...the past sneaks in the back way, even when you think you've locked it up tight.
It slips in like an anxious lover under cover of darkness, climbs the stairs and stands outside your door, knocking softly, whispering your name and other things you can't quite make out. You stand on the other side of the closed door, hand on the knob, straining to hear.
And then what will you do?
Last night I went to a performance of eight original one-act plays in two acts (we saw four, went out into the lobby, ate sticky, melted Junior Mints, then wandered back in for four more).
My friend, Bob, drove. His wife didn't want to miss something that was on TV last night and I wanted to catch the one-acts and so did schmoopie, so we three went together. We got there really early because Bob is obsessed with not being late. He bounced around the lobby glad-handing all his friends and introduced me to people as his new wife. That was fun. Then he gleefully hit the concession stand and bought three boxes of Junior Mints because his wife wasn't there to intervene. He calls Nancy "the food Nazi." Bob is 70.
Anyway, out of eight one-acts, two were bearable. The others were tedious, not well-written and some of the acting so wooden or shrill and dreadful it made me want to laugh out loud but of course, that would be wrong, so I refrained.
Bob napped occasionally. When the really bad ones concluded, he would slap his hands together once then lay them back in his lap. More like the killing a mosquito action then a stingy, begrudging clap to acknowledge an insufferable performance. This was more like a "NEXT!" clap.
Bob leaned over and whispered that the Junior Mints were making his hands sticky so I suggested he tilt his head and pour them into his mouth. He tried it and started to make loud gagging noises. Not like he was choking, but more like dry heave sounds. Then he got up and left. When he came back he said he figured he would go wash his hands because they were still sticky.
This is Miss Eula. She showed up one day in the lobby of the theatre where I do some work onstage and off.
We know her name is Eula because we rifled through her fancy red handbag and found a little quasi-birth certificate, ala Cabbage Patch kids.
She likes to hang out and especially enjoys frightening small children, which I find infinitely amusing as well.
We sometimes stash things in her handbag when she isn't looking.
Right now she's packing some Juicy Fruit gum, a package of condoms, numerous ticket stubs, a playbill from Brighton Beach Memoirs, a tube of Vagisil and a jar of mango salsa. Oh, and a hankie. With little blue flowers embroidered on it.
A few weeks ago, someone peeled off her false eyelashes and ran off with them. I thought that was a rotten thing to do.
I suppose she screamed and carried on but none of us were there to hear it. I suspect the children's theatre kids. Little bastards.
I fell madly, deeply, passionately and psychotically in love with a guy once and we took turns ripping each other's hearts out for years. But that came later.
The first night that we had a meaningful discussion I told him that after work every night I loved to go home and sit in the bathtub and smoke cigarettes while listening to my favorite Rolling Stones album: Black and Blue. I did that for hours, sometimes.
"My favorite song on the album is Memory Motel," I told him in my sexiest voice.
"Yeah...," he said, "I think I have that album."
When I saw him again:
Me: "Hey- when you went home the other night, you dug out your Black and Blue album and listened to it, didn't you?
Him: "Yeah...I did."
Me: "And you played that song and thought of me, didn't you?"
Him: "Yeah..."
Me: "So are you gonna kiss me, or what?"
Him: "Yeah."
Hannah honey was a peachy kind of girl
Her eyes were hazel
And her nose were slightly curved
We spent a lonely night at the Memory Motel
It's on the ocean, I guess you know it well
It took a starry night to steal my breath away
Down on the water front
Her hair all drenched in spray
Hannah baby was a honey of a girl
Her eyes were hazel
And her teeth were slightly curved
She took my guitar and she began to play
She sang a song to me
Stuck right in my brain
You're just a memory
Of a love
That used to be
You're just a memory of a love
That used to mean so much to me
She got a mind of her own
And she use it well
Well she's one of a kind
She's got a mind
She got a mind of her own
And she use it mighty fine
I am working on a huge piece and my ass is numb. I can hear my editor across town twiddling her thumbs waiting, waiting, waiting for me to e-mail my copy whihc I promised to her today but cannot seem to let go of and send it off already.
But my body is aching from so much sitting and staring and so I decide to do some stretches with my big rubber band thing that is supposed to be good for me in some way. I can stretch whilst I read over my copy, I tell myself, ever so pleased that I am multitasking in such a productive manner.
I guess I didn't have the band as secure under my feet as I thought because just as I did a deep cleansing breath and drew my arms up toward my chin in a big stretch, the thing rolled up my foot, shot under my toes and unleashed a mighty stinging THWACK!!! to my face.
SHIT! Could it possibly have stung any more? I think not. I staggered out into the kitchen and downed three aspirins with a warm diet coke and made a feeble attempt at explaining my nosebleed to the guy in the boxers who was cooking mushrooms and garlic for dinner.
The only good thing is that I probably don't have to wear blush for a week because my cheeks are red, red, red. Angry red. Oh yeah, I'm a red hot siren tonight, baby.
That would be okay except that I have a big red spot that matches my cheeks on my chin and under my nose. Pretty.
Love them. Here are some blueberry muffins Schmoopie whipped up this morning. Earl Grey tea with lots of cream and a warm muffin--yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeessssssssssssss.
We ventured out to the beach at sunset and watched the idiots body surf in the pounding waves of hurricane dennis. All sorts of weirdos came out and watched the big show (including us).
Funny thing about a hurricane churning out there. There are no seagulls. Anywhere.
Which is like no pigeons in New York. It's just weird and so wrong.
Maybe there's a bird hurricane hideout we know nothing about...
So I am standing in front of the dairy section at Publix pondering the mysteries of shredded cheese when I notice in my periphery a desperate housewife circling nearby for about the third time. I must be blocking her access to the Havarti so I do a half-hearted sidestep. She takes the move as an invitation, I guess, because she does another big sweeping pass with her packed grocery cart and pulls up next to me and leans in.
Her: "Scuz me, I never do this, but, um, you are just too cute and I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute about Mary Kay cosmetics?"
Me: Stunned silence
Her: "My name is Cheryl Something-Or-Other and I am a Mary Kay consultant. We have some new products coming out and I need 20 faces to demonstrate the products...have you ever used Mary Kay?"
Me: "No. I have a skin condition and I purchase all my cosmetics from my dermatologist." This is a lie, of course.
Her: "Oh...well, thanks for listening..."
She wanders off, pushing her cart filled with low-carb milk, club soda, t-bones and kitty litter.
My friend is staring, a tub of sour cream in one hand and refried beans in the other. We are making hurricane nachos and watching Anchorman tonight.
I look at her and ask if I really look like I am in need of a makeover by a perky color coordinated Mary Kay consultant. She replies that with the exception of my hair, which is a wreck (well, duh, there are hurricane-force winds blowing outside!), I look fine.
We see her again in the check-out aisle and I whisper to my friend: "not the crazy lady's line!"
I purposely choose the line furthest from her, even though it's the longest line and the place is jammed since everyone is stocking up for the hurricane that is bearing down on Florida. She notices as I saunter by and avoids eye contact with me. She is applying lip gloss. It's pink.
This is Daisy, also answers to Daisy-Doodle, Daisy-Maisy, Doodle-Dog and Pookie. She likes chasing lizards, having her tummy rubbed and sitting and staring. She also likes to stare while in a reclining position.
She ate part of my favorite carpet but it's not like I was planning on taking it with me to the next world or anything, so what the hell. At least she refrains from peeing and pooping in the house. Now that's saying something.
