Gloria knew how gorgeous she looked walking into her cousin Dore's wedding reception at the Ritz Carlton--it had been precisely planned, months in the making; the perfect dress, a racy haircut, sexy shoes, a high-gloss salon radiance from head to toe. She needed all the armor she could carry. Her ex-boyfriend, Trevor would be there with his new girlfriend whom it was rumored he planned to marry at the end of the year.
Gloria had been avoiding Trevor for the past six months, ever since he'd left her abruptly, sending an e-mail explaining his reasons that she thought unreasonable, sketchy; needing time, not sure about his future, not ready to settle down. The e-mail went on to suggest a time for her to move out of his apartment, at her convenience of course, but sooner rather than later as he would probably need to get a roommate to help with expenses. Gloria sarcastically hissed at that one knowing his father paid his rent, or rather, owned the building. Obviously he'd forgotten his sorrowful confession one drunken night--how much it bothered him to be beholden to his father at age twenty-nine.
Gloria arrived a little late, also planned, but she was promptly given her due. "You look marvelous," her aunt Gwen said. "I love your new hairstyle. I've always loved the bob. And how nice you've lost some weight."
"You’re a goddess," said her mother, admiring her daughter without objection. Trevor won’t be able to take his eyes off of you, oh, sorry, I didn’t mean that. Forget about him. Is he here, by the way?”
There were other platitudinous compliments from various relatives and Gloria took them in stride but most of the admiration went to her dress: a sylphlike, scintillating Alexander McQueen cocktail dress that cost as much as two months rent, a load of psychic energy and several credit cards to pull off even though she'd gotten an online discount.
Gloria, in the weeks before the wedding gave plenty of thought to this extravagance but finally decided in a rash moment, late one sleepless night, if she didn't have it she would not have the confidence to attend the wedding and the reception afterward with Trevor and his new girlfriend. She knew she was over-compensating for arriving alone, unattached, still hung up on Trevor, still wishing for him to admire her, to say he'd made a mistake though if he was to be married, this was unlikely. Still Gloria had her fantasies and could do nothing about them, she thought. Her friends and family thought she was long overdue for a reality check and all said seeing Trevor with Jessica would probably do it. She would then be ready to move on. That was the reason he was invited by her cousin, that and various family connections making it hard to slight him. Gloria only hoped he would notice how buff her body had become, shown to beautiful effect in the McQueen that would at least be the most outstanding, expensive dress at the reception, notwithstanding the bridal gown of course.
Gloria knew how gorgeous she looked but wondered what the curious glances she was given first by her friend, Macy, then her aunt Meg, but when her sister rushed up to her with a look of panic she was confused. Were her bra straps showing? Did she have unsightly panty line? Was her necklace askew? Had she left rollers in her hair? She had the feeling something about her appearance was amiss so she darted toward the ladies room. Just at that moment she spotted Trevor, alone, calmly sipping champagne and talking to her brother in the corner by a large potted plant of a tropical origin. Gloria brushed past her sister Linda and plastered her biggest, brightest smile across her face; she would play up her own swellness before she lost heart, before she was forced to hear of his plans, before she got drunk, before she met his new girlfriend and was forced to congratulate them. Maybe she could avoid it all if she just brashly plowed in, said hello to Trevor, got it over with and silently ignored them the rest of the night.
The smile, so wide, so brimming with good intention went slightly haywire when she spotted another woman wearing her very own McQueen. At first she thought she was seeing a reflection of herself in the wall of mirrors on the opposite side of the room. Gloria clutched her heart, felt blood rush to her head, no longer worried about Trevor, who turned to greet her just as the second McQueen sidled up behind him. Was it a copy? No, the real thing she quickly discerned, even the same dark indigo shade, so of the moment, so chic, so flattering, how could something this nauseating be happening? She felt the juice and sparkle drain from her carefully wrought image and her sister, expecting this, was instantly on hand with a glass of champagne. "Here doll, drink up. It's going to be a long night," Linda said, fearing for her sister’s composure.
Gloria stared in horror, took the glass with total detachment unable to find a reasonable place to park her eyes: on the woman in the McQueen or at Trevor, but it was solved in an instant when Trevor said "Gloria, come here, I want you to meet Jessica."
Jessica, with a frightening grimace on her face also clutched her heart, her face going from red to blue, her eyes rolling about, her poise, a moment before so in evidence, reduced to startled disdain. "Nice to meet you, Gloria," she sputtered, unable to look her in the eye. She felt she might cry and hoped she could make a quick exit.
"Whoa, you guys dressed alike," chortled Trevor who found this highly amusing. "Did you plan it to freak me out?" Jessica now slightly unsteady, ghostly, stood at his right and Gloria on his left, both awkward, uneasy. He was dumbstruck between the two women wearing identical dresses, each glaring at the other. Obviously they were not amused, Trevor thought, and adjusted his facial expression accordingly hoping someone would intervene quickly.
"Nice to meet you too Jessica. Love your dress," Gloria lamely joked and then gulped her champagne and made a hasty retreat saying she needed to see her mother, stumbling heedlessly for the ladies room or the bar, she wasn't sure which. Linda was on her trail, leaving Trevor and Jessica in close tense communication, Jessica now a pale, shrinking version of who she had been upon arrival. The couple left shortly after, Trevor making apologies, showing good manners despite the fact that he was confused and irritated beyond belief having to abruptly leave a party he had been looking forward to for weeks.
Gloria on the other hand, once over her shock that someone would actually be wearing her McQueen at the same occasion, (what were the odds?) drank and ate excessively, danced wildly with all members of the opposite sex including a ninety-two-year-old man, an eight-year-old boy and all the cousins and uncles, too numerous to recount. She was more than a little tipsy but knew she was in fine form, that she had prevailed. Her attachment to Trevor, so volatile and relentless was finally over and this is what she was really celebrating. He looked so pitiful trying to escort Jessica out of the reception rooms with false dignity, everyone watching and knowing he was being dragged out against his will. He had always loved Gloria's unruly family and had been so happy to be invited to this wedding. Her brother Ted was his best friend in college and Trevor looked up to him. He was an only child of busy parents and envied the closeness in Ted's family. He had loved Gloria but she intimidated him. He was hoping they could be friends with no hard feelings.
