“You weren’t there, Karen,” he said, “she tried to kill me.” He would be Todd, from Boston. 

Todd and Karen, my sister in law, were newly married, and at that precise moment were in the midst of a heated discussion in a tiny bathroom in a typical OKC home.  Todd was balancing himself on the toilet, not using it, but had shimmied onto the seat to close the window in the event Karen’s family, my family, a bunch of lunatics, had escaped the asylum and could hear him from the yard.  He feared they were closing in on all sides. They’d retreated to that tiny nook in the house because it was the only door with a lock.  Todd was scared out of his wits.

He pulled back the shower curtain, dramatically, lest he find one of us hiding, meaning to do him harm.  Feeling a bit better in seeing only a moldy loofa and a damp bra precariously drying on a soap dish, he flung open the door of the linen closet, just to be sure.  Karen sat on the vanity counter, legs dangling somewhat akimbo, and was getting a huge thrill out of seeing her husband’s first exposure to her family.

Satisfied that they were alone, and momentarily safe, Todd plopped down on the padded seat and began leafing through the yellow pages.  He pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, and whispered, “All’s I’m saying is, after that, I would be much more comfortable in a hotel…”

“Uh-uh, mister, no way…” she cut him off, and he returned the favor.

“Embassy suites, HoJo, a Hilton, for heaven’s sakes, Karen, I could walk to this one, look, it says conveniently located near Baptist Hospital…” he looked at the hem of his haphazard garment.

Todd, completely ignorant of the Family Rules was about to get an earful.  “Todd, I am almost 40 years old, and I have never, ever gotten to sleep in the Murphy bed.  Until now.  Do you know what this means?  It means they like you.  And you’re not going anywhere in that ridiculous hospital gown.”

Todd tore of a square of tissue, and wiped the blood from his arm.  “Yeah, well all’s I’m saying is, I’d hate to see what they do to people they don’t like.”

Precisely 12 hours before, Todd and Karen arrived in Oklahoma City.  By the time they landed, late, and rented a car, and then drove to Aunt Pat’s house for the big reveal, it was after 9 p.m.  It was pitch dark, and the small house was nothing like Todd had imagined.   

Karen had defected from our ranks and had turn into one of them.  She’d dragged poor Todd all this way to meet the family, a harrowing experience for anyone.  Even worse, collectively, we, the family, are a few sandwiches shy of a picnic.  Todd wasn’t just a fish out of water, he was headed for the frying pan. 

Todd had, by that time, repeatedly heard the Legend of Aunt Pat.  We collectively have a tendency to exaggerate.  Instead of dainty Southern Bells, Todd was hit over the head with we anti-belles.  The house was full, and loud, and heavy on the estrogen.  In other words, it was a typical gathering at Pat’s.  A dizzying amount of conversation was going on simultaneously.  We just get so tickled by ourselves.  Todd was introduced to everyone, except Pat, and his palms grew sweaty in anticipation.

After what seemed to be an eternity, Todd began squirming in his chair.  Karen was busy making the rounds, hugging and kissing on everyone.  We hadn’t seen her this far south in quite a while.  Todd took a seat on the divan.  He was immediately flanked on all sides by cousins, aunts, and in-laws.  We had him surrounded.

“Excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom…” Todd said in a polite voice. No one acknowledged him or moved out of the way.  After a few more minutes, he tried again, “Excuse me, may I go to the bathroom?”

Karen saw him, in agony.  Hands on her hips, she flopped her palms over to as if to say what.  He stood, and the gaggle of females hushed.  We had a man on deck. 

Too loud, he announced, “I NEED TO GO TO THE BATHROOM.  NOW.”

Knowing those individuals hailing from northern states tend to be a bit that way, it was just like one of them to announce such a personal matter.  Karen rescued her beloved by saying while pointing, “End of the hall.”  Todd’s shoulder tipped a key rack on the wall.  He was reduced to all fours in his efforts to corral the keys.  He attempted to sort them, but it was impossible. 

Karen said, “Leave it, we’ll do it tomorrow.”  Crimson, he got up.

He turned toward the hallway, one of us said, “Pat’s in there.  It could be a while.”

Had we been in someone else’s home, and seen such a reception, we would have taken Todd under our wing.  We would have told him that those were common people with common manners, and no self respecting hostess would treat a person, even a Yankee, like that.  But, like I said earlier, we were at Pat’s.

Todd stood in the hall for a while.  Shifting from side to side, he was really feeling it.  Knowing that Pat was in the bathroom, he didn’t want to have to beat on the door with urgency.  He weighed the probability of being able to find a bush in the yard, or perhaps a large houseplant.  This would no doubt draw attention from the hens perched in the living room. 

He heard, from behind the door, “Corn!  I don’t remember eating corn!”

Moments later, he heard a flush, the door opened, and a little pear shaped woman exited.  “You must be Todd.  I’m Pat.” 

He was as polite as he could be under the circumstances, but he was suffering.  Aunt Pat was ready for bed.  Once in the bathroom, he noticed a set of teeth sitting in a glass.  As he washed his hands, he thought of his strategy.  Todd decided to identify the ringleader and suck up. 

From the other side of the door, he heard an anonymous female voice, the door quaked, and the knob rattled, “Did he fall in?”

Todd rejoined the group only to find Pat was hugging and kissing on everyone, saying her goodnights, and making bed assignments.  “You,” will sleep with me, she pointed at her sister, Jen.  “The two of you,” she pointed at another pair of sisters, identical twins, “take the guest bedroom. Julie will have to go to Marcy’s.  The rest of you better go back to your own homes, because I don’t want to find you here when I get up.”  That left me and Karen. 

I sat up straight, quit slouching, and smiled wide, hoping for the Murphy bed.  I’d slept in it my last visit, and in my mind, it was mine. 

“Let’s see, that leaves you,” meaning me, “and the two of you.  Karen and Todd, why don’t you take the Murphy bed? And, Amanda, you can have the couch.  I’m going to bed.”

Just like that, I’d lost the Murphy Bed.  Fate is a cruel mistress.  I decided to see how, or better yet, if Todd could survive the first 24 hours.  This was would be a baptism by fire, and I had been patient to Pat just a few years before.

Pat was retired.  She’s a mix of Quincy and Florence Nightengale.  She, before hanging up her slides, ran the diagnostic laboratory in Oklahoma City.  When someone in the family said to a surgeon, I’d like to get a second opinion, they were referring to Pat.  Who needed a doctor with all the complicated paperwork, co-pays, and hassle, when you could call Pat, and probably squeeze a recipe for sour cream rolls out of her toward the end of the conversation? 

While I was gearing up to savor Todd’s impending torture, he was confused.  I, too, had married into this mess, and whereas a decent person would have warned him, I am many things.  None of them decent, especially to a usurper.  This was an initiation ritual for in-laws.  Like a caged animal, his eyes darted around.  No less than a dozen conversations were going on at the same time.  Most of the occupants were enthralled in two or three at one time.  They were all ringleaders. 

Todd finally got the gumption to tell Karen that he was tired, what with the long flight, and all.  Karen, feeling mighty proud, made her way to the den.  Excitedly, she said to Todd, “You hold that side.”  She turned a wooden lever in the center and clutched the left corner as it popped out from the wall.  “Not so fast, Todd, geez, what’s the matter with you?”  The legs on the bed eased downward as the mattress flattened out.  Pat had already put clean, soft sheets in preparation for her visit.  It was just like Pat to be so thoughtful.

Karen plopped on the bed, with relish.  “Isn’t this the best?”  She made a little bounce. 

Todd wasn’t feeling it, but he knew to keep that to himself.  “Wow, a bed in the wall…”

Karen, at the foot of the bed said, “I’m just going to say goodnight to everyone.”

