial lightly, if not liltingly, cautioned.
It also cautioned Milena about back pain, headaches, nausea, irregular bleeding, ovarian cysts (but the good ones that usually disappear), a decrease in libidinous impulse, and the fact that if pregnancy should occur with Mirena in place, it could threaten Milena’s life. The commercial didn’t say anything about having to check the thing’s threads once a month, but no matter; Milena had pretty much stopped listening after hearing the potential blessings: no more having to take that pill (so busy!) and no more baby worries for five sweet years. Just set it and forget it, like her Showtime Rotisserie, and what a godsend that was!
So she asked her doctor to put one in, and he of course was only too happy to oblige, money being money. But Milena’s hear-no-evil indifference to Mirena’s less sanguine attributes made him think she might be as big a nut case as her boyfriend David.
# # #
Sunday, June 6, 2010
186
David
David had his own way of seeing things, and sometimes he couldn’t help wondering if his own way of seeing things was not a good deal more than quirky or eccentric or endearingly odd. In other words, he could not be certain he wasn’t a bona fide nut job. On the other hand, a good deal too many people lived their lives bereft of creative impulse, the way David saw it, and David drew more than a modicum of pride from his voluptuous ability to think outside the box.
And so, when he came home later than usual that night and found his mother face down in her chicken-fried steak, his initial response, after satisfying himself she was actually dead, was to dial 9-1-1.
But then it occurred to him that he would probably never have another opportunity to break bread with a corpse, much less his mother’s corpse, and how singular it would be, in not just his frame of reference but in pretty much everyone else’s, to do just that.
And wouldn’t you know it?
His mom had gone and overcooked the goddamn meat again.
# # #
David had his own way of seeing things, and sometimes he couldn’t help wondering if his own way of seeing things was not a good deal more than quirky or eccentric or endearingly odd. In other words, he could not be certain he wasn’t a bona fide nut job. On the other hand, a good deal too many people lived their lives bereft of creative impulse, the way David saw it, and David drew more than a modicum of pride from his voluptuous ability to think outside the box.
And so, when he came home later than usual that night and found his mother face down in her chicken-fried steak, his initial response, after satisfying himself she was actually dead, was to dial 9-1-1.
But then it occurred to him that he would probably never have another opportunity to break bread with a corpse, much less his mother’s corpse, and how singular it would be, in not just his frame of reference but in pretty much everyone else’s, to do just that.
And wouldn’t you know it?
His mom had gone and overcooked the goddamn meat again.
# # #
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Tourette’s Week
PAT:
Welcome back. And if you’re just joining us, we’re still on our very first puzzle of Tourette’s Week. I kid you not. All the consonants and vowels have been in place since Monday, and it’s—well, I wanted to say it’s just a matter of reading what’s up there, but just just doesn’t seem to be the case.VANNA:
Amen to that! Hah!
JOAN:
Whore! Whore! Whore! Whore! SLUT!
Amen to that! Hah!
JOAN:
Whore! Whore! Whore! Whore! SLUT!
PAT:
Heh-heh. There we go again, heh-heh. We can’t seem to get past—what’s it called again, Charlie?CHARLIE:
It’s called cop-ruh-LAAAAAY-lee-uh, Pat. Coprolalia!
PAT:
By Jove! I think he’s got it. Coprolalia. Good ol’ coprolalia. Okay. So, how’s about it, Justin? We’re around to you again. Think you can just read what’s up there this time? Remember, just read what’s up there.It’s called cop-ruh-LAAAAAY-lee-uh, Pat. Coprolalia!
PAT:
VANNA:
Please! For the love of almighty God!
JUSTIN:
Okay. Here goes, Pat. All’s ... well ... that ... FUCK ... ends ... well. Shit!