Jessica meanwhile, threw up in Trevor's car on the way home, getting some on her fantastic McQueen dress she'd paid full-price for just to impress people she didn't know and outshine his ex-girlfriend she'd heard too much about. She too had gone nearly broke over this dress. She did not know what she would do with it now; probably sell it on eBay; she could never wear it again. She began calculating the loss suffered both financially and emotionally plotting how she would make Trevor pay for both.
The marriage of Gloria’s cousin produced three children and much happiness. Gloria wore her dress many times over the years; to another wedding reception, to a prestigious cocktail party given by the architectural firm she worked for, to a graduation and on several dates of varying success. She had been horrified and angry at first but Jessica was more so she reckoned and for that she retained a love for her McQueen cocktail dress long after it had gone just a touch out of style. When the designer passed away she had it cleaned and lovingly placed it in a cedar chest that had been in her mother’s bedroom since before Gloria was born.
Trevor and Jessica never married. It was really only a rumor in the first place. Trevor never knew what caused Jessica to cool. Why did she expect him to pay for her dress? She was the one who threw up on it and when she mentioned a $3,000 price tag, he suspected she was trying to rip him off: it was the same dress Gloria was wearing, it couldn’t have cost that much; she was too sensible about money. Gloria never returned his calls or emails and eventually married an architect though Trevor and her brother Ted remain great friends today. Trevor never married; women are too complicated, he always said but had many affairs, usually with married women. Gloria heard all about it from her cousin Dore, who also loved to retell the story of her wedding and Gloria’s dress, more memorable today than the bridal gown and those of the seven bridesmaids.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
#34 DOMESTIC BLISS (OR NOT)
Morgan briskly walked up Van Ness attempting to wrap a scarf around her head as the wind sent a scathing chill down her spine. It was still too early for sunshine and the overcast sky was part and parcel of a San Francisco morning in June. She had spent the night with her boyfriend, Alex, on Bush Street, a large flat shared with three other guys. Morgan was fuming, wondering when Alex might consider getting his own apartment instead of living the same way he did in college. The guys were now in their thirties, had fairly good jobs in the tech field but still they seemed unable to take adulthood to the next stage. Alex had been promoted earlier in the year and received a good deal of money from the stock options he'd garnered from his first employer after graduating and being willing to work long hours to help a startup succeed. The business succeeded beyond what anyone expected so Alex had no financial worries at this time and could afford his own place despite San Francisco's notoriously high rent.
Morgan hated getting up in the night and having to see his friends, one always seemed to be sleeping on the couch even though they all had bedrooms. She hated even more running into one of them in the hallway on the way to the bathroom, so awkward. She also did not approve of the way the apartment was kept; dirty floors, grungy bathroom, dishes always in the sink and never any toilet paper or paper towels when you needed them. Morgan thought it some sort of delayed adolescence and chided Alex for it from time to time but he mostly ignored her or if she balked at coming over, made an attempt at housecleaning but the presence of his roommates, their friends, their girlfriends and odd people from out of town needing a place to crash made for an unruly, unpredictable atmosphere which Morgan found inhibiting.
She was a loner; this can be said about her uncritically. She lived alone because she was unsuccessful living with others; there were always problems and anyone who has ever lived with roommates knows what they are: who doesn't have the money for their share of the utilities, who never buys toilet paper, who plugged up the toilet, broke the dishwasher, overflowed the sink, who eats food not theirs, whose boyfriend eats food not his, who never cleans anything, who brought home a cat despite a no-pets agreement…Morgan becoming rigid with tension over these matters, knew she had to have her own place and at the time couldn't afford a real apartment so had to move into a residence hotel and forgo amenities like a kitchen. This was a small price to pay for peace she thought and subsisted on sandwiches and takeout except when Alex took her to dinner or she cooked for him at his place although the roommates always intruded on them, ate all the leftovers, often right off their plates. Morgan, who had looked forward to this little bit of domestic intimacy roiled inside but remained placid on the outside. They would then have to go to Alex's room to watch TV because the living room would soon be taken over by the guys and friends.
That Alex seemed satisfied with this arrangement bothered her though she tried not to let it. She would stay at his place two nights a week so she could cook and he would stay with her in her little room two night a week. When she said anything about getting a place of his own he just laughed at her and said he was fine with things as they were; said he saved a lot of dough by sharing Internet service, cable, gas and electric and the hoard of sporting equipment that had its own room in the flat. They had bikes, skis, skateboards, water boards, basketballs, baseball bats and gloves, footballs, scuba diving equipment, and for a time there was not one, but two scooters parked in the living room. All these men still playing with toys, Morgan thought. When will they grow up?
Alex knew Morgan was uncomfortable with the chaos at his place so he stayed at her place when invited but found her quarters too confining and in the end said he didn't see the point: she could more easily stay at his place because it was closer to both of their workplaces. Morgan had trouble explaining why she didn't find it all that inviting but Alex thought she was being cranky. He thought the need for privacy was a picky woman thing but never said he felt bored at her place. She wondered why he didn't prefer a clean bathroom with big towels and plenty of hot water, order and clean sheets.
At first he did: he commented on how nice it was to have quiet and be able to watch what he wanted on TV with no phones ringing or uninvited visitors, no unexpected troubles. He seemed to love her little room with the light from the bay window streaming in, her arm chair placed to look out on the tree-lined street with the old Gothic church pleasingly in view, her books neatly on the shelves she installed, her artwork, Chinese-style ink drawings of flowers and birds, hung so the light accentuated their charm. An old Persian rug on the floor gave the room an eclectic mood. She loved her little room but longed for more space to decorate the way she'd like, to make her home a haven, a refuge from the city that at times overwhelmed her. She was from the suburbs and though she recognized the banality of suburbs, couldn't wait to leave when she began classes at the Academy of Art, she longed for an orderly home with room to work on projects, to entertain and sit in the sun.
This was Morgan's big dream: a home of her own. She was hoping that it would be with Alex whom she had been going exclusively with for the past two years but whenever she brought up the idea he glazed over and changed the subject. She didn't understand what was holding him back.