Todd climbed under the covers, and waited.  An hour passed, then two, then three. At various times, Jen, the twins, Marcy, Amanda, and even Karen tiptoed across the corner of the room with the Murphy bed, careful not to wake him.  But, who could sleep with all the noise?  He couldn’t believe how loud these people were.  The stories, jokes, debates, and commentary raged into the night.  In his worst nightmare, he never imagined that an innocent comment from his wife would lead to bloodletting the following morning.

Karen had every intention of going to bed, but we cornered her.  Her family, hungry for her visit had other plans. 

We said: How have you been keeping yourself in Austin? 

Karen replied: Boston, I live in Boston. 

We said:  Where’s that?  And how is your job?

Karen explained: Great, I love it.  We have some new software coming out.

We said: Tupperware?  I didn’t know you sold Tupperware. 

Karen, frustrated:  No, software, for computers. 

We said: I hate computers.  Oh, I don’t.  Have you seen the new video slot machines? Now did Todd buy you a house?

Karen: No, we have a condo. 

We: Condo? They shouldn’t be passing those out at school I can tell you. And in England, no less, is his family rich? Are you pregnant?

Karen: No. 

We: Well, you look pregnant.

Karen: Todd is a good cook.

We: So when are you going to have some news for us?

Karen: What kind of news?

We: Baby news. Did you say Todd cooks? What’s the matter with him?

Karen: What do you mean? He wears glasses. What else is wrong with him?

Karen: Nothing, he just had a check up. 

We: Well, did he call Pat?

Karen: No.  They said only that there was something abnormal about the blood work.

Me: Oh my goodness gracious, has anyone told Pat?

In the minds of the family, poor Karen had waited so long for Mr. Right, only to have her commitment to the in sicknes and health part of her vows tested so early on.  Jen whipped out a notepad and furiously began scratching out details of Todd’s most recent visit to the doctor.  She rushed her findings to her sister’s room.  Stat.  The twins followed with additional details. 

The spotlight was on Karen, and she knew better than to talk about any health issue at Pat’s house or near relatives even distantly connected to Pat.  But, it had been a while, and she was out of practice.  The cat was out of the bag.

Karen: Don’t be ridiculous.  Todd is the picture of health.  He’s a cyclist. 

We: A what? Is he on probation? 

Karen, triumphantly: And, he’s a vegetarian. 

We: Does he care for horses or only house pets?

Karen, sighing: No, that means he doesn’t eat meat. 

We: Well, no wonder he’s so pale. Does he eat beef?  What about chicken? 

Karen, at wit’s end: No, no meat. 

Me: Oh, Karen, how could you let yourself get mixed up in a cult?    

I was next up to bat.  My own visit to Pat, was, by that time, unnecessary.  She was already whipped into a medical frenzy.  I punctuated my concerns with official words and phrases like:  communicable, contagious, sexually transmitted, type A, B, and C, bird flu, Ebola, and quarantine.

The stampede of woman traipsing across Todd’s ability to sleep were all going back to report details of Todd’s rapidly declining health and impending demise to Pat.  Like a game of telephone, the messages were diluted and jumbled.  Pat, from her bed, weighed what to do.  It would best to wait until the morning, and get a fasting sample.  Anyway, with him being so ill, practically near death, it was probably best to let the poor thing sleep.  He would need his rest for the morning Pat had planned.

Karen panicked, realizing the power of her errant comment.  She made the final visit to her Aunt in an ill-fated attempt to reel in the family.  “It’s nothing, Aunt Pat.  Really, I appreciate so much that you want to help, but Todd will see his doctor when he gets back to Boston.”

Aunt Pat, set her alarm for 5:00 a.m., flopped over, and said, “Hogwash.”

It was half past 2 in the morning when Karen finally made it to bed.  She debated if she should disturb him, to perhaps warn him.  She should probably explain what was happening, but he looked so peaceful laying there on the coveted Murphy bed.  She resigned herself to wake up early and tell him then.  Earlier in the evening, minutes after passing over the threshold, Pat had diagnosed Karen with rhinitis due to seasonal allergies.  She took a Benadryl, and slept like the dead.

Pat was up early, rustling in the kitchen.  Her activities roused Todd through a set of flimsy bi-fold doors, although he didn’t realize anyone else was awake.  He thought he heard a women’s voice, just barely.  Was it Karen? No, she out like a light.  It must have been a dream.  He lay there for a while, but thinking of the time change, reasoned that he was an hour ahead.  There was no way he would fall back asleep.  So, with his shaving kit in hand, Todd peered around the corner, and down the hall.  He decided that since he didn’t see any of Karen’s family, it was probably safe to claim the bathroom.  Todd crept quietly down the hall.  He showered quickly, and brushed his teeth.  While shaving, he noticed the teeth were not in the glass. A cool morning breeze wafted past him through a small high window.  It felt good. 

He was ready for his day, and needed an infusion of coffee.

Todd held his mouth in a certain way to enter the kitchen through the bi-fold doors silently so as not to disturb Karen.  Once through, he turned around, and repeated the process, only this time to close them.  He felt someone staring at him. He turned at got a fright.

“Geez, you scared me…” he whispered. 

Pat, in her robe and slippers, was leaning over the island, hunched down to be able to see her first patient unencumbered by the pots and pans hanging from a rack.  She stepped around the edge, and into the breakfast nook where Todd stood frozen.  “Have a seat, won’t you?” she pulled out a chair.

A fact that Todd hadn’t notice until that very moment was that he was at least a foot taller than Pat.  He dutifully slid into the chair.  He could smell coffee brewing, and saw she already had a mug.  Pat took a few steps to another set of creaky bi-folds on the wall behind his back and slammed them shut.

I, sleeping on the couch in the room on the other side of those doors, awoke.  

Todd attempted to stand, swaying his torso to the right to avoid hitting the light fixture.  “Coffee smells good.  Do you mind if I pour…”

Pat turned, stepped toward the dinette, and place her hand on the back of the chair.  With her other hand, she lifted the mug, blew on the top of the liquid inside, releasing a wave of steam toward her face, and ordered, “Todd, sit.”

Todd attached his backside to the chair.  He gulped.

Pat glided through the kitchen.  First she laid a tray on the island.  Then, she poured the pot of coffee into a thermal carafe she’d fished out of the cabinet beneath.  She opened the fridge, took out a carton of milk, and set it on the island.  From the cabinet, she pulled a ceramic cow.  While pouring the milk into the cow, she said innocently, “So, Todd, how are you feeling?”

He looked her way, but couldn’t make eye contact due to the rack.  “Fine, I suppose.”  Boy, if this is what they mean by southern hospitality, then they are idiots.

Pat placed a dainty sugar bowl, several spoons, and the cow onto the tray with the carafe.  Hearing the tinkle of dishes, I knocked quietly on the doors.  “Who is it?” she said.

I was careful, because I knew if Karen woke up, it would put a damper on the morning’s festivities.  Hushed, through the louvers, I replied, “It’s me.  Is the coffee ready?” 

Pat greeted me at the doors with the tray.    

“Can I get some mugs?” I asked as I lay the tray on the coffee table in the living room.

“Oh, right,” she laughed ever so slightly, “We’ll probably be a while. Let’s keep this area clear until after 10.”  I was standing in the doorway when she said while.  Todd bolted upright, much as I had during the bed selection the night before, but for entirely different reasons. 

Todd, I could see, was doing some mental math, it was only 6:30, a.m. which meant Todd would have to hold his own for three and a half hours.  Pat was digging around in the pantry, readying herself. I entered, made it to the cabinet, and looped my index fingers, both of them around the handles of several coffee cups.  The shutters on the windows across the table from Todd were open, and morning sun poured in.  At the right angle, I could see beads of perspiration on his brow.

