I’m Totally RAD

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, “Oh no she din’t!  She din’t just disappear for weeks with no word of warning and then just pop up in my reader unannounced like a zit on prom night!” That’s what you’re thinking, aren’t you?  Hold off on your vitriol, Innernetz.  Save that for Roman Po-skank-ski. 

September has been one bitch of a month. Reactive Airway Disease (RAD), which is just a fancy way of saying, “we don’t know what the hell is wrong with you, here’s your mask, have a nice day,” and bronchitis have knocked me on my ass.  My doctor doesn’t have an explanation for the fatigue that makes every day feel as if I am walking through sand dunes with Rosie O’Donnell strapped to one leg, Kirstie Alley to the other, and a box of donuts hanging around my neck. 

The one bright spot in my month was my visit to the Mean Girl homestead.  We laughed, we drank, we shook some booty.  But it was over too soon.  My buzz hadn’t yet dissipated before I was on a cramped, crowded plane home, remembering why I hate people to fly.  First of all, it was the smallest fucking plane I’d ever seen.  Somewhere in the Midwest, a child was frantically searching for his Fisher Price L’il People People Movers Plane while I was trying to squeeze my ass into a seat the size of an oyster cracker. 

As I was putting in my earplugs and preparing for a nap, a woman sat next to me.  I was rude, Innernetz.  I did not make eye contact or even nod in her direction.  I knew better.  I seem to have a face that says, “Please!  Talk to me!  Tell me about your son’s ingrown toenail and your husband’s battle with psoriasis!  What?  Oh no, I’m not yawning.  I’m just trying to eat my brain so I don’t have to listen to you for another god damn minute!” Even on the best of days, I hate small talk and chit-chat.  Hate. It.  So, I put in my earplugs, fashioned a pillow out of my knock-off pashmina, closed my eyes, and — tap, tap, tap

I tried to ignore the fingernail poking into my shoulder.  Tap, tap, tap.  With a sigh that clearly indicated “This Better Be Good, Bitch” I opened my eyes.  “Yes?” I asked, in a voice that I have used to turn crying babies to stone and obnoxious men into bubbling pools of offal.

“You must be tired,” said the woman next to me, bobbing her head like a pump handle toward my makeshift pillow against the fuselage.  Oh em gee!  Thanks for waking me up to tell me!  I was just wondering why my eyes were closed. 

“I am.  Very tired.” I grunted.  I went to reinsert my earplugs when Pump Handle Pam decided it would be a good time to take off her migraine-inducing sweater of many colors, bump my hand, and send my earplugs falling to the floor where they disappeared with what was left of my patience and goodwill.  I didn’t rest my head against the fuselage so much as I banged it repeatedly in an attempt to knock myself out.  It didn’t work. 

And then, Samuel L. Jackson walked on the plane.  Well, not the REAL Samuel L.Jackson.  But he looked enough like him for me to wish there were snakes on the plane and I was sitting next to the emergency exit with a parachute.  Not Samuel L. Jackson took a seat at the front of the plane.  Behind him was a man wearing a toupee so pathetic it was crying and some sort of cologne that fragranced the air.  I think it was Eau de Budweiser.  He wobbled his way down the aisle before finally collapsing into the row in front of me.  He let out a loud buuuuuuurp!  Yep, definitely Eau de Budweiser.

The next few hours passed in a haze of misery. Pump Handle Pam nattered on about her son’s football drama.  Oh noes!1!  He was second string!  Tearful Toupee continued to depressurize, sending fumes of EdB through his blowhole like Flipper on a bender.  And to make this the Best! Flight! Ever! John Goodman joined Kirstie and Rosie in a battle royale for the donuts.  Because lethargy and muscle weakness wasn’t enough, the cough that had disappeared several days earlier returned with such vehemence that my body contorted as if undergoing an exorcism.  Watery eyes and a runny nose soon joined the mucous maracas rattling in my chest. 

I made it home, Innernetz.  Mr. Dingo took one look at me and put me to bed wrapped in blankets and woe.  When I finally dragged myself to the doctor’s office, I was told that my RAD and bronchitis had never completely disappeared; it had just been on hiatus.  And it was back.  So I’ve been hanging out on the couch watching bad TV with Dingo Girl, Not a Dingo, Rosie, Kirstie, and John.  I’ve been feeling much better the past few days.  Good thing, too.  John just told me that we’re out of donuts.

