My deepest thanks to KS for breaking through my fog of memory loss! Thanks to her, I have booked 10 new therapy sessions.
During the Queen's tenure, my hapless coworkers would often arrive to find the red light on their phones blazing. No matter the time and the topic, the phone message would be marked "Urgent." In a panic, one would await the beep. The message would invariably be one of the following:
"K____, I noticed that you were tardy this morning. Please make an effort to arrive on time in the future or we will need to have further discussions."
"R____, my computer is not working. The screen is entirely blank. Please come to my office ASAP." [The computer was not turned on.]
"Dear staff, I have the remainder of a roast beef sandwich from my lunch that I would like to share with one lucky recipient. Please report to my office if you're hungry!"
"J_____, would you have a safety pin/piece of tape/Tylenol capsule/chunk of crack at your desk? Please bring it right away."
"Dear staff, from now on, NO art person is to make changes to text in a file. Not even a comma! Art people meddling with text can result in serious errors. This will not be tolerated."
But the most eerie "red light alert" would occur when one was at the desk, typing away busily. From the corner of one's eye...the red light would flare into being. No ring. No nothing. From her dark cave, the Queen would issue commands--sent entirely through the phone system, which she would access and then type phone extensions to send her "urgent" messages.
We realized at a certain point that The Queen's phone password was the very same as her extension. That is, I realized it. I got in the naughty habit of getting "into the system" and sending peculiar messages marked "urgent" to various staff members, sometimes with the aid of a little CD I own called "Fun With Sound Effects."
The most tortured individual on our staff was no doubt the art director, who suffered until midnight and beyond to meet her crazy needs. She'd hover over his desk and demand that he "lighten the tint by 10%" repeatedly, or ask him to shift a block of text "three picas." Once, the following text revision took place at his desk:
Version 1: "Members of the editorial team worked hard to bring this technology report to you."
Version 2: "My staff and I worked hard to bring this technology report to you."
Version 3 [published version]: "I worked hard to bring this technology report to you."
The Queen insisted that everyone on staff remain until the last page went out to the printer that day. No matter if "your pages" were done, you had to wait. She would retire into her office with her ubiquitous pencil and mark changes in a scribbly scrawl on the proofs. This could sometimes go on for two hours. I think she thought she worked at Vogue. (In fact, she always wanted a Fashion Section in our magazine. Let's just say it's not quite appropriate for the subject matter.) Comments included:
"Axiomatic!"
"What's a right triangle? Are people supposed to KNOW this?"
"Sex this up."
"See me."
To give her some credit, she was a talented copyeditor. Copyeditors are a rare breed, capable of being thrown into a frenzy by a misplaced comma or a wrongly-hyphenated word. I have a titch of the illness but no more. Copyeditors--and this is not meant to be a slur--have a dusty, old library quality about them. They often wear glasses, but not always. Don't get me wrong. Some are sexy. They are extremely valuable, and good ones are becoming more rare. She had a skill at this sort of thing.
Because I'm such a sweetheart, I'll leave off at that--with the lovely memory of a dangling modifier, fixed...or a split infinitive, beautifully repaired.
Tomorrow, or thereafter, I will return with more tales to tell.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
The Same 10 Questions I Always Ask Myself
In a soon-to-be recurring series, I will ask myself the same 10 questions every time.
1. What are you wearing?
Clam diggers with pink, preppy little tennis racquets all over them. A sturdy brassiere donated by my mother--no man could bite through it. A collared white shirt with gemstones for buttons. A necklace purchased for ten dollah on Broadway, in SoHo. A pair of short, white athetic socks. A red Swatch.
2. What's the nature of today's hypochondria?
A bit of a rash on my arm might turn out to be something mysterious and tropical. I expect a heart attack within a few days.
3. What was today's workout?
189 flights of stairs on the StepMill (a very bad name for the unit, as it resembles an escalator that keep revolving into itself). That's 79 stories higher than the Twin Towers. For some reason, as I climbed onward and upward, I thought of them.
4. How do you do what you do and stay so sweet?
Vigorous scrubbing.
5. What's that burning smell?
My wasted youth, and an overcooked yam.
