Someone knocked on my door today and I didn’t answer it. I do that a lot (or is it THEY who do that a lot. The knocking, I mean.). Why didn’t I answer the door, you ask? Well, I’m glad you asked me that. Because I’m going to tell you why.
If I’m not expecting someone, then more likely than not, it’s somebody trying to sell me something. And frankly, my solicitation quota is filled. For the rest of my life.
And I don’t know how to say “I’m not interested” in a way that ends the conversation right there without shutting the door on them. I don’t even want to have that conversation. I just don’t, okay? I can’t hang up on people. I can’t slam the door on people. So, like an ostrich, I just bury my head in the sand and hope they go away. Otherwise, I’m forking over my hard-earned unemployed dough.
Like just a few weeks ago, there’s this knock at my door. And it’s not just any knock. It’s one of those KNOCKITY-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCKs. The kind where you think, “Hmmm, that must be a friend of mine” because surely, a stranger wouldn’t knock like that, right? In hindsight, I think they are trained to knock like that for psychological reasons. Because we will answer the door, thinking it’s our good friend, Quincy, from down the way, just stopped in to bring us his famous frog leg fudge. And we LOVE frog leg fudge, so of COURSE we are going to open the door, aren’t we?
The other thing is, I don’t have a peephole, so it’s impossible to see who is at the door. And I can’t yell, “Who is it?” because then I’ve just admitted that I’m home and I’m ignoring them. GAH!!!! I’m getting all worked up just telling you this.
So anyway, KNOCKITY-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK, and I gullibly open the door to “Hello Ma’am” from this guy:
And he introduces himself as Desmond, or Nesbit or something, and he starts in on how he’s trying to rack up points and his brother was killed in gang violence and he wants to stop gang violence, so he’s trying to raise money so he can audition for American Idol and I must be a classy lady because his mother told him that a women who takes care of her toe nails and finger nails is classy and blah, blah, blah, and it’s his dream to become a gospel singer and had I ever heard of The Sparrow and could he sing it for me and he starts belting it out and I think of you guys and tell him to keep singing while I ran and got my camera and caught the last part of it which I will play for you now:
(34 second video) Click THIS LINKif you can’t play the video below.
And the next thing you know, I’m signing up for a magazine subscription from this well-spoken young man.
The question is, if he just walked off with seventy-five of my dollars and I’m never going to see my twelve issues of Discover magazine, can I still claim the charitable contribution on my taxes? I mean, I have a receipt.
When I tell you I was in The Music Man, your first thought would probably be: “Oh, were you Marian the Librarian?”
No, I was not Marian the Librarian! Just because I wear glasses and read a lot and look like someone who should know the Dewey Decimal system and my mother’s name was Marian does not a Marian the Librarian make me. You think you’re so smart.
I was in the band. At the end. They did the whole show with this wonky kids band and then our band (the Sacramento Youth Band, a real band, with instruments and everything - I played the piccolo) would barrel down the aisle in all our glory representing what the wonky kids band had allegedly become. I guess the dramatic build-up of this poor wonky band was effective because we killed.
We marched onto the stage in our red, white and blue wool-jacketed uniforms during the 100+ degree summer night in the outdoor Theatre-in-the-Round. The tent-like roof befitted the name of the theatre: The Music Circus. But it was hot. Hot, hot, hot.
We were supposed to be the big “shock and awe” finale and according to reviews, we were. The audience was delighted and surprised and stopped fanning themselves with their programs for a minute when we stomped onto the stage and belted out “76 Trombones”. And in spite of the heat, when I saw the audience’s reaction, I got goosebumps. For three minutes and fourteen seconds, we were stars, man!
The stage rotated a complete circle (maybe two, I don’t remember, it was one song’s worth, anyway) while we played. Then we marched right off to thunderous applause.
That season’s Music Man starred Van Johnson. He came over to us once during rehearsal to say hello and we were giddy, even though most of us had no clue who Van Johnson was, being a bunch of self-absorbed hick-town teenagers. If he wasn’t under 25, we didn’t know who he was. But he was “a celebrity”!
My mother told me that her friend had met Van Johnson twenty-some-odd years earlier and that he was known to always wear red socks and that I should ask him to show me his ankles.
Me. Ask him. A celebrity.
The show only played for one week, but at some point after rehearsals, I saw him on the street near the theatre. Overwhelmed with a rush of adrenaline, I couldn’t move. My body had started rigor mortis-ing or something. My brain was telling me to run after him or else I’d miss my chance. Go, dummy! He’s alone, but he’s across the street already. He’s getting away! Go, Go, Go!!!
I broke free of my solid state and darted across the street, surely looking like a stalking fool.