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Fine Feathered Fiends

Alfred Hitchcock scarred me for life. “Good evening,” my ass, motherfucker. How am I supposed to sleep when all I can think about are birds waiting to peck me to death on the way to the subway station?  All the ghosts, goblins, and ghouls from the twisted minds of Stephen King and Clive Barker don’t scare me as much as Hitchcock’s fucking birds. With their beady eyes and sharp beaks, birds are nature’s ultimate killing machine. If you put a bird up against a lion, the bird would win. Shut up!  It would too!  That’s the National Geographic special they don’t want you to see. Can you imagine the worldwide panic?  I don’t like birds. Except for puffins. Puffins are cute. And chickens. Chickens taste good.  There are no puffins or chickens in Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds for the same reason that not even Peter Jackson took the screenplay for Alien vs. Hello Kitty very seriously.

Another reason I hate birds is because of the lunacy they inspire in otherwise normal people.  Anything that motivates people to wear pith hats, safari vests, and knee length khaki shorts while walking around chirping bird calls to each other ranks up there with Renaissance Festivals and Star Trek conventions.  These are the people who, as children, wore calculator watches so they could keep track of how often they got beat up at the playground.  Fortunately, although Central Park is a birder’s paradise, I rarely encounter bird watchers. They get up way too fucking early. By the time I get to the park, the early birds have eaten their worms and the early birders have moseyed off for coffee, shuffleboard, and a relaxing change of diaper. But there’s one birder I see quite frequently. Unlike the others, her voice is not the hushed, subdued equivalent of one hand clapping. Her voice is The Clap. A painful, abnormal discharge that induces nausea and general discomfort.

The rain last week kept The Clap sightings to a minimum but there was an outbreak yesterday as Dingo Girl and I were on our morning walk. The Clap came into view as she swooped toward an unsuspecting flock of feathered menace. “I see ‘em!  I see ‘em!  The blue jays!” she yelled, running to a rock outcropping in the middle of a small stand of trees. She tried to run up the rock face but her bright yellow Crocs slipped on the smooth surface and she fell backwards, Crocs over cranium. Her pasty legs and multi-colored muumuu flashed and sparkled like a chameleon under disco lights. The bags of Wonder Bread tied to her waist burst open, sending doughy goodness spinning through the air like cotton candy. I had a sudden craving for carnival food and was torn between rushing over to help and rushing to Coney Island. Oh, come on, Innernetz!  You know I did the right thing!  It was too early to go to Coney Island.

But The Clap didn’t need my help.  She jumped up unscathed and carefully made her way to the top of the rock. “Pretty biiiiiiird!  Pretty biiiiiird!” she hissed, sounding less like Mother Earth and more like a sucking chest wound. “Pretty biii — *hack* *cough* *hiss* — iiiird!” Craning her face to the tree branches she raised her arms to the sky and hopped in a lop-sided circle resembling a one-legged chicken trying to cross a hot road. “Blue jay, blue jay, bluuuu *hack* *phlegm* *ooze* jaaaaaay!”

The Clap stopped her masturbatory mating Macarena long enough to yell at Henpecked Husband to get the camera. Henpecked rummaged through his Power Ranger backpack and rushed over to The Clap waving — a cell phone. “Not that one, damn it!  The good camera!” The Clap wheezed. Henpecked, properly castrated, dumped the contents of the the backpack on the ground next to the sullied slices of Wonder. “Here! Here!” he whimpered, racing toward her with &another cell phone. But it was too late. The Blue Jays scattered. And by Blue Jays, I mean Crows.  Big, black, nasty crows. It’s easy to see how The Clap could have confused the two. After all, Blue Jays are blue and white and Crows are black. I would’ve made the same mistake as well if my Guide to North American Birds was written in Braille.  And if I were a moron.

The Clap, being the avid birder that she is, obviously knew the best way to get the Blue Jays Crows to return. She cupped her hands around her mouth, took a deep breath and called, “Come back here you motherfuckers!” Surprisingly, it didn’t work. The Crows circled in an ominous dark cloud. Damn, I thought. I’ve seen how this movie ends!  And that was my cue to get Dingo Girl and go. It was about to get ugly. Do you know what a flock of Crows is called?  A murder! Yes, a murder of crows. That’s not a mistake made by superstitious naturalists long ago.  That’s not even a hint.  That’s a warning.  A warning somewhere along the lines of someone throwing a note through your window attached to a rock that’s attached to a dead ninja with your name painted on his toenails.  I had a feeling that I was about to witness a fly-by.