Todd’s gaze followed me across the room.  I turned and tossed out, “Good luck,” and used my thumbs to close the door.  Todd looked stricken.

I heard Pat close the pantry door, and say, “Todd, I’ll be honest with you, you look a little peekid.”

Todd, unfamiliar with this verbiage, said something.  From behind the doors I made out something, something Karen, something , something.

Pat chuckled and said, “Oh, no honey, she took a Benadryl before bed, you’ll be lucky if she is up before dinner. Ever since she was a tiny little thing she’s been highly sensitive to medication…”  Todd, unfamiliar, with our language mistook dinner for supper.  He thought she would sleep until the evening.  Todd was unaware that we eat dinner midday, supper at dinner, and skip lunch altogether.  It only added to the suspense.

I relaxed a bit, knowing Karen had been drugged.  One by one, Pat’s sisters filed into the living room, helping themselves to coffee service.  Is he? How did he look? Poor Karen…  I nodded in the affirmative.  I opened the front door, unlatched the glass storm door, all in preparation of the next wave.  Just for safety, I scrawled Shhh! The doctor is in! on a post it, and stuck it to the glass. It was just a few minutes before the attendees of the previous night’s fete returned to the clinic. 

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Todd was fit to be tied.  Pat had a stethoscope draped over her shoulders.  She’d plopped a big black doctor’s bag onto the checkered table cloth next to him along with something fabric.  Bed linens? A tablecloth? She was cradled a clunky microscope as though it was an infant.  “You just going to sit there, or are you going to help me?” she queried.

Todd shot up, hit his head on the light, and cried out in pain. 

“Tell me, son, is it common for you to have obstructions in your peripheral vision?” Pat thrust her scope to his slick hands, “Careful.”

He gently eased the giant contraption onto the table.

“No, not there, silly,” she pointed at the island, “there.  I need a level surface for my slides.”

“Wow, Pat, that’s some microscope…” Todd grunted as he heaved it onto the bar.

“I know, ain’t she a beauty?  An oldy, but a goody.  The pathologist across the road, Dr. Bill, at Baptist Hospital gave her to me when I retired.  They’ve got the fancy ones over there now, electron and the like.  But for me, she’ll do just fine.”

“Dr. Bill?  He lives across the street? Is he a friend of yours?” Todd asked.  Maybe if he could chat her up, he could buy some time to break out.

“Oh, no, he’s next door,” she explained.  “The hospital is just on the other side of the highway, where he works, that’s across the road.  That’s what I love about this house, I can run my specimens so easily.  And, don’t worry, I’ve already called Bill, he should be here any second.”  This is what realtors call location, location, location, well at least for Pat.

She settled into a chair, and opened her case.  She pulled out an official looking clipboard, and set it on the table.  While clicking her pen, she looked up, and said, “I’m ready.”

Todd was standing, still, by the end of the island.

“You’re like a jack-in-the-box, up and down, aren’t you?” Pat asked.  “Were you excitable as a child?  What’s the matter, you got the ADD?”  She swiveled around and tossed the fabric toward Todd, who caught it, barely.  She muttered while jotting down her thoughts, “Patient seems agitated.  Sweating, rule out diabetes… Visual field obstructed, rule out glaucoma… Reflexes, dull, further testing indicated.  Todd can you be a dear and slip into that gown?”

Todd unfurled the fabric and saw it was a hospital gown, stamped across the hem, property of Baptist Hospital. He, fighting panic said, “What?  I mean where, right here? I mean no, I’m not putting this on, are you nuts?”

Pat referred to her notes thoughtfully, “Don’t be ridiculous, you are family.  If you need some privacy, you can change in the laundry room, to your right.”  Todd stepped toward the laundry room, hoping to find an escape route.  Over his shoulder, he heard Pat say, “Patient extremely agitated,” and she forcefully underlined it.  Twice.   

Todd closed the door across from the Maytags.  It didn’t have a lock.  On the left, there was a door to the backyard.  He tried it.  It was locked.  Because it had a glass insert, Pat had a double dead bolt on it.  And, then Todd remembered the rack.  In order to gain his freedom, he would have to overpower Pat, and find the key from the dozens he’d spilled the night before.  That plan, he realized, was impractical for a number of reasons.  Another door, to his right, was also locked, but connected to the garage.  Inside was a Buick.  When Pat heard the door she was suddenly in his midst.

“That, my boy, is a V-8, and has some punch, let me tell you.  Will you be a dear and get that folding table out of the garage?  My daughter is a massage therapist, and loans that to me from time to time,” Pat stepped aside for Todd to pass with the table.  She took it from him, and said, “Hurry up, mister, I’ve got patients back to back, all day, and you’re lucky I can squeeze you in.  Get into that gown. Time’s a wasting. Oh, and you can hang your clothes on that the drying rack, just scoot my bras over.” She closed the door.

Karen had said something about the various oddities of her family, but now as he stood there, he thought she was a bit vague, maybe even evasive. He resigned himself to play along.  It couldn’t be that bad.  Maybe she would be up soon. Todd shimmied into the gown, and prepared to turn the knob. 

“Have you eaten anything yet today?  Had anything to drink since midnight?”  She sounded far away, but her next statement came from just inches on the other side of the door, Pat relayed, “Take it off, take it all off, and that means your shorts, too.”  At that point, a cold chill ran the length of Todd’s spine.

Todd stood, sans his briefs, in the kitchen in the hospital gown that barely covered his butt cheeks.  He felt vulnerable.  Exposed.  Terrified.  Through the kitchen window, he saw a woman on the other side of the alley setting her trash out.

“What was that, Todd?  I couldn’t hear you.  Did you say you had eaten?  Had something to drink?” Pat was back to her papers.

“No, you wouldn’t let me.  Remember, I asked for coffee, and you…” Todd’s statement was cut short.

“NPO,” she said.  “Come over here, Mr. Jack in the Box, have a seat,” she patted the massage table.  While he was stripping down, she was assembling her exam table.  “Todd, my next questions might be a little uncomfortable, but you can talk to me.  I’m your Aunt Pat,” she held her clipboard, at the ready. “What about street drugs?  You know, the pot, the crack, a little dope, something to take the edge off?”

“No,” he meekly replied.  He wasn’t very convincing.

“And about how many units of alcohol would you say you consume a day? A week?” she eyed him suspiciously.

“I-I don’t know exactly,” he stammered, taking a seat on the table.  “A few.”

Pat, to herself alone said, “Patient denies drug use,” she winked at him. “Social drinker.” She set the clipboard down next to him on the table.  She’d written a question mark next to the word “drinker”.  ? 

Her next questions came fast, she peppered them out one by one with machine gun efficiency.  What medications are you on?  How do you sleep?  How many hours do you sleep a night?  Why’d you have that physical in Boston?  

“I applied for life insurance, for Karen.” 

“Ever had any thoughts of suicide?” Pat questioned.

“Not until this morning.”

“Patient has thoughts of harming himself, and/or others…” she remarked, and underlined it.  Three times.

On the other side of the door, we waited patiently.  Well, some of us did.  I had my ear pressed to the wood “Could someone hand me that glass?’” I chugged the glass’s melted margarita contents from the night before.  As a general rule, I don’t drink before 5, okay 4 in the afternoon, but exceptions can be made.  I pressed the glass to my ear, and leaned into the door. 

“Where is she? What is she doing?” they asked.

“About halfway through the history and physical,” I whispered, “Hush.”

Pat was pawing through her medical supplies.  “Oh, here it is,” she announced extracting a little triangular shaped hammer.  “Todd, I’m going to check your reflexes.”  She wacked him on the shoulders, and knees.  She jotted down a few notes.  “Has anyone ever told you that your reflexes are sluggish?”  She held the metal disk of the stethoscope in her hands, rubbing it wildly.  “This might be a little cold.”