6. If you were an animal, what kind would you be?
I am going to eat you if you ask that again.
7. What are you drinking, and why?
The sweet nectar of oblivion. So that I don't accidentally encounter any Harry Potter spoilers while I read.
8. In what ways hast thou offended?
I thought bad thoughts about the woman at the supermarket today who pulled out her coupons, whipped her cart back to the cash register, and insisted she had not not gotten the two-for-one deal on the English Muffins. Her mottled, beleagured husband waited in the aisle, as henpecked as he had been for the last 25 years. Shuffles, the bag woman, was there as as well. She was bagging.
I also have not filled out the request for money from GreenPeace.
9. What's the next big thing?
Jesus' visage appearing in florets of chilled butter at the finest New York restaurants.
10. Music selection?
Rob Dickinson, Fresh Wine for the Horses
Do buy it. You won't be sorry.
1. What are you wearing?
Clam diggers with pink, preppy little tennis racquets all over them. A sturdy brassiere donated by my mother--no man could bite through it. A collared white shirt with gemstones for buttons. A necklace purchased for ten dollah on Broadway, in SoHo. A pair of short, white athetic socks. A red Swatch.
2. What's the nature of today's hypochondria?
A bit of a rash on my arm might turn out to be something mysterious and tropical. I expect a heart attack within a few days.
3. What was today's workout?
189 flights of stairs on the StepMill (a very bad name for the unit, as it resembles an escalator that keep revolving into itself). That's 79 stories higher than the Twin Towers. For some reason, as I climbed onward and upward, I thought of them.
4. How do you do what you do and stay so sweet?
Vigorous scrubbing.
5. What's that burning smell?
My wasted youth, and an overcooked yam.
6. If you were an animal, what kind would you be?
I am going to eat you if you ask that again.
7. What are you drinking, and why?
The sweet nectar of oblivion. So that I don't accidentally encounter any Harry Potter spoilers while I read.
8. In what ways hast thou offended?
I thought bad thoughts about the woman at the supermarket today who pulled out her coupons, whipped her cart back to the cash register, and insisted she had not not gotten the two-for-one deal on the English Muffins. Her mottled, beleagured husband waited in the aisle, as henpecked as he had been for the last 25 years. Shuffles, the bag woman, was there as as well. She was bagging.
I also have not filled out the request for money from GreenPeace.
9. What's the next big thing?
Jesus' visage appearing in florets of chilled butter at the finest New York restaurants.
10. Music selection?
Rob Dickinson, Fresh Wine for the Horses
Do buy it. You won't be sorry.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
I Haunt Your Photo Albums
I don't like to brag, but I have a thriving side career as a model and film star "extra" in a great number of photographic portfolios and movies. I get the roles almost as if by magic, lacking an agent or manager of any kind. I have been discovered on any number of occasions and my performance is always natural and assured.
Here is a perfect example. At a local pool the other day, I passed before the camera of an excited father as he attempted to capture his child cavorting in a spray of water. Without wanting to steal the scene, I ducked too late and was caught in the frame, no doubt in a crouching, apologetic cringe that will be memorialized in the family albums, electronic and otherwise. I can only hope that my bathing suit was not askew and that my expression was reserved, yet emblematic of all the greatness and sadness of our times, and particularly of my generation. (I work on such gazes before a mirror nightly.) That I held the promise of the future in my eyes, and that my feverish squint (blinded by sunlight) does not beg deletion. But I do have a talent at this sort of thing; I am exceptional as a "background character" to add local color and verve to any photograph.
My film resume also includes roles as a bit player in the family "beach vacation" videos shot at Sea Island, GA, Cape Cod, Rhode Island, and the New Hampshire shore, Perhaps you've seen me? In several, I am seen laboriously jogging in the background, and in others, pensively picking up shells and rocks. Sometimes I gaze into the lens with a piercing look that has merited cries of "Who IS that?" during screenings. At the wrap parties, no one speaks to me, but I eat plenty of the crudite.
I have also been seen in "The Wedding Video" (dancer # 6), "Playland in September" (random passerby), and "New York Tourist Scene" (Hot chick in white). I am available for speaking roles as well.