“Mr. Johnson!” I called out weakly. (At least I hope I said “Mr. Johnson”. That was something my mother never taught me - to use such formality when addressing people or saying “Sir” or “Ma’am” or anything like that. Surely, I wouldn’t have blruted out: “Oh Va-AAAaaaaannnnn!” Ack! That would have been so uncouth.)
He turned around and I said I was in the band and he shook my hand, and my legs got all jello-y and my voice got shakier but I soldiered on. If he said anything else, I couldn’t tell you what it was. I was far too focused on the task at hand and spat out everything I was supposed to say. Never mind any art of conversation. The world closed in around me as I rattled off that my mother said that her friend said that blah blah blah and could I see his socks.
He looked me square in the eye for a moment, almost pleased, and he reached down, yanking up the leg of his trousers.
In case you’re wondering what an unauthorized interview looks like (where the interviewer can’t get an audience with the interviewee so she just starts making stuff up - kinda like The Enquirer), you can check out my review of Anna Lefler’s blog, which just came out on Humor Bloggers Dot Com. It is entitled The Life of Lefler: An Unauthorized Interview. (Feel free to rate it when you get there.)
I was wearing my mermaid costume, working out to a Richard Simmons Swingin’ It Thru the 70’s exercise video with the front door wide open, when the mailman finally arrived. He had a package whose delivery was initiated by the man who lives in my house. Woo-hoo! A surprise gift!
Can I get a holla! or a Mook-Mook! from all you Pingu fans out there?
What?! You don’t know who Pingu is? Why, he’s only the European Spongebob of penguins.
By the way, that little exclamation I exclaimed earlier? The “what” with the “?!” afterwards? Did you know that particular character set is known as an “interrobang”?
Boy, I’m just full of useful information today, but I’m getting off topic. I meant to keep on with my Pingu sweatshirt, which is white. Which is bad. I am unable to avoid immediately ruining any new white attire. They are coffee and spaghetti magnets.
I bought a new white T-shirt for my trip to Hawaii recently. First day out? I spilled coffee on it. And I spilled it in an area that might mislead or otherwise indicate that I lactate oddly.
Our recent return from Maui to the cold, rainy weather here in Sacramento had me bundling up in my new white Pingu sweatshirt, although the instant I donned it, I got this powerful craving for spaghetti, and I have no idea why.
I can’t go one hour without wearing white and spilling something on it, whereas penguins keep their tuxedo shirts tidy after gorging on fish all day. Of course, the ocean IS their washing machine.
Hey, you know what? The more I think about my spillage issues, the more I think I just pour food on myself every day, regardless of the color of my clothing. I couldn’t even make it through this blog without dribbling coffee down the front of my shirt. I’m not kidding. See?
(The view from my perspective.)
I had to grab my camera fast because it was quickly sinking in and since it wasn’t my new white Pingu hoodie, I was afraid of losing the shot. Luckily, it spread into a wet spot before disappearing completely.
So where does an adult woman surreptitiously purchase a sippy cup? And do they deliver in a brown unmarked bag? Because I don’t want my mailman thinking I’m strange or anything.
What’s the last thing that goes through a bug’s mind when he hits a windshield?
His ass.
So, I’m on this plane coming back from Hawaii and we hit turbulence and I start stressing out. Not about dying, but all the planning required for surviving a plane crash. If we should be so lucky as to have a Sully-like pilot who manages to safely land on the ocean like a waterbug, then when we jump down the inflatable ramp, they either won’t let us first grab our carry-on luggage (for which I mentally go through the moves and how I can scoop up everything and take it all with me), or I’ll be a screaming banshee, pushing everyone out of my way to get off first like George Costanza in that fire episode on Seinfeld, pushing down old ladies and not once thinking about my bags (or helpless children).
I think about all the crap I’m going to lose, like my driver license, and my credit cards and my car keys and what a total pain in the ass that would be to replace all that, and how am I going to drive the two hours home from San Francisco at 10:00pm if I don’t have my car keys.
If I perish, then I won’t give a crap that my keys are at the bottom of the San Francisco Bay, because the cars in Heaven don’t need keys (and they get like, infinity miles per gallon).
If I survive, without my luggage, my laptop with all my photos that I haven’t yet posted on my blog would also be swimming with the fishes. And that would piss me off. But if I died? It wouldn’t matter, because Heaven is the big automatic alternate storage device. Just one big fat server - the true concept of cloud computing.
But then the turbulence stops and I simply go back to complaining about how I wasted my frequent flyer miles to fly first class on one of those smaller B-717 planes where you can easily touch the seat in front of you and how there’s no foot rest and how there are not one but TWO babies crying in front of me.