Perched on the rock with her pasty skin, bright yellow Crocs, and flamboyant muumuu, The Clap resembled the lesser-known urban fairy tale character, Snow Blight. Surrounded by the Seven Loaves.  And her Dopey husband.  As Dingo Girl and I headed home and away from the impending crime scene, we could hear The Clap still trying to daintily woo the crows:  “Goddamnyoushitforbrainsmotherfuckers! God *hiss* *phlegm* *cough* damncomehere!”

If The Clap hasn’t been murdered, I’m sure I’ll see her again.  Perhaps at Starbucks.

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I’m over at The Greenists again!  Come see me!

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Pound Of Flesh

Quick Update:  I did a movie review for The Greenists.  Please check it out!

Tap, tap, tap…testing 1, 2, 3…is anybody out there?

Well, that was an unexpected and unintended bloggy hiatus! 

The last two weeks of class were a flurry of papers, projects, exams, and grading.  You’d think that once grades were submitted I’d be able to kick back with a beer and revel in the five minutes I have to myself before I begin prepping for the fall.  Oh, Innernetz, how silly you are!  I had to use four of those minutes to catch up on the many things I had let slide during the summer session.  After grades are submitted, my personal life takes over. Among the many joyous tasks I had: calls to my slumlord about the dismal water pressure that had turned my shower into Chinese water torture, involuntary volunteer work, and inventing new miracle diets that magically and effortlessly pack on the pounds.  Yes, I did watch eighteen nonstop hours of Seasons 1 and 2 of True Blood, but that indulgence was earned since, even after grades were submitted, I spent a disproportionate amount of time performing cutting edge surgery on students whose heads were so far up their asses that their burps were indistinguishable from their farts

All of the students (and some of their parents) think that if they could just meet with me, they’d be able to convince me that getting that pedicure was much more important than attending the mid-term exam.  And every semester I get one or two students who tell me that they thought all of the assignments were optional.  I tell you what, if they were as creative and diligent in doing the assigned work as they were with coming up with excuses for not doing it, they’d all be A+ students.  But they’re not.  They’re just idiots.  Two seconds after grades were submitted I began receiving phone calls and emails asking, “What can I do about my grade?” My standard answer always starts with, “First, build a time machine....” They don’t think that’s as funny as I do. 

One student failed the course because she missed an entire week of class.  She flounced into my office peeling like a soft shell crab, her tan lines fish belly white against her crocodile jerky skin.  “I told you that I had a family vacation that was non-negotiable!” she shrieked, waving her arms with such fury and drama that she looked like a fight scene from the Matrix.  Layers of baked flesh drifted onto my desk as though I had landed in a dust-mite’s dream.  Flake threw herself into the chair next to my desk and crossed her arms like a petulant child.  “What do you have to say for yourself?” Flake demanded, her face shriveled like an Appalachian apple doll.  What else could I say?  I gently pushed a tube of Aveeno across the desk and held up the garden hose I keep in my desk.  “She rubs the lotion on her skin....”

The last time I saw skin like hers, I was Flake’s age and working at a video store.  (Just in case any of my students are reading: yes, they had televisions and even videos when I was your age.  Yes, the videos were made of wood.) My co-irker was a tall bottle-blonde who aspired to be a supermodel.  I didn’t see it ever happening only because she had a congenital defect that was impossible to overlook: she was butt ugly.  Willem Defoe/Janet Reno love-child ugly. If ugly were a sport, she would win the Tour de Ugly every year and, every single year, the French would accuse her of taking ugly-enhancing drugs.  My co-irker would lay out in the sun every chance she got, but her skin never changed from baboon-ass red to the deep copper tan she so desired.  I called her Chernobyl Barbie.

One day, after being on vacation for almost two weeks, Chernobyl Barbie walked into the video store looking as if she had vacationed on the sun.  Her skin was brown, blistered, and pork rind crispy.  In her red and white sundress, she resembled a KFC Chicken Strip.  Chernobyl Barbie slathered on cheap body lotion throughout the day to soothe her skin and prolong her third degree burn tan.  She scared more children than usual.

By closing time, her chest was an oozing mass of moist, peeling, bubbly flesh.  After returning some videos to the stacks, she came behind the counter where I was counting the day’s receipts, noting the surge in rentals of Nightmare on Elm Street. Chernobyl Barbie went to grab the next pile of unshelved movies from the floor and tripped.  I tried to catch her but my palm landed with a schwack! in the middle of her lubricated chest. It was like sinking my hand into Vaseline covered Tempur-Pedic foam, patented NASA research and all.  I yanked my hand away but, after her twelve hours of regular basting, my hand just slid across her Butterball chest, the skin curling like ribbon candy and encasing each digit like a Chinese finger trap. And the smell!  I gagged and tried to breathe through my nose as her skin gave off the swampy, wet smell of a dirty fish tank.  Where was her filter?  Must change her filter!