It's odd to think that when I am gone, my image may be playing on some futuristic DVD player in a family living room filled with strangers. I'll look out from the screen, take a step or two, and then the camera lens will swing wide and I'll slide out of the frame, as if I never existed at all.
Speaking of photo albums and loss, I once picked up an old album in an East Village antique store for $18. It seemed a high price to pay at the time, but there was something desperately sad about the collection of family photos meticulously arranged and labeled. There were black-and-white images of the family trip to Niagara falls, Dad with his new car, the author of the album as a baby, and a row of young and happy individuals in bathing caps seated on a dock. Why was it here, for sale? Did no one want it? The owner of the album was a Dorothy Dubelbeiss, and I have tried in vain to find any of her descendant, although quick searches suggest that the family may have been from Rochester, NY. I guard it as carefully as one of my own. Something suggests that it is all that's left, and that this family vanished like a puff of smoke before the wind. I want to think that someone wants it, and I'll be ready with it to hand over once they come to my door.
The poet Tess Gallagher, wife of Raymond Carver, once wrote that "the poem is always the enemy of the photograph." Which would you rather have of me once I'm gone?
Here is a perfect example. At a local pool the other day, I passed before the camera of an excited father as he attempted to capture his child cavorting in a spray of water. Without wanting to steal the scene, I ducked too late and was caught in the frame, no doubt in a crouching, apologetic cringe that will be memorialized in the family albums, electronic and otherwise. I can only hope that my bathing suit was not askew and that my expression was reserved, yet emblematic of all the greatness and sadness of our times, and particularly of my generation. (I work on such gazes before a mirror nightly.) That I held the promise of the future in my eyes, and that my feverish squint (blinded by sunlight) does not beg deletion. But I do have a talent at this sort of thing; I am exceptional as a "background character" to add local color and verve to any photograph.
My film resume also includes roles as a bit player in the family "beach vacation" videos shot at Sea Island, GA, Cape Cod, Rhode Island, and the New Hampshire shore, Perhaps you've seen me? In several, I am seen laboriously jogging in the background, and in others, pensively picking up shells and rocks. Sometimes I gaze into the lens with a piercing look that has merited cries of "Who IS that?" during screenings. At the wrap parties, no one speaks to me, but I eat plenty of the crudite.
I have also been seen in "The Wedding Video" (dancer # 6), "Playland in September" (random passerby), and "New York Tourist Scene" (Hot chick in white). I am available for speaking roles as well.
It's odd to think that when I am gone, my image may be playing on some futuristic DVD player in a family living room filled with strangers. I'll look out from the screen, take a step or two, and then the camera lens will swing wide and I'll slide out of the frame, as if I never existed at all.
Speaking of photo albums and loss, I once picked up an old album in an East Village antique store for $18. It seemed a high price to pay at the time, but there was something desperately sad about the collection of family photos meticulously arranged and labeled. There were black-and-white images of the family trip to Niagara falls, Dad with his new car, the author of the album as a baby, and a row of young and happy individuals in bathing caps seated on a dock. Why was it here, for sale? Did no one want it? The owner of the album was a Dorothy Dubelbeiss, and I have tried in vain to find any of her descendant, although quick searches suggest that the family may have been from Rochester, NY. I guard it as carefully as one of my own. Something suggests that it is all that's left, and that this family vanished like a puff of smoke before the wind. I want to think that someone wants it, and I'll be ready with it to hand over once they come to my door.
The poet Tess Gallagher, wife of Raymond Carver, once wrote that "the poem is always the enemy of the photograph." Which would you rather have of me once I'm gone?
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Throwing Food at the Moon
And now for something completely different.
A heartwarming blog entry "mom style" about the pleasures and rewards of parenthood! First of all, there's my German child, whom I will call Wolfgang on account of the fact that he has vampiric-like fangs where his eye teeth ought to be. Today we gave him a water bottle in the car and he gnawed it with the sound of a jackal guffawing and schkgnurfling as it tears the flesh off an antelope. Not yet sated with these guttural, horrible noises, he began to shriek with great glee and volume. The more we protested, the more his evil laughs and screams resounded through the car. This was an improvement on yesterday's car ride home from a birthday party, during which the liebchin vomited undigested grapes, chicken chunks, and a good part of a Carvel ice cream cake, the latter of which came pouring out his nose.