It was like ice.

“Deep breath.  Other side.  Good,” Todd was sure it was soon to be over.  “I need you to stand, please.”

Todd obliged.

Pat snapped on a pair of gloves.  His eyes grew big and round.  “Don’t fret, these are latex free.  Now, turn your head and cough.”

“Oh no, no you don’t.  This is ridiculous.  Where is my wife?”

“I leave no stone unturned,” Pat said squarely.

“Lady, I’m not worried about the stones,” Todd shot back.

“We’ll do that part later.  Have you been to Asia lately?  Have you heard of the bird flu going around?”

Todd surveyed his surroundings.  A kitchen in Oklahoma City.  Pat had a sizeable collection of roosters, chickens, and hens adorning the walls and counters.  Maybe she knew what she was talking about.

Pat was relentless, “What about your urine?  What does it look like.”

Adjectives escaped Todd.  “It looks like, like, urine, I don’t know I never really check.”

“Light or dark?  Blue? Any blood?  Any burning?  And, you should always check your urine.  Didn’t your mother teach you that?  What about your stools?  How are they?”

Todd, not sure how to proceed, thought she was talking about furniture.  “I’ve got 4, 24 inches tall.  I keep them in the kitchen.”

“Oh, I see,” said with admiration.  “What about corn, Todd?  Do you eat corn?”

Dr. Bill, Pat’s neighbor, former co-worker, and best friend came through the front door. He was wearing a starched lab coat.  “Morning ladies,” he nodded to each of us, “has the patient been taken back yet?”  We nodded.  “Well let me see what’s the what…” He stepped over me crouching on the floor with my glass, and turned sideways to get through the door.

He picked up the clip board and reviewed Pat’s preliminary findings.   “Good morning, Todd, I’m Dr. Bill.  How are you this morning?”

“You’re a doctor?  A real doctor?” a wash of relief passed through Todd’s body and voice.

“Why, yes, Todd, I am.”  Dr. Bill answered automatically while enthralled with Pat’s notes.

What Dr. Bill failed to mention was that he was a pathologist.  The coroner.  All of his patients were dead, except for Pat’s hapless kitchen victims. 

Todd got up.  He planned on getting dressed.  “Oh, no you don’t, I’m not finished yet. Sit back down. Bill, he’s a regular jack-in-the-box…”

Todd sat silently.  She and Dr. Bill sorted out glass vials.  Dr. Bill conferred with his collegue, “You’ll need a red, a blue, a yellow, a tiger top…”  Todd squirmed as all of the colors of the rainbow and some others were counted.

Pat hypnotically stepped toward Todd.  In her hands, she had a rubber ball, a rubber strap, and a needle the size of a steak knife.  She placed the strap on his arm, “Squeeze this, a few times, hon, would you?” Pat straightened his arm.  “Hmmpf, deep veins.  Come out, come out wherever you are…”  She poked Todd.

Todd let out a yelp, and jumped several feet into the air. He scattered Pat’s provisions across the floor. Todd thought first to shield himself from the attack, and grabbed the first thing he could, the yellow pages.  The book was thick, wobbly, and of no assistance to him whatsoever.  Just like in a movie, he drug a chair to block his pursuers as he fled, leaving a trail of crumpled yellow newsprint in his wake. 

Pat called out, rather routinely, “Bill, you might want to get those hard restraints…”

Todd burst through the doors where his wife lay asleep. “HELP, Karen, HELP.  Help me.  Karen, she’s crazy.  She’s trying to kill me.  She’s like Dr. Mengele….”  Without stopping, he sprinted to the bathroom and slammed the door.

One by one, we gave chase.  Through the locked door we scolded him, “Todd, get out here. Take it like a man!”  For good measure, we rattled the knob and pounded.

No one, not even a drugged Karen, could sleep through that.  She awoke, and checked the kitchen, then the living room, and found them all empty.  She did see the medical supplies strewn across the kitchen floor.  The ruckus at the end of the hall drew her in.  We parted in her midst. 

She cooed gently to Todd through the door.  It opened just a sliver, but we might as well have been a mob with torches and pitchforks.  He slammed it once more.

Karen said nothing, but turned and gave us the evil eye which said so much more than any word could have.  Our crowd dispersed.  With Karen there to protect him, our initiation was over.    

Back in the kitchen, Pat scooped her toys from the tile.  She smiled brightly and in a sing-song voice beckoned, “Next…”

“Don’t you know who I am?”

The answer to that question is almost always, “No.” And, can usually be followed by one of the following phrases, and stop it, I don’t care, or get the hell out of here.   Most of the time, when someone says it, it means, I’m a nobody, and I want to be somebody. Pay attention to me.  I’m a midlevel cube farmer in the valley, but I want to be more.  I heard a man say it once, and he was a somebody.  His name was Bob.

I was 19 years old, and a student at Richland College.

It had all started with a panicky phone call from one of my gay friends, and by gay I don’t mean happy.    Back in the day, before cell phones and text messages, at any moment, I could get one of those calls.  Liza Minelli was in rehab again, there were size 15 pumps on clearance somewhere, Tina was coming in concert, I need a ride Hunky’s Burgers…  It was always something. 

“Get over here right now,” he pleaded. 

“I’m busy, I have to study.  I don’t have time for this right now.  Like, no…” These were my standard responses to Warren.

“Please,” a dramatic begging tone tinged Warren’s voice, “I don’t know if I can hold him off much longer.”  I heard the sound of breaking glass and a loud male voice in the background.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I grabbed my keys and headed over to Warren’s a scary efficiency off of Park Lane.  I noticed a Lincoln Town Car in the space reserved for my friend’s unit.  Because Warren didn’t have a car, the Town Car was actually in my spot.  When I knocked on the door, it flew open and Warren ushered me inside.  The place was a wreck.  Trash from cans in the kitchen and bathroom littered the coffee table and floor.  A giant drop cloth was in the dining nook with spray paint cans strewn about. The dining nook was never, ever used, it was a Judy Garland tribute room and shrine constructed by Warren as part of his transvestite cabaret act, so I knew something was up. I smelled whiskey.

“You have to help me,” Warren whispered.

I dropped my keys, and began to pick up the garbage. 

“No!  Don’t touch that!  He uses that! He is making something for Mrs. Hunt!  Put it back!” Warren’s eyes flashed fear.  He tended to be a little bug eyed anyway.

At that precise moment, an old man came crashing out of the bathroom.  I assumed he was Warren’s dad, or maybe his grandfather, but I was so very wrong.

He was ruddy, bloated, and squinty eyed drunk. He braced himself on the wall, and stuck out his hand in my general direction. “I’m Bob…,” and he started to topple over.

Both of us, the sober ones, rushed to his side and eased him onto the sofa.  Our elder busied himself pawing through trash.  He found a fuzzy piece of gum on the carpet, popped it in his mouth, and well, I guess, savored it thoughtfully.

I was summoned to the kitchenette.  Warren stuffed a crisp $100 bill into my hand and ordered me to the liquor store for more whiskey.  I scanned the counter.  Empty fifths lay prostrate on the Formica. A fourth, shattered, lay jagged, and its contents oozed across the stove and onto the floor. 

“First of, all, I am only 18, and I can’t buy,” I hissed, “And secondly, I don’t think more whiskey is your problem.” I started to make some coffee.

Bob beckoned me from the sofa, “Hey you pretty little fag hag, get your ass in here. I want you to show you something.”

I ignored Bob.  He said something really vulgar, and I screamed, “Pipe down grandpa, and for God’s sakes, zip your fly.”

