If you’re involved in the world of live personal storytelling, as a teller or a fan, then you know the pandemic didn’t stop us but only prompted us to find each other online, thanks to dedicated producers who took their shows to the virtual road. Such shows are part of a support system that has kept us glued together as a community, and helped keep me from coming unglued personally. As we prepare to return to live shows, please allow me to share with you this fun little story from one of our pandemic-era events, the Turbine Arts Collective annual Pre-Valentine’s Show. This story is called: The Hooker Bully.
So, you’d like to see more of this sort of thing? Then you’re in luck! 😉 I’m appearing in a half-hour one-woman show for Greystone Theatre Performances, a series of virtual solo performances featuring a variety of artists at Beverly Hills’ historic Greystone Mansion. Here’s the lowdown:
Almost nobody would publish my funny little ditty, Never Kill A Dog Or Cat In Your Novel, because they found it a tad too disturbing. Cue Slackjaw, a humor journal that specializes in over-the-top weirdness. Thank you, Slackjaw, because without you I’d be forced to conform, and I just don’t know how. You can check out this devilish little 4-minute read…here.
Why does the coldest water in the house always come out of the bathroom sink, never the kitchen faucet? It makes sense to me that water seems colder coming from the garden hose, because I only drink from the hose when I’m outside on a hot summer day. It’s cold by comparison of course. But what is the allure of the water in the bathroom, even when that room is not hot and steamy?
Is it because the water in that private little room seems forbidden, because that’s a place meant only for washing up, or taking care of business, or sneaking in some shower sex—not for the simple pleasure of drinking water with naked hands, not so much as a glass in sight? Or is it only my bathroom that has such delicious, icy-cold water, while yours delivers the stuff at ordinary room temperature?
I took a pole dance class. Once. In 2007. Here’s how that went:
I know what rug burn is, but never until now concerned myself with pole burn. That’s what happens when, while pole dancing, you do a pole sit with your back pressed too tightly against the pole. My instructor—a 41-year-old step-mom of two who goes by the stage-name Leesi—suggests we shift our spines to the side. That way our vertebrae won’t take a beating during this theoretically erotic move involving a long chrome phallus.
In my youth, I thought pole dancing was for sluts only. It didn’t occur to me that a woman hanging upside down with her legs wrapped around a pole might be an acrobat worthy of Cirque du Soleil. Now that I’m over 40, taking a pole dancing class seems like a last chance to recapture my youth, now that I would be proud to be considered sexy enough to qualify as a slut.
Last night my husband came home and found a small torn-open box lying next to our garage. In it was just one bottle of Prebiotin, a prebiotic fiber supplement we take at our house. I had ordered two bottles, at 40 bucks a piece – normally well worth it, because this stuff is medically proven and it helps me keep my weight down, gives me energy, and makes me feel healthier. As I pondered the missing bottle, I realized a thief had taken the box off our front porch, hoping for expensive Christmas goodies. Then he had run through our yard—we really must get a fence—torn open the box, yanked out one bottle, dropped the box, and taken off through the alley.
Last night I was angry, thinking that $40 feels like a lot of money, and that everybody loses because the thief can’t make any money selling dietary fiber on the black market. Can he? But today I’m grinning, thinking that, if he decides to use it himself, he’s going to be the most regular thief in Denver. However, I’m still feeling a little petty, so part of me hopes he takes too much, and can’t find a toilet…
I’m not going to write about what I’m thankful for, because it’s Thanksgiving and why play that game? Just look where it got the Native Americans. Instead, I’m going to list five things I’m not thankful for, and I invite you to do the same. Not because we want to gripe, but for the fun of behaving Un-American. Actually, it might make us more grateful, once we get this stuff off our chests. So you see, I really am getting into the Thanksgiving spirit.
Five Things I’m Not Thankful For:
1) High Cholesterol – I’m tired of avoiding shrimp cocktail, drinking soy milk, eating fake eggs, and turning down dessert—or at least reducing it to one scoop of ice cream instead of two. Last year, my doctor said that with my bad cholesterol at 180-something, I could have a heart attack any moment. Sometimes I have fun guessing which moment it might be. My favorites are: a) while talking to an audience about the spirit of adventure, b) right before telling someone the punchline of a joke, c) while laughing. Through diet and exercise, I lowered my bad cholesterol to 150-something. Then I went on a three-week vacation in Mexico, and played flan roulette. I had another blood test Monday: the stuff in the vials looked red, without a single flan globule, so maybe I’ll pass.