The elder child I will call Thieving Crow Deux, his Indian name, due to his early propensity for poaching food off a parent's plate. (Wolfgang also goes by the name "Thieving Crow Trois.") Thieving Crow Deux is a.k.a. Repetito, Casper, Lil Dubya (in honor of our esteemed leader), and Scooter-Pie. Pale as white on milk, he cannot go outside without a sunscreen "dip" which I hope to patent in the near future.
He is a charming child who behaves most impeccably when around strangers, and then transforms into a wild, flailing ball of pent-up angst when within the safety of his own home. Blessed with more than a touch of OCD, Thieving Crow Deux has been known to line up Clementine pieces, curve bending inward to opposite curve, until--finding that he does not possess the last piece to complete the pattern--collapses in a tragic rage. His uvula is a common sight around the dinner table.
Thieving Crow Deux likes to play doctor, applying Band-Aids to limbs for a headache and suggesting that the patient's head is full of monkeys and elephants, which can be coaxed out by a tune played on the harmonica. When accused of being a quack and a charlatan, he says "he can't do nuffink for you!" He also conducts a practice called "whacking," in which he lays a stuffed animal patient out on the kitchen floor and whacks them hard with an object. My son the doctor! The younger one plays the nurse and brings the patient varieties of birthday cake constructed out of Legos.
They are both wonderful and I will kill anyone who menaces them in word or deed.
One day the three of us had a picnic out on our back yard, which we affectionately call "the back 40." After eating his fill, the little one noticed the crescent moon in the sky, an orb of which he is quite fond. "Da moon is hungry," he announced, and began tossing food up toward it. It rained down on our little picnic blanket. We joined in, tossing food at the moon in an effort to fatten it. Planes passed overhead and we threw food at them, too. "This is not so sane," said Thieving Crow Deux who, like his brother, has an unusual vocabulary. We laughed, and apple slices, bread chunks, and cheese bits sailed up to the heavens. We rolled and tumbled and the two boys sat on my head, and the sun lowered past the Post Marine and the Toyota dealership in the distance. The moon waited, placid and waxing. "Naughty Tomato-Eating Squirrel" and his brother "Thieving Rodent Quatre" waited in the wings expectantly, and a flurry of birds passed overhead and shat on our car, parked in the driveway.
That's what writing this is like, at times. A happy exercise in throwing food at the moon.
A heartwarming blog entry "mom style" about the pleasures and rewards of parenthood! First of all, there's my German child, whom I will call Wolfgang on account of the fact that he has vampiric-like fangs where his eye teeth ought to be. Today we gave him a water bottle in the car and he gnawed it with the sound of a jackal guffawing and schkgnurfling as it tears the flesh off an antelope. Not yet sated with these guttural, horrible noises, he began to shriek with great glee and volume. The more we protested, the more his evil laughs and screams resounded through the car. This was an improvement on yesterday's car ride home from a birthday party, during which the liebchin vomited undigested grapes, chicken chunks, and a good part of a Carvel ice cream cake, the latter of which came pouring out his nose.
The elder child I will call Thieving Crow Deux, his Indian name, due to his early propensity for poaching food off a parent's plate. (Wolfgang also goes by the name "Thieving Crow Trois.") Thieving Crow Deux is a.k.a. Repetito, Casper, Lil Dubya (in honor of our esteemed leader), and Scooter-Pie. Pale as white on milk, he cannot go outside without a sunscreen "dip" which I hope to patent in the near future.
He is a charming child who behaves most impeccably when around strangers, and then transforms into a wild, flailing ball of pent-up angst when within the safety of his own home. Blessed with more than a touch of OCD, Thieving Crow Deux has been known to line up Clementine pieces, curve bending inward to opposite curve, until--finding that he does not possess the last piece to complete the pattern--collapses in a tragic rage. His uvula is a common sight around the dinner table.