Alex had no such dreams and secretly longed for the open road and no place to call home. He wanted to travel as much as possible, see foreign countries and stay loose. None of this he told Morgan in so many words. He wasn't a domestic type and could see no value in flower arrangements, complicated soap dispensers, espresso machines, pasta makers or sectional sofas. Morgan read decorating magazines vicariously and often showed Alex pictures of things she admired but he just briefly glanced at the pages, grunted and talked about how much money that would cost and how troubling in the end when you wanted to move. He said his parents bought a rather grand house, his mother decorated it at great time and expense and in the end his father left for a fishing trip to the Florida Keys and never returned. His mother just sat in her beautifully decorated rooms that no one wanted to live in for fear of knocking things over or upsetting some arrangement that had no specific meaning, was a puzzle of sorts, and Alex spent his time in the basement family room that she hadn't got around to fixing up yet. Each day he came home from school and found his mother with a crystal glass filled with wine, staring at her Barcelona chairs, her Aubusson carpets, her Japanese pottery, her gilded picture frames and lonely unused fireplace with the over-wrought oil portrait of herself over the mantle. Alex would sneak into the basement where his toys, stereo, computer and bikes were stored careful not to track in any mud or mess up the display in the foyer with his backpack and jacket. There he lived in a hovel-like room waiting to graduate from high school so he could leave for college. His father stayed in Florida, lived in a cabin with is new girlfriend, cooked fish on the beach and drove a vintage motorcycle. Alex could related to this lifestyle, did not blame his father and pitied his mother with her fresh paint, delicate porcelain and fluffy down comforters that did not comfort.
None of this he told Morgan; these were things not really active in his mind but he subconsciously retreated into his boy's world whenever Morgan brought out the decorating magazines and catalogs and started talking of drapery, paint colors and furniture styles. He'd heard it all before and it drove his father away. As far as he was concerned, he preferred dorm-style living as that was what saved his sanity after leaving home and starting college. His mother could not even stand a stray glass or plate left on the counter or in the sink. She would freak out over a pillow or cushion out of place; anything that jarred her sense of order in her precious rooms that no one lived in anymore. Alex knew he was an extraneous feature that did not fit in with the decor, or at least that is what he felt and more often stayed over at his friend Jake's house, whose parents lived in their home, had parties, joked, played games, ate popcorn in the living room with many and various pets running around freely. As Jake's mother said when Alex once apologized for dropping popcorn on the carpeting, "That's what vacuum cleaners are for dear, don't worry about that." Alex felt a loosening in his shoulders blades hearing that sentence, so gaily imparted, he thought. His mother would look at the offender and immediately get on her hands and knees searching for each stray kernel, Alex would feel a tightening in his solar plexus, retreat to his room in the basement, feeling a combination of exasperation then guilt for leaving his mother alone after she cooked his favorite dinner and rented a movie he'd been waiting to see. She was trying but she could not get past the symmetry of her beautifully appointed rooms. She was goaded by design and could no longer live in her own house.
All of this Alex could not exactly articulate to Morgan who had been after all, an art and design student but her earnest desire for a place of their own she could decorate gave him a bout of asthma and they'd had a few fights over his refusal to get a grownup lifestyle, preferably with her. They started spending less time at each other's place and were drifting apart though nothing was said.
One day Alex met a girl named Felicity who lived in her art studio, shared a bathroom down the hall with various eccentrics in the building and invited Alex for dinner eating on an old packing crate with a broken folding chair for him and a waste basket turned upside for her. Then they slept on a foldout mattress on the concrete floor under a dirty sheet and a drop-cloth. Alex was smitten and began seeing her regularly. She was more than happy to stay at his place and not only enjoyed the ruckus, but contributed to it with her large dog and a collection of Segways.
When Morgan found out there was someone else in Alex's life she took it stoically and bought new sheets for her bed with a matching duvet and shams. Somewhere she thought she would find a man who wanted what she wanted but was alone in her room for several more years, eventually marrying a guy named Griffin who appreciated all she had to offer domestically. They shopped for hours in Pottery Barn, Crate and Barrel, William Sonoma and all the antique stores south of Market for their new home. After a few years, and many trips to various furniture stores and outlets, Morgan deemed their home perfect and they settled into a routine, sharing the housework and polishing the silver and glassware together for fun. They gave excellent parties where everything matched and the table sparkled. After several more years, her husband announced that he might be gay, wanted to explore his options and they began divorce proceedings, fighting over the imitation Serves china, the copper pots, the custom bamboo shelving, the Eames chairs, the retro rugs, the small collection of antique teapots and the lease on the Victorian flat. When it was over, Morgan redecorated and decided she might prefer living alone and each night went to sleep dreaming of granite counter tops, cherry wood floors, stainless steel appliances and porcelain shower tiles.
Alex still lived in the same place although Felicity moved in and converted part of the dining room into her studio. They talked of marriage but never got around to it. Most of the old roommates had married and bought houses so Alex had a changing cast of characters moving in and out complete with all the correct sporting goods. He was growing a little impatient with his lifestyle but did not know how to change it. Felicity had no domestic instincts. Sometimes he thought of Morgan sentimentally; she had been a good sport about a lot of things. He heard that she was married and lived in a terrific place in lower Pacific Heights. He hoped she wasn't too uptight, like his mother, now remarried to a cooking instructor.
Morgan occasionally walked by the flat on Bush and also thought of Alex and the warm relationship they'd once had, wondered if he was happy, if he'd grown up, if he still smelled deliciously of apples and sandalwood but when she saw an old TV in front of the steps waiting for someone to pick it up, a broken set of ski poles, a pile of badly used canvases and various takeout containers in the garbage she shuddered. Walking briskly down Van Ness, wrapping her coat tightly around her she thought only of her neat and tidy rooms, aesthetically so pleasing, remembered her irritation with Alex and his friends and decided she had made the right choice after all despite the divorce. It would have never worked out with Alex, she thought but still felt something of a loss. Maybe what she really needed was a stylish new table for the foyer. This thought perked her up. Yes, she would have to start looking right away. Entering her flat, she wondered why she had never thought of it before. The space was positively barren. She got out her catalogs and spent the night in happy contemplation; furniture was her heart’s desire.
Morgan hated getting up in the night and having to see his friends, one always seemed to be sleeping on the couch even though they all had bedrooms. She hated even more running into one of them in the hallway on the way to the bathroom, so awkward. She also did not approve of the way the apartment was kept; dirty floors, grungy bathroom, dishes always in the sink and never any toilet paper or paper towels when you needed them. Morgan thought it some sort of delayed adolescence and chided Alex for it from time to time but he mostly ignored her or if she balked at coming over, made an attempt at housecleaning but the presence of his roommates, their friends, their girlfriends and odd people from out of town needing a place to crash made for an unruly, unpredictable atmosphere which Morgan found inhibiting.