“Get it off!  Get it off!” I screamed, snapping my hands back and forth.  But the dead flesh clung on, not wanting to relinquish its hold on living cells.  Chernobyl Barbie was no help.  She was staring in disbelief at the raw white skin emblazoned on her chest in the distinct shape of my palm.  With a final violent shake, the skin came loose and dropped onto the glass counter with a sickening schlock! Imagine the sound you make when you suck Jello right out of the bowl: schlock!

I don’t remember much after that, and neither would you.  But I do remember that, for the rest of that summer, Chernobyl Barbie walked around with my handprint on her chest like a turkey drawing kids do at Thanksgiving, except that, against the crispy pork-rind skin next to it, it looked like a marshmallow turkey.  Still, somehow, she continued to scare more kids than usual.

I thought about Chernobyl Barbie as I watched Flake douse herself with my tube of lotion.  As she sputtered and spewed about her vacation and how I owed her a good grade, her dry skin crackled and threatened to split like a crusty baked potato.  Where was my sour cream?

With the apartment in such a state of disrepair that Dingo Girl and Not a Dingo are weighing the benefits of homelessness and the drama of summer semester just beginning to fade, students for next semester are already starting to contact me (“Do we have to read all the books on the syllabus?”).  I have been too tired and unmotivated to blog, preferring instead to escape my surroundings via the Fine Living channel. But that will change soon.  I’ve scheduled myself for a thirty minute nap on Thursday.  After that, I’ll be Dingolicious all over again.

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Dingo’s Gambit

Summer classes are like opening Christmas gifts.  You hope for diamonds and car keys but inevitably you wind up with a mug with something moderately funny on it, a coin purse, and a few fruitcakes.  Hell, one Christmas as a child, I got an airgun and a rosary.  That’s summer class, Innernetz.  No tennis bracelets.  All socks, underwear, and talking bathroom scales.

One student showed up on the first day of class wearing a thin see-through t-shirt.  Over his left breast — on his skin — he’d drawn a pocket with lines so wavy that I wondered if he suffered from acute astigmatism or, more likely, heroin withdrawal.  As part of what must have been this week’s art therapy assignment, he’d also drawn a fake nametag on the fake pocket.  There, in bright gold marker under “Hello, My Name Is” was the name “Playa.” Yes, the thirty-ish-year-old student with mutton chop sideburns and a hand-drawn name tag wants to be called “Playa.” Um, no. 

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked him. “Naw, man.  This is my tag, man,” he responded, using his right fist to deliver two weak thumps to his scrawny chest like a consumptive Roman legionnaire. He tried to catch the eye of the class slut woman sitting next to him. She didn’t notice.  She was distracted by her own issues, sliding around in her seat as if sitting on a Spirograph.  I couldn’t tell if she was perfecting the moves for her next lap dance or if she had simply forgotten to take off her NASCAR-grade Mobil 1 pre-moistened panties. 

“Well, my roster says your name is Archie so why don’t we go with that.” He grumbled and frowned.  By exposing his true identity, I had obviously ruined his chances with Miss Fucksalot who, by this time, had hooked her stilettos around the legs of the chair and sat slouched, staring at the floor.

Playa was a stroll on the beach.  I pwned him the very first day.  Check and mate.  But the Gary Busey lookalike who sits behinds Playa is a different story.  Busey wants nothing less than complete victory and every day is a battle for control of the proverbial chessboard.  Busey is a pompous brownnoser whose self-important classroom pontifications make Bill O’Reilly look like a zen mantra.  This alone wouldn’t be so bad if Busey could simply stay on topic.  Instead, every single class he channels Sarah Palin after a pot of espresso.  On top of this, he inexplicably lugs a ginormous wheeled suitcase to class every day.  I don’t know what he carries in that suitcase, but I’ll admit that I’ve cut him some slack just in case it’s money.

Yesterday, as I started taking attendance, I noticed Busey wasn’t in his usual seat.  I sighed a deep, contented sigh.  It was going to be a good day.  I wouldn’t have to cut him off in the middle of a pretentious speech wholly unrelated to the class discussion.  I wouldn’t need to shut down his impromptu poll of the class regarding whether or not I should extend the next paper deadline.  My attendance policy is notably draconian.  If you miss attendance you are marked absent.  No excuses.  Period.  End of story.  I looked forward to marking a giant purple X next to his name on the attendance sheet.

