Last night my first story of the semester was workshopped. There were seventeen of us around a table the size of a large coffee cup. And I had eaten garlic mashed potatoes right before that. And the door was closed. Suffice it to say that there was just enough air in the room for me to choke on. For forty-five minutes, I was reminded in a variety of ways that I should never quit my day job. More specifically, I was reminded that I shouldn't be let near any sort of writing device. Ever. There was an especially angry bald guy who referred to my story as a bad Lifetime movie. He also used the word 'horribly' in context with my story, but I'm not sure what the full sentence was, as I was too busy plotting my own death. He threw my story across the table at least three times as well. Well, Baldy, you're right. I'm a bad writer. Is that what you want from me? Maybe I'll get better, but you will always be bald.
Baldy had to turn out his story last night. Allow me to give you a snippet:
Can someone advise where Westing is from Camden? Cordova asks.
Go East to Main street and then go south. Charlie Twenty-nine says. County, go ahead and send me the call and I'll be fifty-one. One-twenty-three just advise what you've got when you get there.
If I'm Lifetime, Baldy is Spike TV for Men.
My office manager (also known as my boss's wife) is on the phone right now yelling at the Cingular people (which she pronounces Cingularrrr, like a pirate). Every thirty seconds or so, she shrieks, "People don't know how to do their jobs" at me. I faithfully reply, "Yep," whilst rolling my eyes in protest. She loves to, in her words, "kick the shit out of" any employee of any establishment she may (or may not) patronize. If I were a cattier person, I would say it's her sole purpose in life.
Seriously, Arrested Development is the funniest show on television. I'm being serious.
Ida is coming to town in March. Edward P. Jones is coming to town in February. Everything is about me, once again.