PAT:
Uh ... gee whiz. No, Justin, that’s not quite right once again. Joan? How about it? Feelin’ lucky? Can you just read what’s up there this time? You’ve got a cool eight grand and a fabulous weekend getaway in the Pocono Mountains riding on, as I’ve said so many times, just reading what’s up there. That’s all there is to it, seriously, in all seriousness, that’s all it’s gonna take to win here.Please! For the love of almighty God!
JUSTIN:
Okay. Here goes, Pat. All’s ... well ... that ... FUCK ... ends ... well. Shit!
PAT:
JOAN:
Penis! Fart! Ballsack! Melons!
VANNA:
You BITCH!
PAT:
Easy, Vanna. Heh-heh. Who’da thunk coprolalia could be contagious? And speaking of ‘thunk’—who in the name of all things holy thunk up this theme week? Was it you, Charlie?Penis! Fart! Ballsack! Melons!
VANNA:
You BITCH!
PAT:
CHARLIE:
Not me, Pat! Not in a miiiillll-yun years.
PAT:
Well, a venti raspberry mocha with a double-pump of strychnine for whoever did. All right. Let’s take a slightly different tack with Sheila. Sheila, it’s down to you—for what? your twentieth try?—and this time I just want you to repeat after me. Just say each word right after I say it, okay? And don’t say anything else. I repeat: Do not say anything else. Got it? Think you can do that? Heh-heh.Not me, Pat! Not in a miiiillll-yun years.
PAT:
SHEILA:
Yes, Pat, I’m ... ASSWIPE ... pretty sure I ca ... PRICK!
JUSTIN:
Scrotum!
JOAN:
Ballsack! Penis! Fart!
VANNA:
Jesus!
CHARLIE:
Yes, Pat, I’m ... ASSWIPE ... pretty sure I ca ... PRICK!
JUSTIN:
Scrotum!
JOAN:
Ballsack! Penis! Fart!
VANNA:
Jesus!
CHARLIE:
Will everybody puuuuuh-LEEZ shut the fuck up! All yours, Pat.
PAT:
Aaannnd thank you, Charlie! Very much. Now, Sheila. Sheila! Over here. Look right here—at me. That’s it. Ready? Okay, say all’s. ...SHEILA:
All’s ...
PAT:
well ...
SHEILA:
well ...
PAT:
that ...
SHEILA:
that ...
PAT:
ends ...
SHEILA:
ends ...
PAT:
... well.
SHEILA:
... well. BASTARD!
VANNA:
You fucking WHORE!
PAT:
She wins, Charlie, right? She said the whole thing, right? Bastard doesn’t count, right? For the love of Christ—somebody tell me BASTARD doesn’t count!All’s ...
PAT:
well ...
SHEILA:
well ...
PAT:
that ...
SHEILA:
that ...
PAT:
ends ...
SHEILA:
ends ...
PAT:
... well.
SHEILA:
... well. BASTARD!
VANNA:
You fucking WHORE!
PAT:
# # #
© 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Babbler Excerpt No. 10
"I bought you your birthday present, Dad"
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
Earl sets aside his study guide, shuts off the associated cassette tape of Spaniards speaking Spanish, and removes the headphones of his Sony Walkman. He's been in the parenting game long enough to discern the opening line of a meaningful conversation.
"And I spent my ten dollars, too," six-year-old Daniel adds, before El Gordo (The Fat One) can reply.
Remembering his son's first, and only, ten-dollar bill, El Feo (The Ugly One) finds this news dismaying. "Oh, Daniel, you shouldn't have spent so much!"
"I got five one-dollars back."
"Ah, that's good—"
"And some coins."
"Well, then I—"
"And I bought something for myself, too."
# # #
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
Earl sets aside his study guide, shuts off the associated cassette tape of Spaniards speaking Spanish, and removes the headphones of his Sony Walkman. He's been in the parenting game long enough to discern the opening line of a meaningful conversation.
"And I spent my ten dollars, too," six-year-old Daniel adds, before El Gordo (The Fat One) can reply.