When I was halfway through the roster I heard a door in the hall creak open on its rusty hinges. The sound echoed, bouncing off the grey industrial walls in warning.  The creaking continued.  The sound became the wheels of a mammoth suitcase creaking down my spine.  It felt as if someone was wheeling over my grave.  My eyes whipped to the tiny glass partition in the classroom door.  Busey!  Damn!  I looked at my roster and knew I had just seconds to complete it before he and his Samsonite wife came sauntering into the classroom.  I decided to speed things up a bit.

“Sleeper!”

“Here!”

“Miss Fucksalot!”

“Here!”

I could hear his Bruno Magli’s slapping against the tile.  Closer and closer.  Faster, Dingo, I thought.  Faster!

“Smart Guy!” “Here!” “Clueless” “Here!” “Nice Dresser!” “Here!”

I looked out the partition window again and it was almost my downfall.  I made eye contact with Busey.  He saw me standing there with my gradebook in hand and broke into a run.  Shit!  I called names and didn’t even wait for the students to acknowledge their presence.

“Exchange Student, Emo, Chatty Cathy, Cheerleader!” “Here! Here! Here! Here!”

Busey was racing down the hallway, the wheels of his luggage shrieking, “Here! Here! Here!” I watched as he swam in a panic toward the door, eyes dark and flickering like a shark about to feed, trying desperately to maintain his tenuous grasp on his carry-on, that all-knowing, toothy grin on his face.  Fortunately, his suitcase acted as a wobbly anchor, slowing his arrival by overturning and crashing into a wall.  If I hadn’t been holding pen and paper I would’ve rubbed my hands together with glee and thrown back my head with a hearty “Mwahahaha!” But there wasn’t time.

“Shy Girl!” “Here.”

And DONE!

I scribbled an X next to Busey’s name, a bruise he would wear for the rest of the summer semester, and tossed the attendance sheet onto the desk in triumph.  He dashed through the door two seconds later, his baggage slamming into the doorjamb and sliding to a halt.  “HERE!” he screamed. 

“Awww, sorry,” I said.  “I just finished taking attendance.”

“But Ms. Dingo —”

I put on a sad face and slowly shook my head as I held my thumb and finger an inch apart, “So close, Busey.  So close.” That was when he righted his battered suitcase and began to unzip it.  Fuck.  Was this it?  Is this how I was goin’ down?

He unzipped the suitcase just enough to slide one sweat-slicked arm into the dark opening and pulled out — a Diet Pepsi.  Which he offered to me. 

“But Ms. Dingo, I was late because I stopped to get you a Diet Pepsi.  You always get one during break and I thought you’d like one at the beginning of class.”

The Diet Pepsi was in bad shape.  It was dented and hissing from its perilous ride down the hallway.  His sweaty arm reached in my direction, pushing the battered nectar toward me.  I hesitated for two nanoseconds before accepting his offer.

“Take your seat, Busey. Don’t be late again.”

As Busey made his way to the back of the class, banging shins and elbows with his monstrous bag, I caught the slight glimmer of a smirk.  But I didn’t mind.  After I let the Diet Pepsi settle, I would be basking in glory as the luscious drink burned its way down my throat.

Well played, Busey.  Well played.  But the game has only just begun.

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That’s Not In The Script

I love my friend’s little boy.  The Kid is three years old and knows he has me wrapped around his finger.  The thing is, entertaining a three-year-old is exhausting!  So, what do you do with a three-year-old full of energy on a fine Saturday afternoon? No, not the baby Benadryl.  Moms seem to frown upon that.  You enter him in a baby race, of course. 

So there I was in Central Park on Saturday morning lining The Kid up with all the other three-year-olds at the starting line.  I kept telling him that this race was for fun and he should enjoy it, there are no losers and all that other blah, blah, bullshit.  Look, it’s fine if you want your child to be an impotent, underachieving, unpopular loser.  My little friend, however, is in it to win it and so, although I was giving him useless platitudes just in case he turned out to be an utterly embarrassing failure, I also had him practice his Game Face along with important dignity-preserving statements like, “I let the Special Olympics kid win” and “It’s easy to run fast when you’re not burdened by all this handsomeness.” We may or may not have made other children cry.  Pussies.

