Exhausted. Fell asleep on the train. All my manuscripts slipped off my lap and on to the floor. The woman next to me didn’t flinch or shift her legs as I frantically gathered my pages (today’s haul: four new chapters by a client, 50 pages of a project my business partner wants a second opinion on, four prospective proposals, and two contracts). The bitch who won’t move is immersed in a library copy of Debbie Macomber’s novel, A Good Yarn. (The head line on Debbie’s website is, “Wherever you are, Debbie takes you home.”) Debbie, can you take me home?
The lady who doesn’t move wears pale salmon huarache style loafers. I notice them because I am still on the floor picking up pages. It’s times like these when you think about an iPad. Only knowing me, the iPad would probably slip off my lap and break. And as a result some other dumb ass agent will read the proposal first and procure a seven figure advance while I’m still playing with myself. Or maybe, everything will come to nothing, except my book bag which will be on display at the Smithsonian as a relic of when people used to read books.
And this permanent knot in my shoulder from carrying my book bag, it too will be under glass at the museum. And the twitch in my right eye that moves like filigree, that’s a popular exhibit. In fact, all of my twitches are on display. And that is a case of my cuticles. And my middle finger, behind glass, spot lit. And the small of my back. And my back. And my throat.
Is this a post or a cry for help?
Filed under: The End of the World as We Know It |
Betsy Lerner 
Is it a cry that you want to rep more fiction? I can hope as I hum along!
That last paragraph is so Picassoesque. It’s great. The English language is so rich with wonderful words. One I’ve learned recently and like to pass on to others who need it: no.
Funny story, true story. My husband bought me A Good Yarn (I’ll spare you a list of my favorite authors) and with a waxy “smile”, I started thumbing through it thinking, “Who the f___ would buy me this book. Call that divorce attorney as soon as you blow out the candles.” Of course, halfway through it a rectangle had been carved out of the pages and in this makeshift box was The Sims 2. *wipes tear* God, I love him.
That is a funny story!
A bottle of Xanax hidden in copy of The Secret as a gift would elicit an immediate marriage proposal from me.
The middle finger is actually the finger of Saturn, ruler of Karma, a term I know you are especially fond of. (How about a blog title from the Radiohead song, “Karma Police,” like “This is what you’ll get when you mess with us.”) So when you show your middle finger to someone, what you’re really saying is: May your Karma come back to you and bite you in the ass.
So, does that mean that all us Capricorns are just the middle finger made incarnate?
I could live with that.
I finally understand you, Vivian! 🙂
I meant to wink. I would NEVER post a smiley face.
Yes.
And then you woke up, in bed with Debbie Macomber, and discovered the whole friggin’ series of your life’s events was just one laughable dream.
“Lady!” Jerry Lewis
People like the salmon-colored-huarache-wearing woman make me want to shake them. Or maybe you could have spat (just a little) on those shoes while you were snagging your pages. AFTER you snagged the pages, rather.
Was it just a bad commute? At the end of a bad day at the office? In an industry that is tanking? In an economy that teeters daily on the verge of destruction? In the middle of the most depressing ecological disaster in our lifetime?
I know the feeling. Plus, I have to ride the LIRR: the ladies of Long Island wear lots of ankle bracelets with their pink huaraches and I’ve never seen one read a book.
Done with art school I went to library school and freaked out after the first class. “What’s the matter?” my husband asked and my answer I am not proud to say was this—-“Everyone in library school wears ugly shoes.”
I’m still looking for that land where the stylish aren’t vapid and the smart are easy on the eyes.
If you had noticed her shoes before the manuscripts fell, would you have assumed she was a bitch? Personally, I think they’re a dead giveaway.
May I say thank you not. Strolled through the book dept of Target a while ago and felt I was being stalked by Debbie Macomber. There was even a cookbook from the quaint somewhere or other. Before this post I didn’t even know these books existed. I was ok with that.
You just need an ipad and sticky fingers. I have some kids who can help with the last part…