I was worried about Warren, who was about to have a stroke.  While waiting for the coffee, my soon to be ex-friend, if his story wasn’t really, really good, explained himself.  Warren had taken an on campus job at SMU, he had to, because he was on scholarship.  Warren was assigned the task of picking up and chauffeuring various dignitaries around on behalf of the University.  The mystery of the Town Car was exposed.  Bob would be picking up an award in a few hours, and in the meantime Warren had to keep him out of trouble.  Warren was failing, miserably. Bob had insisted on seeing Warren’s apartment.  He didn’t want to stay at his hotel.  The Mansion on Turtle Creek.  The Mansion housed not only the world’s premier restaurant at the time, but a beautiful and charming hotel that rivals Paris.  Bob preferred to be in a grungy apartment where gunfire could erupt at any moment.   

“Okay, you go get the whiskey, and I will try to funnel coffee down his throat,” Warren hugged me, he was so, well, gay, and skipped out the door.

I poured a giant mug of coffee, and hunted for a spot to set it down.  Bob’s handiwork was taking up every surface in the tiny apartment. 

“I’m from Port Arthur,” Bob triumphantly announced.  He’d accidentally glued his index finger and thumb together. I feared he would draw blood in the separation process.

He was affixing a newspaper on a board, and spray painting that, and gluing trash over that.  “You really shouldn’t spray that inside.  It’s not safe,” I said while waving my hand in front of my face. 

I was taking Art Appreciation that semester, and was thus, an expert. 

“So, you’re like an artist?” I asked.

“Don’t you know who I am?” he shook his hand to release a dirty band aid from his found objects, and removed the gum from his mouth, spread it wide and stuck it to the piece in front of him.

I sat blinking at this lunatic.  It seemed like it was taking Warren a really long time on the booze run.

“Take that, Ruth Ray Hunt,” he slurred, pushing the masterpiece away from him.  He flopped backward, and intertwined his newly freed fingers behind his head.  “I am Robert fucking Rauschenberg. And I am hungry.”

I had no idea who he was.

Bob and I waited and eternity for Warren to return.  When Warren reappeared, Bob snatched the bottle and headed to the bathroom.  He went to the bathroom a lot. 

“He’s hungry,” I told Warren, “It would sober him up to get some food in him.”  I frantically searched Warren’s cupboards, twice, but they were bare, except a can of aerosol cheese that Bob inhaled. 

Warren was sweating.  “Okay, here is what we do.  We take him to the Mansion.  We eat.  I will get him cleaned up.  And hopefully I won’t get fired. Because, if I get fired, I will lose the scholarship.  If that happens, I will have to work at Great Outdoors again, and I hate salami, and I have a cheese phobia, and…” Warren was a mess, and I wasn’t in the mood to re-hash the details of his life again.

We lured Bob to the car by using the bottle as bait.  He clutched onto the artwork he’d thrown together on Warren’s sofa. I followed in my car.

Because he didn’t own a car, Warren was a cautious driver.  Through tinted windows I could see Warren’s head frequently snap around, and his right arm fly over the seat.  The Town Car swerved, often.

Bob liked to operate the power windows.  He also liked to scream obscenities at pedestrians. 

We eased into the drive of the Mansion on Turtle Creek just before 3 in the afternoon.  The restaurant wasn’t open, but we could perhaps enjoy canapés, a lot of them, at the bar. 

The three of us crashed through the ornate carved doors.  Warren and I had difficulty keeping Bob upright.  Being college students, we hadn’t considered our next obstacle.

Bob was wearing a t-shirt with liquor splashed down the front, and jeans.  Warren was in a polo, but had a pair of slacks.  The maitre de eyed us suspiciously. 

Warren stepped toward the pedestal, and meekly croaked, “Table for three,” he held up his fingers to emphasize his point.  The Mansion was deserted, we were the only patrons, but the prim, impeccably dressed host, looked down at an important book, and flipped pages.

“You are aware we have a dress code?” he arched his brow at Warren while Bob and I waited in the wings.

Warren launched into, “I need this job.  If I get fired, I will lose the scholarship.  If that happens I will have to make sandwiches. I can’t do that, I hate cheese…”

I propped Bob on a bench, and stepped forward, confidently.  “Hi.  He’s a guest at the hotel,” I motioned toward our charge.

“In that case,” he snapped his fingers, and two blazers, two ties, and a random pair of pants appeared. 

Warren inspected and cherry picked the garments.  He chose the rep tie, and threaded it neatly around the collar of his polo, which he flipped up.  He tied a Windsor knot, and adjusted it upward, carefully smoothing his collar.  I could read his mind.  He unfastened the Windsor completely, and then set about trying a half-Windsor. 

I clenched my jaw, and spat out, “Could you stop being so gay for a minute? You aren’t going to prom.” 

Bob lurched to his feet, snatched the remaining tie, which was conveniently already tied, and looped it over his head.  It looked like a noose. He grabbed a jacket.  “Where’s the head?”

We assisted him to the restroom, and Warren hesitated at the door.  “I don’t want to go in there by myself,” he said, “you go.”

“Warren, I am a girl.  I sit when I pee.  I have my own bathroom,” I explained.  I finished my lecture on the difference between boys and girls by stealing a line from Nike, “Just do it.”

We heard a crash. A moan.  A flush.

Before Warren could do anything, Bob, wearing, a jacket sized for a pre-pubescent boy, exited the bathroom.  The sleeves were three, maybe four inches above his wrists. The pants had a distinctive flared leg, and were well above his ankles. He wore no socks.  This left Warren to slide into the remaining coat, which was enormous.  Warren had a comedic air as he carefully brushed imaginary lint from his garment. He straightened his tie in a side to side movement that made him look like exactly like Rodney Dangerfield.  I expected him to say, no respect.

“How do I look?” Warren asked.

“From the neck up,” I replied, “Rodney Dangerfield.  From the shoulders down, like David Byrne.”

“Oh, you know I saw him once when he was filming True Stories.  He was sitting an old VW bus at a house in Lakewood.  And he was listening to music really loud. And my friend called me.  My friend went to Bishop Lynch. Anyway…”

It was just like Warren to launch into one of his repetitive, long, rambling accounts of his life in the middle of a crisis. He had an uncanny knack of taking seemingly unrelated events, and somehow, tying them together into something that was significant, only to him.  Meanwhile, Bob was restless.

Several minutes later, Warren wrapped it up, “…and, that is how I knew that I could pull off Judy Garland.”

Bob, like a homing pigeon sprinted toward the bar.  We ordered all of items on the bar menu, twice.  The food at the Mansion was small, but pretty.  Bob dribbled tortilla soup on his borrowed neck wear, but other than that, was docile.  Warren practically tackled member of the wait staff.  In a hushed conversation with Warren gesturing wildly, I knew what he was saying.  Coffee, we need lots of coffee.

Without a constant infusion of Jack Daniel’s, Bob was actually kind of pleasant.  We were fortunate in that the too-small clothing limited his range of motion.  I could see sobriety wash over him.  With his belly full, he leaned back in his bucket chair, and flipped his tie over his shoulder like an aviator’s scarf.

“I need a nap,” Bob announced.

It was after 5, and bar was filling with Dallas’ elite movers and shakers.  These well dressed men glanced at us as we passed.  We were a motley threesome.  Warren gathered the artwork, Bob, the pile of clothes, and headed down the long beautiful hallway toward the hotel. 

When I got home, I searched my Art Appreciation text book.  There it was: Robert Rauschenberg, born in Port Arthur, Texas, 1925.  Pop Artist.  Beat Artist.  Collage.  Bridged the gap between painting and sculpture.  Considered by many to be the greatest American artist of all time.