Standing at the starting line, I surreptitiously checked out the competition.  I scoffed at the mom who had her kid in Baby Crocs.  O rly?  Even if you win this race (which you won’t) your kid loses.  Baby Crocs!  Humpft!!!  And then I looked down at her feet.  My. god.  She had long, leathery, bony feet that stretched over the edges of her flip-flops like an old gator sunning on a rock.  Really, her feet were overstuffed, cracked, vintage handbags.  Her toes were aged ginger.  If Dingo Girl had been there, I would not have been able to stop her from gnawing on those nasty feet.  I quickly turned my head in the other direction but then I locked eyes with HIM.  Oh, lord. 

Back in my younger days I was doing quite a bit of work as an extra on films and television shows shot in my town.  You may have heard of Chuck Norris and a little show called Walker, Texas Ranger.  I was on the set as an extra almost every week.  I excelled in the art of the fake, silent phone call made in the background of some lavish set.  I am the veritable Robert DeNiro of this little known niche.  For every take I’d create a different scenario.  First, I’d be the Tearful Girlfriend.  Face contorted in grief and despair, I’d conduct an entire conversation that started with an angry “You’ll never find another doormat as stupid as me!” and ended with me softly whispering, “So long, my love.  Go now with God,” before wistfully hanging up the phone.  And if you think it’s easy to convincingly portray intense emotion without uttering a single sound, you are sadly mistaken.  My favorite was Glamour Girl, where I’d mouth words like “Lunch?  Yes, I’d love to!  Oh, but let me check my calendar,” while tossing my long flowing hair and flashing a toothy smile. But my fine acting skills went unnoticed.  Until one day…

One day I got the call from my piece of shit agent that the casting directors wanted me to audition for a bit part in the show.  They were looking for someone sexy and bold but sophisticated.  They must have seen me in the background of last week’s episode when I was perfecting Phone Sex Operator!  Once the excitement died down, panic set in.  I was a naïve and not-so-worldly twenty-something.  What did I know about sexy but sophisticated?  Not a whole hell of a lot.  Just out of college, I was a starving artist living in khakis and denim skirts (hey, it was the early nineties in Texas where denim never goes out of style!).  I tell you what, the outfit I came up with makes me blush even to this day. 

As I teetered into the casting studio on pleather Payless five-inch stilettos, I noticed the other women waiting to audition had taken a different fashion approach.  One that did not involve looking like Jessica Rabbit trying to pay the rent in the red-light district.  “I got this,” I thought.  “These women aren’t even showing skin!” You know, if I’d spent more time paying attention to the show and less attention to the candy and sodas at the craft services tables, I’d have realized that Walker, Texas Ranger was a family-friendly show delivering heartwarming lessons week after week with a flying roundhouse followed by a tip of the hat.  It was not Streetwalker, Sex Arranger.

So there I was in the room with HIM, the casting director.  I started reading my lines at one end the room as I tried to walk seductively toward his desk at the other end.  Seduction is difficult to pull off in towering pleather stilettos when you’re used to wearing Keds, but I soldiered on, skillfully masking my unsteady teetering with regular tottering, swinging and swaying like the Betty Boop float at the Macy’s Spanksgiving Day Parade.  My voice low and husky, I whispered line after line because that’s what sexy women do, right?  They whisper? 

As I got closer to his chair my vision started to blur.  What the —?  My fake eyelashes had decided to become unglued and crawl down my face like hairy Wacky Wall Walkers.  But I pressed on, my padded boobs like beacons leading the way to his desk.  As I placed one hip against his desk and leaned precariously toward him, a wayward layer of eyelashes, having made its way to my chin, tumbled off my face and landed with a delicate splash in his coffee cup like a furry black fairy.  Neither of us said a word.  I racked my brain trying to cover my embarrassment without losing character.  Although it felt like a lifetime, I’m sure it was only a few seconds before I heard myself whisper seductively, “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t lash out at you like that.”

I wrapped up the scene moments later, proud of my ad-libbing and wondering if I would be able to contribute other lines of dialogue once I was cast for the part.  I went home and waited for the phone to ring.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.  All of this went through my mind in the mere seconds it took for him to smile and say, “Gorgeous day for a race, isn’t it?” Oh my god, he didn’t recognize me?  I can’t explain why, but I found myself lowering my voice and whispering, “Yes, yes it is.” His eyes popped open wide but I was saved from further humiliation by the starting bell and everyone yelling, “Run! Run! Run!” And so, I did. 

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