She was a loner; this can be said about her uncritically. She lived alone because she was unsuccessful living with others; there were always problems and anyone who has ever lived with roommates knows what they are: who doesn't have the money for their share of the utilities, who never buys toilet paper, who plugged up the toilet, broke the dishwasher, overflowed the sink, who eats food not theirs, whose boyfriend eats food not his, who never cleans anything, who brought home a cat despite a no-pets agreement…Morgan becoming rigid with tension over these matters, knew she had to have her own place and at the time couldn't afford a real apartment so had to move into a residence hotel and forgo amenities like a kitchen. This was a small price to pay for peace she thought and subsisted on sandwiches and takeout except when Alex took her to dinner or she cooked for him at his place although the roommates always intruded on them, ate all the leftovers, often right off their plates. Morgan, who had looked forward to this little bit of domestic intimacy roiled inside but remained placid on the outside. They would then have to go to Alex's room to watch TV because the living room would soon be taken over by the guys and friends.
That Alex seemed satisfied with this arrangement bothered her though she tried not to let it. She would stay at his place two nights a week so she could cook and he would stay with her in her little room two night a week. When she said anything about getting a place of his own he just laughed at her and said he was fine with things as they were; said he saved a lot of dough by sharing Internet service, cable, gas and electric and the hoard of sporting equipment that had its own room in the flat. They had bikes, skis, skateboards, water boards, basketballs, baseball bats and gloves, footballs, scuba diving equipment, and for a time there was not one, but two scooters parked in the living room. All these men still playing with toys, Morgan thought. When will they grow up?
Alex knew Morgan was uncomfortable with the chaos at his place so he stayed at her place when invited but found her quarters too confining and in the end said he didn't see the point: she could more easily stay at his place because it was closer to both of their workplaces. Morgan had trouble explaining why she didn't find it all that inviting but Alex thought she was being cranky. He thought the need for privacy was a picky woman thing but never said he felt bored at her place. She wondered why he didn't prefer a clean bathroom with big towels and plenty of hot water, order and clean sheets.
At first he did: he commented on how nice it was to have quiet and be able to watch what he wanted on TV with no phones ringing or uninvited visitors, no unexpected troubles. He seemed to love her little room with the light from the bay window streaming in, her arm chair placed to look out on the tree-lined street with the old Gothic church pleasingly in view, her books neatly on the shelves she installed, her artwork, Chinese-style ink drawings of flowers and birds, hung so the light accentuated their charm. An old Persian rug on the floor gave the room an eclectic mood. She loved her little room but longed for more space to decorate the way she'd like, to make her home a haven, a refuge from the city that at times overwhelmed her. She was from the suburbs and though she recognized the banality of suburbs, couldn't wait to leave when she began classes at the Academy of Art, she longed for an orderly home with room to work on projects, to entertain and sit in the sun.
This was Morgan's big dream: a home of her own. She was hoping that it would be with Alex whom she had been going exclusively with for the past two years but whenever she brought up the idea he glazed over and changed the subject. She didn't understand what was holding him back.
Alex had no such dreams and secretly longed for the open road and no place to call home. He wanted to travel as much as possible, see foreign countries and stay loose. None of this he told Morgan in so many words. He wasn't a domestic type and could see no value in flower arrangements, complicated soap dispensers, espresso machines, pasta makers or sectional sofas. Morgan read decorating magazines vicariously and often showed Alex pictures of things she admired but he just briefly glanced at the pages, grunted and talked about how much money that would cost and how troubling in the end when you wanted to move. He said his parents bought a rather grand house, his mother decorated it at great time and expense and in the end his father left for a fishing trip to the Florida Keys and never returned. His mother just sat in her beautifully decorated rooms that no one wanted to live in for fear of knocking things over or upsetting some arrangement that had no specific meaning, was a puzzle of sorts, and Alex spent his time in the basement family room that she hadn't got around to fixing up yet. Each day he came home from school and found his mother with a crystal glass filled with wine, staring at her Barcelona chairs, her Aubusson carpets, her Japanese pottery, her gilded picture frames and lonely unused fireplace with the over-wrought oil portrait of herself over the mantle. Alex would sneak into the basement where his toys, stereo, computer and bikes were stored careful not to track in any mud or mess up the display in the foyer with his backpack and jacket. There he lived in a hovel-like room waiting to graduate from high school so he could leave for college. His father stayed in Florida, lived in a cabin with is new girlfriend, cooked fish on the beach and drove a vintage motorcycle. Alex could related to this lifestyle, did not blame his father and pitied his mother with her fresh paint, delicate porcelain and fluffy down comforters that did not comfort.
None of this he told Morgan; these were things not really active in his mind but he subconsciously retreated into his boy's world whenever Morgan brought out the decorating magazines and catalogs and started talking of drapery, paint colors and furniture styles. He'd heard it all before and it drove his father away. As far as he was concerned, he preferred dorm-style living as that was what saved his sanity after leaving home and starting college. His mother could not even stand a stray glass or plate left on the counter or in the sink. She would freak out over a pillow or cushion out of place; anything that jarred her sense of order in her precious rooms that no one lived in anymore. Alex knew he was an extraneous feature that did not fit in with the decor, or at least that is what he felt and more often stayed over at his friend Jake's house, whose parents lived in their home, had parties, joked, played games, ate popcorn in the living room with many and various pets running around freely. As Jake's mother said when Alex once apologized for dropping popcorn on the carpeting, "That's what vacuum cleaners are for dear, don't worry about that." Alex felt a loosening in his shoulders blades hearing that sentence, so gaily imparted, he thought. His mother would look at the offender and immediately get on her hands and knees searching for each stray kernel, Alex would feel a tightening in his solar plexus, retreat to his room in the basement, feeling a combination of exasperation then guilt for leaving his mother alone after she cooked his favorite dinner and rented a movie he'd been waiting to see. She was trying but she could not get past the symmetry of her beautifully appointed rooms. She was goaded by design and could no longer live in her own house.
All of this Alex could not exactly articulate to Morgan who had been after all, an art and design student but her earnest desire for a place of their own she could decorate gave him a bout of asthma and they'd had a few fights over his refusal to get a grownup lifestyle, preferably with her. They started spending less time at each other's place and were drifting apart though nothing was said.
One day Alex met a girl named Felicity who lived in her art studio, shared a bathroom down the hall with various eccentrics in the building and invited Alex for dinner eating on an old packing crate with a broken folding chair for him and a waste basket turned upside for her. Then they slept on a foldout mattress on the concrete floor under a dirty sheet and a drop-cloth. Alex was smitten and began seeing her regularly. She was more than happy to stay at his place and not only enjoyed the ruckus, but contributed to it with her large dog and a collection of Segways.