Thieving Crow Deux likes to play doctor, applying Band-Aids to limbs for a headache and suggesting that the patient's head is full of monkeys and elephants, which can be coaxed out by a tune played on the harmonica. When accused of being a quack and a charlatan, he says "he can't do nuffink for you!" He also conducts a practice called "whacking," in which he lays a stuffed animal patient out on the kitchen floor and whacks them hard with an object. My son the doctor! The younger one plays the nurse and brings the patient varieties of birthday cake constructed out of Legos.
They are both wonderful and I will kill anyone who menaces them in word or deed.
One day the three of us had a picnic out on our back yard, which we affectionately call "the back 40." After eating his fill, the little one noticed the crescent moon in the sky, an orb of which he is quite fond. "Da moon is hungry," he announced, and began tossing food up toward it. It rained down on our little picnic blanket. We joined in, tossing food at the moon in an effort to fatten it. Planes passed overhead and we threw food at them, too. "This is not so sane," said Thieving Crow Deux who, like his brother, has an unusual vocabulary. We laughed, and apple slices, bread chunks, and cheese bits sailed up to the heavens. We rolled and tumbled and the two boys sat on my head, and the sun lowered past the Post Marine and the Toyota dealership in the distance. The moon waited, placid and waxing. "Naughty Tomato-Eating Squirrel" and his brother "Thieving Rodent Quatre" waited in the wings expectantly, and a flurry of birds passed overhead and shat on our car, parked in the driveway.
That's what writing this is like, at times. A happy exercise in throwing food at the moon.
Friday, July 27, 2007
A Nice Wholesome Glass of Milk
A dear friend has suggested that perhaps I am a wee bit too "excited" about the virtues of wine on my blog. I assured him that yes, I am fond of wine, but I can get just as enthusiastic about a tall glass of cold skim milk! Milk is refreshing, and it goes with just about anything. It's good for your body, too. I choose skim to keep my cholesterol down. Not that I have ever had a cholesterol problem, mind you. The ginormous amounts of greens that I eat crush every stray toxin and fat globule, except for the deadly brain cancer that will soon overtake me.
I love milk. This sounds nasty, but when I was little I used to get a small dish of pimento-stuffed olives and a nice glass of milk and savor the olives, one by one. When they were gone, I would go to refill the dish and the glass of milk. Milk also goes well with Cheez Doodles, cookies, and a steak sandwich. When eating all these items, it is important to have a good book. Much of my library in my youth was soiled with various steak juices and Cheez effluvium. It was the hallmark of a good title to have a few food stains. Books and mealtimes seemed to go well together, even at a nice restaurant. Why talk to one's parents when one can delve into a good read? If I finished my book, I usually went into the women's bathroom and played Harriet the Spy, making excessive notes in a small notebook about suspicious conversations and activities. Sometimes I even carried a tiny dictaphone recorder and recorded all sorts of hot stuff. Then, I would usually finish the evening with a harmless prank, such as sticking the free Maxi-Pads to the wall of the stall or making fake fart noises while crouching atop the potty.
Did I mention how much I like milk? I know my dear friend is worried about me, but I will venture to say that he hasn't had a glass of nice, cold milk since 1978, when he spewed it out, rinsed out the taste with whiskey, and lit a filterless cigarette in its stead. Try some milk, buster! And maybe a piece of fruit or two. Fruit is not simply a weapon meant to be lobbed at unsuspecting passersby. It belongs in your tummy, cozied up to a zucchini and a fava bean or two.
The major food groups are not mini-muffins, oysters in oil, beer, and triscuits. Try drinking milk and you may feel as fit and fulsome as the young, delightful teens featured on the InterWeb. Hoo ha! I know I do.
I love milk. This sounds nasty, but when I was little I used to get a small dish of pimento-stuffed olives and a nice glass of milk and savor the olives, one by one. When they were gone, I would go to refill the dish and the glass of milk. Milk also goes well with Cheez Doodles, cookies, and a steak sandwich. When eating all these items, it is important to have a good book. Much of my library in my youth was soiled with various steak juices and Cheez effluvium. It was the hallmark of a good title to have a few food stains. Books and mealtimes seemed to go well together, even at a nice restaurant. Why talk to one's parents when one can delve into a good read? If I finished my book, I usually went into the women's bathroom and played Harriet the Spy, making excessive notes in a small notebook about suspicious conversations and activities. Sometimes I even carried a tiny dictaphone recorder and recorded all sorts of hot stuff. Then, I would usually finish the evening with a harmless prank, such as sticking the free Maxi-Pads to the wall of the stall or making fake fart noises while crouching atop the potty.