I kicked myself for not snatching one of those little pictures.  I often wonder what happened to them.  Did he give them to Mrs. Hunt?  Did she put them in her personal collection, or put them towards her philanthropic causes?  Or, did the hotel’s housekeeping staff confuse them for trash, and toss them?

Warren called a few days later.  All of the drama and trauma was gone.  Instead of “hello,” all he said was, “Wasn’t he the greatest?”

Yes, Warren, Bob is the greatest.

Robert Rauschenberg died on May 12, 2008.

I perched smugly on the patio of Primo’s one evening a few years back listening to my Girl’s Night crowd complain in stereo about the general “maleness” of their husbands and significant others.  “Now, football season is starting again,” one said with frozen margarita dripping down her chin, “and baseball, never seems to end…”  “Hockey!” exclaimed a member of the sisterhood to no one in particular.  “And, the endless golf…”  “And what’s the deal with extreme fighting?” They suddenly turned their attention to me, “You’re awfully quiet for a change…”  “Girls, please,” I shook my head, “my man doesn’t watch sports or any of that.  He’s not that way at all.” 

“Is he gay?” Their mocking chorus drilled into me.

“No, it just so happens, he’s not,” my hackles were up now, “we actually like the same things.”  I couldn’t help it if they had unwisely chosen mates.  “Yeah, well, you better pray he never catches the hunting bug…” warned one of the sisters.   

“My James would never shoot anything, why he doesn’t even know how,” they sat watching me, blinking slowly.  Someone snickered.  “He’s a very gentle soul, with the heart of an artist…”  In unison, they began tossing tequila-laden straws my direction.  They were just jealous. 

James was a rare male specimen.  He had this great dichotomy, college athlete vs. artist.  Masculine but sensitive.  I knew he was truly special when he participated in the planning of our nuptials.  We would stroll through museums and galleries on the weekends.  He talked about art, music, and actually had useful and productive feedback on my wardrobe choices.  James organized the “Perfect Friday Night,” a standing date at an antiques auction house.  We would excitedly pour over the previews of impending container shipments from Europe.  I swelled with pride one particular auction evening, when I returned from powdering my nose, James leaned in close and whispered, “I just bought an Art Deco sideboard, English, I wanted to surprise you.”  I was one lucky girl.

“Ugh,” he sighed, tying the laces of a very cute pair of Kenneth Cole oxfords, “I wish I didn’t have to go, but clients will be there and…”  I interrupted, “No, don’t be ridiculous, you might even have fun,” I coaxed, reassuring him that going to a basketball game with his friends was the right thing to do.  It was a grown man’s version of a play date.  It was healthy, after all, for him to have friends and interests other than me, right?  In my heart, I knew that my darling James would rather be at home with me, perusing the latest Horchow catalog and faux finishing something.  As his car pulled away from the house, I thought, he should be home before I finish the second coat of glaze.  It was a win-win.

By 1 a.m., I was rinsing my brushes, admiring my handiwork, and a little hint of doubt began to creep into my thoughts. I was thinking of the Girl’s Night patio trash talk.  There was that one fishing trip, but that happened before we were married, before James truly knew how special our life together in Girl World could be.   One time, just once, we went fishing, we didn’t enjoy it, and we didn’t like sporty outdoor activities… But, then again, maybe I did see a little glimmer of something in him that day? 

I was being silly.  Just then, the front door crashed open, “Effin’ A!” he exclaimed, clutching a giant foam finger, “double FREAKING overtime!”  I could have just died.  “Shhh!  You’ll wake the baby,” I hissed.  I offered my limp hand to his hearty “high 5.”  “C’mon, down low, on the side…” he chided gyrating sporty moves.  Where was this coming from? Did I smell beer? 

 James was a metrosexual before it was even being metrosexual.  This was unfair!  I had been duped! Tricked!

The next morning, James seemed fine.  The beast remained dormant inside him for several more years, only occasionally roaring out for basketball, hockey, or the re-telling of the tales of Jeff.  He had this friend, a work friend, Jeff the Enabler.  Jeff is a man’s man.  He drives a real truck.  He wears plaid, a lot of plaid.  He does boy things all the time.  “Sounds great,” I would mutter while chopping garlic in an increasingly violent manner for our evening meal. “They sat in the blind, for like, 8 or 9 hours, and then right when they had given up, 5 deer came up to the feeder, and BAM,”  James made a shooting gesture, “the biggest 8 point he’d ever seen…”  Jeff the Enabler would wake the beast once and for all.  Still, I was one lucky girl.

James was in the driveway one crisp fall Friday afternoon 4 years ago when I returned from my version of a hunting trip.  He was cleaning out our BMW, but I could see some olive green something or other poking out of a shopping bag.  Good, I thought, someone else has been shopping, too!  I really wish he would consult me though, green, any shade, is a difficult color for him. 

I went into the house heaving my bags, and he didn’t even offer to help. He barely even noticed me.     Puzzled, I began unpacking and cutting tags from the mall harvest when I heard him rustling in the closet.  “The new Marc Jacobs!”  I gushed as I swept my prize from a Neiman’s tote, and at least 10 sheets of that glorious cream colored tissue cascaded to the ground.  When the air cleared, James stood before me, “It’s a purse?”  A purse?  Was he kidding?   

“It’s a handbag…” I shot back.  He was wearing camouflage.  The look on my face must have betrayed my inner thoughts. 

“What?”  His eyebrows were flexed upward in an expression that said “I dare you”.  Wait, I get it! We’re going to a costume party!  How cute!  He planned something special…

James had made special plans for the weekend.  Hunting with Jeff the Enabler!

“But,” I stammered, “but you’ll miss yoga…” I moped around the house for the next two days.  My journey as a hunting widow, joining the sisterhood of the sports widows, began.

The hunting cabin, a “deer lease,”, belonging to Jeff, was somewhere west of Dallas.  That town didn’t have a cell tower, apparently.  Half wounded, half perturbed, I busied myself with gardening and general self beautification.  What’s Jeff the Enabler got that I don’t?  I busied myself with fall planting of pansies, but my mind raced.  I bet Jeff the Enabler drinks beer out of a can… I beautified, and dabbed green mud mask from between my eyes.  Jeff this, Jeff that…next time I see him, I would tell him a thing or two…  My thoughts were interrupted by the ringing phone late Sunday afternoon. 

“Did you know that there’s a Starbuck’s in Weatherford?  With a drive thru” he asked.  And with that, I had hopes that my James would come back to me.

So far, it has been false hope.  That first weekend, he bagged a doe.   It sealed the deal.  The next year, he was on the lease as a bona fide Bambi Killer.  I would tape pictures of cute little deer all around the house with Sharpie scrawl, “Don’t Kill Me”, “I Have a Wife and Children”, and “Violence Solves Nothing.”  Regardless, at any moment there could be antlers and jaw bones drying on my fence.  Or worse, a voice mail from James’ taxidermist.  “Come and git your mount…”

This is home décor?  I think not.

 “Nice rack,” says Jeff the Enabler, after yet another stuffed cadaver takes its place on our walls.  I never know if he is if he is talking about the antlers or saying something vulgar.  

My efforts to curtail hunting activities are, so far, in vain.  James began looking at my pet, a greyhound, making completely inappropriate comments such as, “In the right light, she looks just like a doe.” I took a stand two Christmases ago, when, while playing with his new rifle, he aimed it, unloaded, at the dog curled up lazily on the coach, “Just like a doe…” 

“Stop it!  No guns in the house!” I wailed and left the room.  When I returned, he had placed a pair of green and red felt antlers, motion activated, that played “Jingle Bells,” on my greyhound. My hound had a worried expression, frozen in fear, when he said “Look, Wifey, now she’s a 12 point.”  And that was another thing, he started calling me Wifey.   