When Morgan found out there was someone else in Alex's life she took it stoically and bought new sheets for her bed with a matching duvet and shams. Somewhere she thought she would find a man who wanted what she wanted but was alone in her room for several more years, eventually marrying a guy named Griffin who appreciated all she had to offer domestically. They shopped for hours in Pottery Barn, Crate and Barrel, William Sonoma and all the antique stores south of Market for their new home. After a few years, and many trips to various furniture stores and outlets, Morgan deemed their home perfect and they settled into a routine, sharing the housework and polishing the silver and glassware together for fun. They gave excellent parties where everything matched and the table sparkled. After several more years, her husband announced that he might be gay, wanted to explore his options and they began divorce proceedings, fighting over the imitation Serves china, the copper pots, the custom bamboo shelving, the Eames chairs, the retro rugs, the small collection of antique teapots and the lease on the Victorian flat. When it was over, Morgan redecorated and decided she might prefer living alone and each night went to sleep dreaming of granite counter tops, cherry wood floors, stainless steel appliances and porcelain shower tiles.
Alex still lived in the same place although Felicity moved in and converted part of the dining room into her studio. They talked of marriage but never got around to it. Most of the old roommates had married and bought houses so Alex had a changing cast of characters moving in and out complete with all the correct sporting goods. He was growing a little impatient with his lifestyle but did not know how to change it. Felicity had no domestic instincts. Sometimes he thought of Morgan sentimentally; she had been a good sport about a lot of things. He heard that she was married and lived in a terrific place in lower Pacific Heights. He hoped she wasn't too uptight, like his mother, now remarried to a cooking instructor.
Morgan occasionally walked by the flat on Bush and also thought of Alex and the warm relationship they'd once had, wondered if he was happy, if he'd grown up, if he still smelled deliciously of apples and sandalwood but when she saw an old TV in front of the steps waiting for someone to pick it up, a broken set of ski poles, a pile of badly used canvases and various takeout containers in the garbage she shuddered. Walking briskly down Van Ness, wrapping her coat tightly around her she thought only of her neat and tidy rooms, aesthetically so pleasing, remembered her irritation with Alex and his friends and decided she had made the right choice after all despite the divorce. It would have never worked out with Alex, she thought but still felt something of a loss. Maybe what she really needed was a stylish new table for the foyer. This thought perked her up. Yes, she would have to start looking right away. Entering her flat, she wondered why she had never thought of it before. The space was positively barren. She got out her catalogs and spent the night in happy contemplation; furniture was her heart’s desire.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
#33 DISSING ANDY
"That was the most abysmal heap of drek I've ever seen in a museum in my life, period," my husband said while exiting said museum.
"Well, we never have to go there again," I said trying for appeasement. "We saw the collection now we are finished with this show." We were crossing the street and entering a small urban park. “Let’s sit in the shade for a bit and digest it.”
"I don’t want to digest it. I wish we could have seen some good art, if we had gone where I wanted to go, where I said we should go, we would have seen some really good things. Instead we saw that pile of drek and feel depressed and unsatisfied," he said.
"Next week we’ll visit your museum--we have it to look forward to, that should make you feel better," I said trying to put a good spin on our endeavor to look at modern and contemporary art. "I liked a few things, the Lee Krasner especially," I added. “She has been over-shadowed by Pollock, I think.”
"Maybe we should go to a nice restaurant for lunch to make up for it," he said after sitting under a tree for twenty minutes, having said everything he wanted to say in the first sentence of this story and not giving a damn about Lee Krasner or her "jerk-off" husband Jackson Pollock much less anything about Andy Warhol.
I could see the restaurant idea was brightening his mood after the arduous walk over five floors seeing very little of interest to him, one, possibly two, Klee drawings that were mobbed. Before we began, I assured him we would not be stopping for long in each room as that was the purpose of pop art and action paintings, you were not to spend a great deal of time looking at them, they were painted for speed and that is how we are to take them in. I quoted Andy Warhol's treatise on "fast." He all but ignored my lecture...he's not interested and no matter how many times I make him attend these exhibits, he does not give way on his basic point which is the first sentence of this story.
"I'm sorry it was so tiring, I didn't expect five floors but that there were a couple of things wanted to see as long as the admission was free today," I said.
"We should have gone where I wanted to go. You never listen to me anymore. Let’s have a nice lunch somewhere. Now where should we go? How about that Italian place on Polk? I need something to perk up my spirit after your dismal boyfriend Andy Warhol sunk it to bargain-basement level."
"He's not my boyfriend but I'd share my bedroom with a "Fright Wig" silkscreen," I said. We had whisked ourselves to the restaurant in record time and were seated in the window, the only customers having an early lunch.
"Cheap effects. Concoction. All of it. I think I'd like the mushroom stuffed ravioli with the goat cheese sauce topped with cherry tomato puree. How about you?"
"The Lee Krasner really was evocative," I reiterated for good measure, not quite ready to give it up before dipping a piece of bread into the pesto/olive oil concoction, the same blackish green hue Andy used to great effect in some of his more interesting pieces.
“Have some wine,” he said. “Forget about those punks and poseurs. Next week we'll see some real art.”
"Well, we never have to go there again," I said trying for appeasement. "We saw the collection now we are finished with this show." We were crossing the street and entering a small urban park. “Let’s sit in the shade for a bit and digest it.”
"I don’t want to digest it. I wish we could have seen some good art, if we had gone where I wanted to go, where I said we should go, we would have seen some really good things. Instead we saw that pile of drek and feel depressed and unsatisfied," he said.
"Next week we’ll visit your museum--we have it to look forward to, that should make you feel better," I said trying to put a good spin on our endeavor to look at modern and contemporary art. "I liked a few things, the Lee Krasner especially," I added. “She has been over-shadowed by Pollock, I think.”
"Maybe we should go to a nice restaurant for lunch to make up for it," he said after sitting under a tree for twenty minutes, having said everything he wanted to say in the first sentence of this story and not giving a damn about Lee Krasner or her "jerk-off" husband Jackson Pollock much less anything about Andy Warhol.