Did I mention how much I like milk? I know my dear friend is worried about me, but I will venture to say that he hasn't had a glass of nice, cold milk since 1978, when he spewed it out, rinsed out the taste with whiskey, and lit a filterless cigarette in its stead. Try some milk, buster! And maybe a piece of fruit or two. Fruit is not simply a weapon meant to be lobbed at unsuspecting passersby. It belongs in your tummy, cozied up to a zucchini and a fava bean or two.
The major food groups are not mini-muffins, oysters in oil, beer, and triscuits. Try drinking milk and you may feel as fit and fulsome as the young, delightful teens featured on the InterWeb. Hoo ha! I know I do.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
It's Magic! A Wine Recommendation
I used to be a drinker of "discount bin" wines, and even the occasional "box o' red" or "box o' white" (handy for canoe trips, as the wine bladder can be used for a lively game of "bladderball" when the wine is finished. Simply drain the wine into your tummy, then blow up the bag and engage in a spirited game of kick-the-bladder around the campfire. Also useful as a pillow once the gruesome truth of what you drank sinks in. And, you can burn the box in the fire!)
I can't do that anymore. It's not that I don't want to--I like a cheap discovery as much as the next person. But I have realized that drinking underpriced wine results in headaches, while drinking the pricier varieties is much more satisfactory. Could this be because one is aware that one is guzzling down 20s faster than one could burn 'em? Nah, it must be because of the quality of the bottle.
Here is a lovely shiraz that we have found that I must extol. It is riddled with virtue! It is, in fact, magic. So tasty is it that we bought not one, but two cases. And then a few random bottles. It is a full-bodied, rich red redolent with notes of "first love and pleather," not to mention blueberries, spice, and cream.
For those who are cringing at the price, don't. Just stop your cheap ass self right there! What are you going to do, drink Mad Dog? Night Train? That shit will rumble through your head in the morning as you stagger home from a disappointing one-night stand, wearing a rumpled prom dress (or worse, oversize sweats still stinking of the gym).
Of course, there is the "intermediate buy"--the ubiquitous $11 bottle. A category I have succumbed to on many occasions. It's a hit-or-miss proposition, that 'tween bottle. One could get lucky, or one could wind up with a mediocre stinker. Your miserable $10 would be better served by donating to a great cause rather than a cheap-ass lousy wine made from discontented grapes stompled by calloused, angry feet.
Feet. My college roomate had a fear and hatred of naked feet. What did this mean? I still wonder.
I can't do that anymore. It's not that I don't want to--I like a cheap discovery as much as the next person. But I have realized that drinking underpriced wine results in headaches, while drinking the pricier varieties is much more satisfactory. Could this be because one is aware that one is guzzling down 20s faster than one could burn 'em? Nah, it must be because of the quality of the bottle.
Here is a lovely shiraz that we have found that I must extol. It is riddled with virtue! It is, in fact, magic. So tasty is it that we bought not one, but two cases. And then a few random bottles. It is a full-bodied, rich red redolent with notes of "first love and pleather," not to mention blueberries, spice, and cream.
For those who are cringing at the price, don't. Just stop your cheap ass self right there! What are you going to do, drink Mad Dog? Night Train? That shit will rumble through your head in the morning as you stagger home from a disappointing one-night stand, wearing a rumpled prom dress (or worse, oversize sweats still stinking of the gym).
Of course, there is the "intermediate buy"--the ubiquitous $11 bottle. A category I have succumbed to on many occasions. It's a hit-or-miss proposition, that 'tween bottle. One could get lucky, or one could wind up with a mediocre stinker. Your miserable $10 would be better served by donating to a great cause rather than a cheap-ass lousy wine made from discontented grapes stompled by calloused, angry feet.
Feet. My college roomate had a fear and hatred of naked feet. What did this mean? I still wonder.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
My Evil Midget Boss, Chapter the Second
You've been waiting, haven't you? You diminutive imp...thought I wouldn't have the wherewithal to complete my tale of woe, eh? Think again, shorty!