Wifey soon learned that after deer season, turkey season starts.  And pigs, giant feral hogs, are always game.  Don’t get me started on audads.  And, then there are the hunting shows on TV, the ones with all the cinematic interest of an autopsy film, filmed Blair Witch style by a man with two first names, Billy Wayne, Jimmy Stan, Duane Earl.  It never ends…just like sports.

Basketball and hockey outings, I would now gladly accept, but James set out on a mission to recruit other metrosexuals into the hunting cult.  Lance the Florist, who is also not gay, lives in Los Angeles.  He is, however, every Jewish mother’s dream.  Handsome and successful, he passed through Dallas two summers ago for a florist’s convention.  We invited Lance to stay for a few days.  I was hoping to get some tips on floral arrangements.   That didn’t exactly happen. 

When they walked in, I could sense that something was afoot.  Lance the Florist and my husband began trying on matching hunting outfits, and informed me that they would be departing for the lease.  “What season is it?”  I was skeptical. 

Lance’s chest was puffed out in his borrowed ensemble, “I’m gonna kick it Old Testament, baby!”

“Dude,” my husband slapped Lance’s back, “this is like Biblical…”  They were going pig hunting.

One grainy photo from that excursion remains.  Lance was posed proudly behind a pile of dead pork, his foot hiked up on the bumper of a 4-wheeler.   The very next time I am in L.A., I’m going to mail that, anonymously to his rabbi…  Lance the Florist had a devilish look in his eye, but I had seen that look before.

That day, years ago, when we went fishing, was actually quite different than my edited memories.  It was a fishing expedition that took us 150 miles into the Gulf of Mexico.  I thought it would be fun, us, together on a boat, a romantic cruise.  My hopes that day were dashed when I realized we would be eating bologna sandwiches hatched in a filthy cooler with a side of soggy Fritos, and choking all that down with warm Pepsi.  About 50 miles out, James strapped on a giant harness, and began to flit from side to side of the boat calling out, “Here fishy, fishy, fishy….”  I spent the entire day pouting on the boat’s tower, slathering sunscreen on my pink shoulders.  “Look at this damn fine fish!” he called out to me.  I peered down.  “There’s gonna be some good eatin’ tonight,” he squinted up at me.  What I saw chilled me to the core.  As he shifted into the shadow of the tower, his eyes fully opened.   James’ eyes flashed like a hound from hell.

It was in him all along.  I just refused to see it.

“I don’t get it…” I exhaled after his long, drawn out description of a roadside diner near the lease famous for serving calf fries.  “Why would you pick that as a hobby?”  

James wore his new favorite outfit, a polyester blend t-shirt and gimme cap from a sheet metal shop.  He took a swig off his domestic beer can, “Wifey, I don’t get it, either.  I just have this overwhelming instinct to hunt, you know, to kill something.”  Better a deer than my dog or me, I say. 

Our X5 is long gone, replaced by a Jeep with monster tires, and a “lift”, which means nothing more to me than I can’t climb in while wearing my four inch wedge heels.  His stylish leather oxfords have been replaced by camouflage lug soled boots. 

Posted around my house are Polaroids of my beloved James cradling a dead animal, the same way I used to lay my head on his lap to watch a movie.  Just the two of us, watching a subtitled foreign film…I was one lucky girl.     

There’s got to be a burgeoning 12 step program somewhere for me.  I know better than to go to Neiman’s to shop for cosmetics.  Like a moth to a flame, I just can’t help myself. Remember this?

It started last month.  It’s all Frederic’s fault.  Back in June I was suckered lured, enticed into meeting the legendary celebrity stylist at an in-store event.  I wasn’t insulted, not even once.  He even said I had great hair and beautiful eyes.  I blame that one complimentary phrase for what happened next.

While basking in the glory of my gorgeous hair and peepers, one of the Barbies mentioned casually, that Madonna’s personal make-up artist, , would be in Dallas on June 19^th, at the store, giving advice.  I was further informed that Gina Brooke (pictured) is coincidentally the artistic director of Shu Uemura.  (Can you say cha-ching?) I like Shu Uemura so much I blew my whole stash of InCirlce points last year on a kit that came with Swarovski crystal in-laid feather eyelashes and a gold eyelash curler.  Just the thing every stay-at-home mother needs, don’t you agree?

Moth, meet flame.  I booked an appointment post haste. 

Let me pause and say this, I don’t really like Madonna.  At all.  I used to, I think, a long, long, long time ago…back in her “Lucky Star” days.  But that was a long, long, long time ago.  She pushed me over the Borderline.  My subsequent attempts to embrace The Material Girl…eh, not so much.  Oh, let’s see, I’ll sum it up for you, there ‘s been:  Enough Black Rubber Bracelets to Destroy Life on Planet Earth, Mousse and Perms: Don’t Try This at Home (aka Why My Yearbook Pictures From 1986 Suck), Simulated Sex at the MTV Awards (aka Nice.Dress.), The Black Jesus (aka Getting Dumped by Pepsi), Can’t She Afford and Orthodontist Yet? Aka (Seriously? Is She British), Could You Leave Your Hair Alone (aka Cuffs and Collar Don’t Match), Sean Penn, Dick Tracy (aka, She Never Met a Dick She Wouldn’t Tracy), Warren Beatty, Truth or Dare (aka Why Amanda Should Never Say “You’re So Fired” to Her Boss), Dennis Rodman (aka Seriously, You Didn’t See That Coming?), her book Sex (aka Oh My Eyes), There Are Some Things I Don’t Need to Know About Sandra Bernhardt, Your Trainer (aka, Couldn’t You Find a Better Sperm Donor), What Ever Happened to Her (aka That’s Some Good Peeing, alternate title, There’s No Crying in Baseball), There Are Some Things I Don’t Need to Know About Rosie O’Donell, Who The Hell is Trudie Styler (aka Sting is Still Hot), Who The Hell is Stella McCartney (aka Oh, She Moved to England), That Explains the Teeth (aka Stereotypes Have a Shred of Truth), Cougar Alert (How She Scored Guy Ritchie), They Can Have Her, Why We Should Require Parents to Take a Qualifying Test (aka Rocco, Are You Sure About That), That Always Happens to Me at Clubs (aka Ray of Light), Oh, Now She’s an Expert on Kids Too, What’s the Deal With Kaballah (aka I’m Confused, if She’s So Religious Why is She French Kissing Britney Spears), What Now She’s a Designer? (aka, Nordstrom Will Never be Neiman’s and Here’s Why), Alex Rodriguez  (aka At Least It Wasn’t Derek Jeter), Homewrecker…and in three simple words:  Too.  Much.  Drama.

A waste of my time, a life so completely contrived it makes me nauseous.

But as usual, I digress.  I’ll hand it to Madonna, she’s been around for a long, long, long time.   

I used this analysis to justify my impending consultation with Gina Brooke.  After all, if Madonna, nearing 50, can look like that, I needed to do this.  I had to do this.  For you.

So, yesterday morning, I sprung out of bed, ready for my consultation.  But first, life intervened.  I had to pick up my gardener.  On the way back, I nearly ran over a baby bird.  So, obviously, I had to do a u-turn, and go back to save the bird.  Right now, this very minute, I am probably harboring bird flu.  The Spawn was put in charge of the care and feeding of the bird, because less than one hour to go before the consult, I had to go to the bank to get a form notarized (or The Spawn wouldn’t be going to Philadelphia on Monday).  When I got back, I had less than 10 minutes to get ready, less the 8.5 minutes I pissed away trying to free the Polaris, which was spewing a steady stream of 40,000 gallons of chlorinated pool water in a free-form waterfall into the creek behind my house.  As usual, I managed to soak myself.  I had under 90 seconds to make it on time, I slid into dry clothes, and drove like a maniac with The Spawn in tow to make my 10 a.m.  By that time, I had warmed considerably to the idea of looking exactly like Madonna.