Remembering his son's first, and only, ten-dollar bill, El Feo (The Ugly One) finds this news dismaying. "Oh, Daniel, you shouldn't have spent so much!"
"I got five one-dollars back."
"Ah, that's good—"
"And some coins."
"Well, then I—"
"And I bought something for myself, too."
# # #
Monday, June 15, 2009
Babbler Excerpt No. 9
Step to the bar, ladies
Let no cups runneth over
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
The idiom "in her cups" has acquired special meaning for the always luscious Susan E. Beemer. The former indispensable but not worth an extra four bits an hour pharmacist's assistant for Arbor Drugs has secured a post befitting the elegance and femininity that radiate from her like Roentgens from plutonium.
"I've more or less evolved from a Marianne's girl into a Hudson's woman in the twenty years I've been married to my present husband," she explains, "so becoming a Hudson's employee seemed like the next logical step."
And the logic of assigning someone so chic to their tony lingerie department must fairly have smacked top Hudson's brass like a board in the face.
"I'm 'manning' the bra bar, as they call it, measuring bustlines and helping women tame unruly boobs with brassieres of exquisite fit," she says. "And I'm loving every minute of it and making a buck-and-a-quarter more an hour than I made at Arbor. Plus, I get a twenty-five percent discount on everything I buy!"
Standing suddenly, she hoists her mid-length rayon skirt, fawn with subtle checks of muted black, and exclaims, "I even get free panties, too—see?"
# # #
Let no cups runneth over
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
The idiom "in her cups" has acquired special meaning for the always luscious Susan E. Beemer. The former indispensable but not worth an extra four bits an hour pharmacist's assistant for Arbor Drugs has secured a post befitting the elegance and femininity that radiate from her like Roentgens from plutonium.
"I've more or less evolved from a Marianne's girl into a Hudson's woman in the twenty years I've been married to my present husband," she explains, "so becoming a Hudson's employee seemed like the next logical step."
And the logic of assigning someone so chic to their tony lingerie department must fairly have smacked top Hudson's brass like a board in the face.
"I'm 'manning' the bra bar, as they call it, measuring bustlines and helping women tame unruly boobs with brassieres of exquisite fit," she says. "And I'm loving every minute of it and making a buck-and-a-quarter more an hour than I made at Arbor. Plus, I get a twenty-five percent discount on everything I buy!"
Standing suddenly, she hoists her mid-length rayon skirt, fawn with subtle checks of muted black, and exclaims, "I even get free panties, too—see?"
# # #
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Babbler Excerpt No. 8
First million
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
The Beemer children's millionth "shut up" occurred last week in a brief but spirited altercation among Thea, Kelly, and Remy concerning which of them will initiate all or most of the verbal combat predicted for Easter vacation by their anxious mother.
The honor of notching number 1,000,000 fell to the copper-haired Thea, 14, who recommended that Remy shut up after Remy had posed the identical suggestion in Thea's direction and sought parental authorization to "sock" the girl.
Asked how she felt about missing the one-million mark by a single shut-up, Remy, 15, answered, "I'm not surprised Thea got it. That little wench gets everything, including all the babysitting jobs."
"Oh, shut up, Remy—I do not!" Thea offered.
# # #
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
The Beemer children's millionth "shut up" occurred last week in a brief but spirited altercation among Thea, Kelly, and Remy concerning which of them will initiate all or most of the verbal combat predicted for Easter vacation by their anxious mother.
The honor of notching number 1,000,000 fell to the copper-haired Thea, 14, who recommended that Remy shut up after Remy had posed the identical suggestion in Thea's direction and sought parental authorization to "sock" the girl.
Asked how she felt about missing the one-million mark by a single shut-up, Remy, 15, answered, "I'm not surprised Thea got it. That little wench gets everything, including all the babysitting jobs."
"Oh, shut up, Remy—I do not!" Thea offered.
# # #
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