I could see the restaurant idea was brightening his mood after the arduous walk over five floors seeing very little of interest to him, one, possibly two, Klee drawings that were mobbed. Before we began, I assured him we would not be stopping for long in each room as that was the purpose of pop art and action paintings, you were not to spend a great deal of time looking at them, they were painted for speed and that is how we are to take them in. I quoted Andy Warhol's treatise on "fast." He all but ignored my lecture...he's not interested and no matter how many times I make him attend these exhibits, he does not give way on his basic point which is the first sentence of this story.
"I'm sorry it was so tiring, I didn't expect five floors but that there were a couple of things wanted to see as long as the admission was free today," I said.
"We should have gone where I wanted to go. You never listen to me anymore. Let’s have a nice lunch somewhere. Now where should we go? How about that Italian place on Polk? I need something to perk up my spirit after your dismal boyfriend Andy Warhol sunk it to bargain-basement level."
"He's not my boyfriend but I'd share my bedroom with a "Fright Wig" silkscreen," I said. We had whisked ourselves to the restaurant in record time and were seated in the window, the only customers having an early lunch.
"Cheap effects. Concoction. All of it. I think I'd like the mushroom stuffed ravioli with the goat cheese sauce topped with cherry tomato puree. How about you?"
"The Lee Krasner really was evocative," I reiterated for good measure, not quite ready to give it up before dipping a piece of bread into the pesto/olive oil concoction, the same blackish green hue Andy used to great effect in some of his more interesting pieces.
“Have some wine,” he said. “Forget about those punks and poseurs. Next week we'll see some real art.”
Friday, August 13, 2010
#32 PLANS AWRY
I called him on Friday and said come and stay for a few days if you want to. I thought I'd like to finish something we started on his last visit. At least that was what I was thinking at the time so I said, "come when you want, give me a couple of days to take care of things." He then said yeah I'd like to come. "Good okay, well, we'll talk next week," I said.
He called that night said he wanted to come ASAP. I was drinking wine with a friend. He was drunk and I was getting there although I reached my tolerance and was about to make coffee. I laughed and implied I was a little tipsy also and we should talk in the morning. It was a little true and took care of the caller.
I slept in Saturday morning, he must have too. We both did not call.
On Sunday a little guilt got to me and I called him reiterating my invitation to come for a few days. He was sober and pleasant, he'd lost the high-pitched whine he uses when he is drunk talking to me. Maybe he talks to everyone that way after a certain point; I can't be sure. I feel singled out for it somehow.
On Monday I was thankful he wasn't here but looking forward to his eventually being here.
On Tuesday he called saying he might have a ride into the city and could he come later that day. I couldn't say no so I said yes even though it was a little early in the week for me to start entertaining. He said he'd call back when he knew anything definite. I said fine. He never called back and I didn't mind; it meant he wouldn't be coming and I could relax for the day.
On Wednesday, he didn't call and I began to get nervous so I called him after work having just purchased minutes on my phone, to see what gives. He said he didn't know anything anymore and he would let me know when he knows something but otherwise
he would come on the ferry Thursday or Friday whenever I wanted. I said I had no preference so he said he needed to get out of the house and Thursday would work for him. Or Friday. "Okay, Friday," I said. "Let's make it Friday" He was hoping for Thursday but I want to prolong the suspense; why do I want to see him in the first place and in the second, what do I hope to get out of this battered relationship? I had answers to neither questions and put them to bed.
On Thursday afternoon he called to say he would be coming tomorrow if that is okay. I said it was and he said the usual time and I said great and he said I'll call you if anything changes, I said great see you tomorrow.
He called early Friday morning to say the bus had broken down and he wouldn't be here at the usual time. In fact, he didn't know when he would get there because he missed the ferry and he was really frustrated, raging, in fact, I could feel it through the phone. I sounded sad and said well just try to figure things out
and if you can't make it today, then tomorrow. "No I'll get there today somehow, I just can't tell you when." His voice was like a machete cutting through jungle brush. I hoped he'd get here for his own sake; he'd explode if he had more trouble, a geyser with steaming orifices. Now I had to wait but at least I wasn't dealing with public transportation gone awry, I think to myself. I can feel his pain, but glad that I'm not personally in it.
He arrived safely at 3 p.m. in need of a triple shot of something but he was happy to have arrived and wanted to go shopping. Now we would only have our giant egos to maneuver around, never a sure thing. His mood changes with the alcohol level in his bloodstream. After a few days I get tired of that being the solution to anything, even chemical addiction but he doesn't see it that way and ignores me. I get pesky after awhile and he gets nervous and belligerent, it all boils over and we are left in emotional meltdown again, he says I'll leave in the morning, I say great, I need privacy.
Monday morning he leaves early. He doesn't know what to think, I don't want to think and... "yeah, nice seeing you too." "Yeah, call me sometime, or not..." We trade barbs and could go on with this rancor but it is too early. The door of my room was not exactly slammed but there was a distinct rebuttal in the way he almost slams it. He is a drummer and can shut a door in a multitude of cadences; that I know this and can read them tells you how closely synchronized we are. He's gone, I breathe easier.
I don't expect to see him for some time, that is to say, a worthy amount of time, but one of us will eventually crawl to the phone and see what the other is up to, both looking for something. In my case, it's a firmer grasp of the streets, a companion, a muse, someone who speaks my language. He mirrors not only my awfulness, but my brilliance. It's an even trade-off. As reflections of each other, when he explodes, I do the same. The trouble with mirrors is what they reflect is a distorted image. It can only be. It's a pity we're not either of us very nice. We each take a turn at it but it comes out wrong, we go back to being who we really are when stressed; disjointed, fractious, unsure.
Two or three weeks will pass and I will make the call. I ask if he's planning on coming into the city. He says he doesn't trust me to behave myself and says he thinks maybe it isn't working out between us. I agree then say, "so what do you want to do, not come in anymore?" Well maybe I'll come later in the week if you don't mind, I have some things to do in town he says. That will be okay I say...call me when you decide. "Well what do you want, it's up to you, you know, it's your room." Yeah, Friday is good I say. Or Thursday if that's better for you. Okay I'll call you Thursday he says.
Thursday morning he does not call and it all begins again. I suspect he'll be here on Friday. It has been uneventful without him. I can't tell you who or what I am--I seem to disappear on my own. I look forward to his arrival after he confirms he will be here Friday at the usual time and do a little housekeeping, buy some food and wine, little things he likes, and begin the wait.
He called Friday morning while I was writing this story to say he would arrive at the usual time. I smile and think, transportation permitting.