Once at Neiman’s, I saw the spread they laid out in preparation for Gina Brookes appearance.  A dozen or so stools lined up in front of God and everyone right on the main drag.  I was guided by a Barbie to a stool.  Sounds familiar, I know.  Kind of creepy…

My transformation started with the Shu Uemura skin care line.  I was oiled, wiped, patted and cleaned.  That led to a dizzying array of tonics, lotions, serums, creams, all to get me ready.  I counted at least 8 steps, and I wasn’t looking like The Material Girl yet, but I was hopeful.

I asked about price.  Turns out, each one of those little jars and bottles comes with a price tag of $50-$150 a pop.  Just to dip my toe in the water, I was looking at $750 dollars.  At that point I was Mad-…we were yet to add the –onna.

Let’s pause for a moment, again, for one of my little tangents.  $750 is a drop in the bucket.  I’ve spent thousands, no tens of thousands on my glamour spiral, punctuated oh-so-eloquently by my barista turned boy-Friday.  His eyes crossed paths with an old picture of me from many moons ago… “Wow,” he remarked, “You used to be foxy.”  Ouch.

Let’s see, there’s the micro-dermabrasion packages, Botox (and yes, I’ve been shooting botulism into my face since age 27), peels, facials, prescriptions, OTC, and myriad “miracles” all designed to bring out the inner foxy.  That doesn’t even take into account the Clinique, Lancôme, Estee Lauder, Keihl’s, Fresh, Orlane, Darphin, Le Mer…the big guns.  Nor does it consider the impulse buys from CVS:  Neutrogena, L’Oreal, and all the hundred of little jars filling my bathroom.  Yes, I said HUNDREDS.  It might even be THOUSANDS.  Math’s not my thing. I’d been in that same stool so many times before, I load up on so much product, I never really get to the goodies.  The make-up.  They lose me somewhere between first you need to take care of your skin, when all I am thinking of is: skanky, yes, but make me look like Madonna.

After establishing that my child would be unable to attend college because first I needed to take care of my skin, I was onto the make-up part.  Oh, and I forgot to tell you about the questionnaire.  It was mandatory (Who makes these rules anyway?).  I had to fill out a detailed form admitting all of my “concerns.” (Circle all that apply: sagging, dryness, oiliness, uneven skin tone, etc.) And did I want (circle one) a look that was: trendy, sophisticated, classic, or natural.  (Which begs the question, isn’t “natural” just that?)   Oh, I have divulged less personal information at my gynecologists’ office.

I circled “natural” and left most of the rest blank.  Under the heat of questioning I buckled…my vague “I don’t knows” and “I never thought about its” weren’t good enough.  I had to define myself fully if I was to look like Madonna. 

Asked what colors I liked, I picked brown, pink, and neutral.  Did you hear me say purple?  I love glitter? I’ll be on the red carpet later, so hook me up?

Barbie started with a mousse base.  Under base, it’s called, and as we all know, base needs an under.  No, base isn’t a base.  Think of the rules of America’s past time:   baseball.  First, second, and third all have an “under”.  Otherwise, why do we need a short-stop? 

But I digress.

So, I got the under base.  It was light, and I could hardly feel anything at all.  Next, came the base.  I know, we already covered that, but my flaws surely didn’t require more than two steps to cover…

Yeah they did. I’ll admit it, I am heavily flawed.  Add to base and under base the concealer, followed in short shrift by the eye concealer.  I “needed” two concealers, too.  One for my face over first and second base, and, obviously, to cover my dark circles.  Speaking of which, circle one: under 5, 5 to 8, over eight.  How many hours of sleep to you get a night?

Me?  I sleep like a baby.  The Trophy Husband (aka Snoring Victim), not so much…

Regardless, I have dark circles I guess.  Top that off with some powder, and I was ready for some brown, pink and neutral color… Make me Madonna.

Did you do the math on that deal?  Add six steps to the eight previous, that equals $1100 for those of you Rio Linda.  And, the brushes, I forgot the brushes.  Fingers and sponges aren’t going to make me and you look like Madonna.  Add another $500.

I glanced 10 stools down to The Spawn, basking in her under base.  I thought of how happy she would be at a community college or vo-tech program.  Because, I was racking up some serious beauty, her education would have to wait if I am to look like Madonna.

You’d think $1600 would deliver a home run, and 45 minutes in, people would be asking me for my autograph.  Think again.

A gorgeous creature, with lacey Manolos, and a demure frock worked her way down the stools.  It was Gina Brooke.  I eavesdropped on her consultation with my neighbor, a detailed explanation of how easy it was to apply fake eyelashes.  I listened intently.  I don’t want those crystal/feather babies to go to waste.  I got a snarky text from The Trophy Husband.  About the bird.  Nervously, I mentioned the bird to my Barbie. Gina Brooke’s head snapped to my stool.  I can spot another animal lover a mile away.

So, when it was my time, when I finally had the chance to be Madonna, she asked, “So you saved a baby bird?  That is good luck…”

We were on…she looked at my eyes, the same ones Frederic loved and said, “They’re murky green.”  Pause for my stunned reaction, and response, “Beg your pardon?”  “The only colors you can wear to make them pop are brown,” pause for my enthusiastic nod, “gold,” pause again for a nod, “and purple.”  Purple?  Seriously?  I hate purple make-up. 

Here’s a disturbing thought, me, in 20 years, with 100 dogs, 200 cats, and complete that look with purple make-up.  The only thing worse would be some circa 1985 peach blush.

Uh-oh…next up was the peach blush.  Yeah.  You heard me.

The coup-de-gras, was, however, the next layer.  Gina advised me to mix the $125 serum with metallic gold bronzer, and dab that all over my brown down to and on my cheekbones.  “It’s something that will make you glow,” she explained.  I guess she hasn’t done a lot of gardening.  In Dallas.  In July.  That shit was either going to melt away, or be some kind of wildlife attractant. “And,” she continued, “It’s something I do for the red carpet, you can do this when you go out, it’s something special you can do every day.”

Reality check much?

I’m guessing Gina Brooke doesn’t know a lot of house fraus.  At-home mothers.  Red carpet?  People, seriously, the last time I was on a red carpet, it was 1988, it was in a pool hall, and my parents thought I was I was studying…  Going out?  Where?  To target?  And, let me tell you this, I do something special every day, if it’s a good day, every other if it’s not…It’s called SHOWERING.

The next thing I knew, I was a-glow in purple and peach splendor.  The Barbie said, handing me a mirror, “What do you think?”

Let me describe my look in the words of Lovely Lizzie, the British ex-pat now living in Euless, Texas, and one of my favorite people.  As Lovely Lizzie would say, I was “mutton dressed as lamb,” and it was, I admit, exactly like Madonna.

All this could be mine for just under $2000.  I slinked away with eyeliner (purple), a lip liner, and a gloss. The Spawn, too, looked like Madonna.  We were quite fabulous, Like a Ray of Light.  The Trophy Husband, barricaded in his Man Cave said only this, “Wow.”  It was a neutral wow.

I was careful not to move all day.  In fact, I couldn’t move, the layers paralyzed my facial muscles.  Or go outside.   Or sweat.  And, that was another thing, my glow, at least in my opinion, made me look sweaty. I noticed the weirdest thing, though.   By 6 p.m., I had to pee, and after washing my hands, clicked the light off, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  Not only was I glowing, I actually glowed in the dark.  I looked sort of like one of the raccoons living in my attic. 

Looking like Madonna is way harder than I thought.