So...my first trip with The Queen (as I named her in Chapter the First) was to San Diego. Yes, we were to share a hotel room. I arrived the day before she did, and spent a productive day working very hard as I am accustomed to doing. On the next day, I returned to my hotel room, realizing I had left my wallet (and needing money for lunch). The door was barred from the inside with one of those "anti-rape" units and there was a "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging on the door. I scuttled away, scared. What was she doing in there? I went hungry that afternoon.
Later, she sprang at me from behind a booth in the convention center. "Let's order room service and have girl talk tonight!" she cackled. "We can sit in our nighties and--" I stammered that I had a meeting to attend, and that I had dinner plans already. Glomming onto a group of sales reps, I stayed out much later than necessary and got perilously drunk, just to avoid returning to the room and seeing her waiting in her terry cloth nightgown. In the morning, I opened one eye to see her toodling about the hotel room, already dressed in her trademark red pumps and power suit. Yeekers! A close call. I checked out her bathroom kit while I was cursing my hangover. Her toiletries were aligned in neat rows, arranged by size and shape, atop a washcloth.
Later, she nabbed me to complain of an encounter with someone who had said "Sheesh, you're so...tiny!" Offended, The Queen had many foul things to say about this woman. Did she realize that we were going to put our magazine on the MAP, dammit? That we would generate BUZZ? That readers everywhere would salivate at their mailboxes each month to discover the TRUTH? She may have been small in stature but her dreams were BIG.
The second night in CA comes back to me now...we had dinner together. It could no longer be avoided. At the next table were two young children sharing a meal with their parents. They were well-behaved, except for an occasional merry outburst. The Queen shuddered. "I don't like children," she said conspiratorially. "I don't think they should be allowed in a restaurant at dinner." I tried to make nice, as she was my boss. After dinner, she announced that she was headed back to the room, where we could continue our chat. I opted for more excessive drinking, returning at 2 a.m. to her petite little snores.
The thing was, The Queen liked me. She really liked me! For my coworkers whom she did not like, times were much harder.
To be continued.
So...my first trip with The Queen (as I named her in Chapter the First) was to San Diego. Yes, we were to share a hotel room. I arrived the day before she did, and spent a productive day working very hard as I am accustomed to doing. On the next day, I returned to my hotel room, realizing I had left my wallet (and needing money for lunch). The door was barred from the inside with one of those "anti-rape" units and there was a "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging on the door. I scuttled away, scared. What was she doing in there? I went hungry that afternoon.
Later, she sprang at me from behind a booth in the convention center. "Let's order room service and have girl talk tonight!" she cackled. "We can sit in our nighties and--" I stammered that I had a meeting to attend, and that I had dinner plans already. Glomming onto a group of sales reps, I stayed out much later than necessary and got perilously drunk, just to avoid returning to the room and seeing her waiting in her terry cloth nightgown. In the morning, I opened one eye to see her toodling about the hotel room, already dressed in her trademark red pumps and power suit. Yeekers! A close call. I checked out her bathroom kit while I was cursing my hangover. Her toiletries were aligned in neat rows, arranged by size and shape, atop a washcloth.
Later, she nabbed me to complain of an encounter with someone who had said "Sheesh, you're so...tiny!" Offended, The Queen had many foul things to say about this woman. Did she realize that we were going to put our magazine on the MAP, dammit? That we would generate BUZZ? That readers everywhere would salivate at their mailboxes each month to discover the TRUTH? She may have been small in stature but her dreams were BIG.
The second night in CA comes back to me now...we had dinner together. It could no longer be avoided. At the next table were two young children sharing a meal with their parents. They were well-behaved, except for an occasional merry outburst. The Queen shuddered. "I don't like children," she said conspiratorially. "I don't think they should be allowed in a restaurant at dinner." I tried to make nice, as she was my boss. After dinner, she announced that she was headed back to the room, where we could continue our chat. I opted for more excessive drinking, returning at 2 a.m. to her petite little snores.
The thing was, The Queen liked me. She really liked me! For my coworkers whom she did not like, times were much harder.
To be continued.
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