He called that night said he wanted to come ASAP. I was drinking wine with a friend. He was drunk and I was getting there although I reached my tolerance and was about to make coffee. I laughed and implied I was a little tipsy also and we should talk in the morning. It was a little true and took care of the caller.
I slept in Saturday morning, he must have too. We both did not call.
On Sunday a little guilt got to me and I called him reiterating my invitation to come for a few days. He was sober and pleasant, he'd lost the high-pitched whine he uses when he is drunk talking to me. Maybe he talks to everyone that way after a certain point; I can't be sure. I feel singled out for it somehow.
On Monday I was thankful he wasn't here but looking forward to his eventually being here.
On Tuesday he called saying he might have a ride into the city and could he come later that day. I couldn't say no so I said yes even though it was a little early in the week for me to start entertaining. He said he'd call back when he knew anything definite. I said fine. He never called back and I didn't mind; it meant he wouldn't be coming and I could relax for the day.
On Wednesday, he didn't call and I began to get nervous so I called him after work having just purchased minutes on my phone, to see what gives. He said he didn't know anything anymore and he would let me know when he knows something but otherwise
he would come on the ferry Thursday or Friday whenever I wanted. I said I had no preference so he said he needed to get out of the house and Thursday would work for him. Or Friday. "Okay, Friday," I said. "Let's make it Friday" He was hoping for Thursday but I want to prolong the suspense; why do I want to see him in the first place and in the second, what do I hope to get out of this battered relationship? I had answers to neither questions and put them to bed.
On Thursday afternoon he called to say he would be coming tomorrow if that is okay. I said it was and he said the usual time and I said great and he said I'll call you if anything changes, I said great see you tomorrow.
He called early Friday morning to say the bus had broken down and he wouldn't be here at the usual time. In fact, he didn't know when he would get there because he missed the ferry and he was really frustrated, raging, in fact, I could feel it through the phone. I sounded sad and said well just try to figure things out
and if you can't make it today, then tomorrow. "No I'll get there today somehow, I just can't tell you when." His voice was like a machete cutting through jungle brush. I hoped he'd get here for his own sake; he'd explode if he had more trouble, a geyser with steaming orifices. Now I had to wait but at least I wasn't dealing with public transportation gone awry, I think to myself. I can feel his pain, but glad that I'm not personally in it.
He arrived safely at 3 p.m. in need of a triple shot of something but he was happy to have arrived and wanted to go shopping. Now we would only have our giant egos to maneuver around, never a sure thing. His mood changes with the alcohol level in his bloodstream. After a few days I get tired of that being the solution to anything, even chemical addiction but he doesn't see it that way and ignores me. I get pesky after awhile and he gets nervous and belligerent, it all boils over and we are left in emotional meltdown again, he says I'll leave in the morning, I say great, I need privacy.
Monday morning he leaves early. He doesn't know what to think, I don't want to think and... "yeah, nice seeing you too." "Yeah, call me sometime, or not..." We trade barbs and could go on with this rancor but it is too early. The door of my room was not exactly slammed but there was a distinct rebuttal in the way he almost slams it. He is a drummer and can shut a door in a multitude of cadences; that I know this and can read them tells you how closely synchronized we are. He's gone, I breathe easier.
I don't expect to see him for some time, that is to say, a worthy amount of time, but one of us will eventually crawl to the phone and see what the other is up to, both looking for something. In my case, it's a firmer grasp of the streets, a companion, a muse, someone who speaks my language. He mirrors not only my awfulness, but my brilliance. It's an even trade-off. As reflections of each other, when he explodes, I do the same. The trouble with mirrors is what they reflect is a distorted image. It can only be. It's a pity we're not either of us very nice. We each take a turn at it but it comes out wrong, we go back to being who we really are when stressed; disjointed, fractious, unsure.
Two or three weeks will pass and I will make the call. I ask if he's planning on coming into the city. He says he doesn't trust me to behave myself and says he thinks maybe it isn't working out between us. I agree then say, "so what do you want to do, not come in anymore?" Well maybe I'll come later in the week if you don't mind, I have some things to do in town he says. That will be okay I say...call me when you decide. "Well what do you want, it's up to you, you know, it's your room." Yeah, Friday is good I say. Or Thursday if that's better for you. Okay I'll call you Thursday he says.
Thursday morning he does not call and it all begins again. I suspect he'll be here on Friday. It has been uneventful without him. I can't tell you who or what I am--I seem to disappear on my own. I look forward to his arrival after he confirms he will be here Friday at the usual time and do a little housekeeping, buy some food and wine, little things he likes, and begin the wait.
He called Friday morning while I was writing this story to say he would arrive at the usual time. I smile and think, transportation permitting.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
#31 EXAGGERATION VS. UNDERSTATEMENT
It's a good thing I am in day two of the workshop, "Put some Funny Into Your Writing." I tried my hand yesterday and did some crazy scribbling but whether this means I'm humorous, funny, or even droll remains to be seen. It is difficult to know how bad things are at this time--the recession seems to have overwhelmed me and many that I know. I might like to cry but instead will try to find some humor despite newspaper stories of unemployment, suicide, bankruptcy, foreclosure, destroyed credit, homelessness and to top them all, a woman who smothered her two babies because she couldn't deal with caring for them anymore. No one wants to dwell on these things and we shouldn't. Not a funny topic in the bunch.
It is said that two ways to add humor to a story is to exaggerate, or its opposite, to understate. Deadpan they sometimes call it. Exaggeration as a modus operandi I live with each day. My husband, let's call him Mr. X, really understands the art of exaggeration; everything he says, all stories he tells, all incidents related are in a perfect pitch of exaggerated tension, and I do mean tension. He exaggerates all the phobias, neurosis, wackiness and lifestyles of his friends, family members and sometimes himself. He'll say anything to make the scenario more dire. He is a cartoonist and exaggeration is his stock and trade after all. Still in all honesty, I don't usually find him humorous at these times. I do get his humorous attempts, but only rarely do I laugh at his exaggerations because they are always on the negative side and tend to make me nervous. I'd rather talk to someone who understands the power of positive thinking but positive is not as funny as negative. All comedians play up the negative aspects of life and Mr. X, while no comedian, does like to entertain and practice hilarity whenever he can. Truth be told, he revels in other's misery. Some people are like that.
None of this story is funny so far, you more than likely are thinking, and you have a perfect right to do so. I haven't written anything that could be classified as humorous. I've got a lot on my mind, none of which strikes me as humorous today. I'm having a dark night of the soul and it's a bright San Francisco afternoon. It couldn't be more blustery wonderful. Still, I'm in a darkish mode and find it ironic to be in a humor-writing workshop but irony is also a form of humor. I will have to read what I am writing to the class so you can see the trouble I'm in. I've flunked classes before; this won't be my first failure.
I admit I'm having trouble with exaggeration even though we all do it whenever we tell a story or an anecdote or spin some sort of yarn. You have to be inspired to exaggerate and I'm not in the mood, so let's go on to the other mode; understatement. I am prone toward understatement and Mr. X never gets it. He glazes over, finding exaggeration more compatible with his personality. I'm too understated to garner his attention. He assumes I'm just muttering banalities on the day's events when instead I'm brandishing witticisms right and left, I'm in the key of low and my laughter is a mellow smirking. It all goes by Mr. X, who needs a higher key to emit any laughter, possibly a pie in the face. I have no audience with him but do occasionally make others laugh.
It occurs to me that I should give some examples of Mr. X's exaggerations and an example or two of my understated wit. Okay, well, he waves his hands in the air as he tells of his friend who is on the brink of a) losing his house, b) getting arrested, c) getting hurt, d) getting divorced, e) losing his driver's license, f) going to jail, is in jail g) going to rehab, has been in rehab. You get the picture: all of this is about to happen to this one person, this week. A little truth, a lot of exaggeration all told with the appropriate wild gestures and vacillating eye contact.
My use of the understatement tool of humor-writing would say about the above person; a) "he'd better watch out," b) "what a character," c) "what a screwball," or d) "what a wife he must have to humor him," all said with a brittle laugh or rolling eyeballs--I might do either. This is a lot of understatement in describing a near madman.
I admit, so far, none of this is particularly funny and I'm sure you're disappointed if you're reading this; the other people in the class will have to carefully avoid yawning. If you're expecting funny, unfunny is never a good substitute.
But we've come to the end of this exercise, the moderator tells us to put our pencils down. A little lax, I'd say, though I tend to deprecate myself, another form of humor.
Larry David is not worried about the competition here I suspect but we did think about exaggeration and a little of understatement. "It's up to you to use it in your own particular genius", said our teacher, possibly attempting a sort of dry exaggeration. "Woody Allen does exaggeration, Bill Maher does understatement. Both are truly funny," he added subjectively.
This workshop continues tomorrow so there is still some hope for a slice of humor discovered in the nick of time within the confines of my dark night of the soul. Stay tuned as they say in the often humorous world of television...I recommend that you stay away from the news if you want to laugh any time today; its use of exaggeration is not funny at all.
It is said that two ways to add humor to a story is to exaggerate, or its opposite, to understate. Deadpan they sometimes call it. Exaggeration as a modus operandi I live with each day. My husband, let's call him Mr. X, really understands the art of exaggeration; everything he says, all stories he tells, all incidents related are in a perfect pitch of exaggerated tension, and I do mean tension. He exaggerates all the phobias, neurosis, wackiness and lifestyles of his friends, family members and sometimes himself. He'll say anything to make the scenario more dire. He is a cartoonist and exaggeration is his stock and trade after all. Still in all honesty, I don't usually find him humorous at these times. I do get his humorous attempts, but only rarely do I laugh at his exaggerations because they are always on the negative side and tend to make me nervous. I'd rather talk to someone who understands the power of positive thinking but positive is not as funny as negative. All comedians play up the negative aspects of life and Mr. X, while no comedian, does like to entertain and practice hilarity whenever he can. Truth be told, he revels in other's misery. Some people are like that.
None of this story is funny so far, you more than likely are thinking, and you have a perfect right to do so. I haven't written anything that could be classified as humorous. I've got a lot on my mind, none of which strikes me as humorous today. I'm having a dark night of the soul and it's a bright San Francisco afternoon. It couldn't be more blustery wonderful. Still, I'm in a darkish mode and find it ironic to be in a humor-writing workshop but irony is also a form of humor. I will have to read what I am writing to the class so you can see the trouble I'm in. I've flunked classes before; this won't be my first failure.
I admit I'm having trouble with exaggeration even though we all do it whenever we tell a story or an anecdote or spin some sort of yarn. You have to be inspired to exaggerate and I'm not in the mood, so let's go on to the other mode; understatement. I am prone toward understatement and Mr. X never gets it. He glazes over, finding exaggeration more compatible with his personality. I'm too understated to garner his attention. He assumes I'm just muttering banalities on the day's events when instead I'm brandishing witticisms right and left, I'm in the key of low and my laughter is a mellow smirking. It all goes by Mr. X, who needs a higher key to emit any laughter, possibly a pie in the face. I have no audience with him but do occasionally make others laugh.
It occurs to me that I should give some examples of Mr. X's exaggerations and an example or two of my understated wit. Okay, well, he waves his hands in the air as he tells of his friend who is on the brink of a) losing his house, b) getting arrested, c) getting hurt, d) getting divorced, e) losing his driver's license, f) going to jail, is in jail g) going to rehab, has been in rehab. You get the picture: all of this is about to happen to this one person, this week. A little truth, a lot of exaggeration all told with the appropriate wild gestures and vacillating eye contact.
My use of the understatement tool of humor-writing would say about the above person; a) "he'd better watch out," b) "what a character," c) "what a screwball," or d) "what a wife he must have to humor him," all said with a brittle laugh or rolling eyeballs--I might do either. This is a lot of understatement in describing a near madman.
I admit, so far, none of this is particularly funny and I'm sure you're disappointed if you're reading this; the other people in the class will have to carefully avoid yawning. If you're expecting funny, unfunny is never a good substitute.
But we've come to the end of this exercise, the moderator tells us to put our pencils down. A little lax, I'd say, though I tend to deprecate myself, another form of humor.
Larry David is not worried about the competition here I suspect but we did think about exaggeration and a little of understatement. "It's up to you to use it in your own particular genius", said our teacher, possibly attempting a sort of dry exaggeration. "Woody Allen does exaggeration, Bill Maher does understatement. Both are truly funny," he added subjectively.
This workshop continues tomorrow so there is still some hope for a slice of humor discovered in the nick of time within the confines of my dark night of the soul. Stay tuned as they say in the often humorous world of television...I recommend that you stay away from the news if you want to laugh any time today; its use of exaggeration is not funny at all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)