by Barbara Poelle
I am so very happy to currently be on vacation right now, as there have been several 90+ degree days in NYC and coupled with that, a few horrendous days for me in my career. Like, the kind where I stagger onto the train at 9pm and PRAY that someone pulls a knife on another passenger so I can beat them both to death with their own arms. Anyway, after a particularity brutal day in the salt mines last week, I walked in to an empty apartment at 9:30pm and when I flicked the light switch nothing happened. Now, most sane, intelligent people would automatically assume that due to the 90+ degree weather there have been several air conditioners running at high speed so perhaps a few fuses have been blown. But your friendly neighborhood shark snout petter? Oh no. She goes very quickly to a white hot flash of fear, like a cat leaping from a dumpster in the corner of your eye, and then goes directly to How DARE a Homicidal Rapist Murderer Robber pick MY Apartment?!?!
In the darkness, I announce, “Really? I mean REALLY? Buddy, I PRAY that you have some serious artillery, because I am 125 pounds of white hot fury.” (OMG- you KNOW it’s 135 but COME ON! If you can’t lie about your weight to your homicidal rapist murderer robber who CAN you lie to? And to be fair, right after furiously screaming that into the black void I had enough self awareness to grin wildly and shrink my neck into my shoulders for a second in a façade of shame) So I began to stalk my own phantoms, kicking open doors to rooms and keeping up a constant stream of antagonistic dialogue such as, “Please, PLEASE think you have a shot at the title here, Pal, I am about to END you.” And “I really really hope you are still here, because I am bored and hungry.” And, “I am going to do this left handed or it will be over too quickly.” I was more than nervous, not quite afraid, but still 76% sure that something in the next 10-15 seconds was going to happen, like I was slowly turning the crank on the side of a giant box that eerily plinked out the tune, “All..around..the mullberry bush…the…mon-key..chased the weasel…”
And guess what popped out?
Nothing.
Not even Stewie.
Oh, and BTW- all of you who have flooded my in-box with pleas to remove the glue trap option from the mouse hunt? I get it. I am on the same level as puppy kickers and Fatchelor watchers. (Oh, come on, you know More To Love should just be called The Fatchelor. What an abusive concept, just from end to end, that one is.) But this is WAR Peacock! And besides, ever since his version of the horse head in my bed, we have seen ZERO signs of Stewie. No droppings, no trap snaps, no squeals of torment coupled with hammer strikes. Nothing. I think it has much to do with my seemingly continuous roars of creatively ambiguous threats and little to do with Husband’s jamming of steel wool into a hole we discovered along the kitchen running board, but regardless, all is quiet on the homefront. Which means Stewie is either gone or accumulating reinforcements that will one day outweigh the structural integrity of our ceiling and burst forth in a gigantic undulating twine-ball to rain upon us like a message from God.
(Just thinking of that made me reach for the mai tai at my side. Alright, just thinking of linoleum makes me reach for the mai tai at my side, but still.)
What was I talking about? Honestly at this point it has really just devolved into the 90 proof ramblings of a mad man.
Ah, yes, got it. Okay. The fact of the matter is, despite being alone in my dark home and presented with the near certainty that in a millisecond I would be asked to choose my own adventure and one of them involved punching and biting, I did a few things I am proud of, a few things that baffled (and angered) Husband and a few things we laughed maniacally about later. But I did NOT do any of the following:
1.) Suggest to my co-protagonist that now would be a good time for sex
2.) Huddle in the corner while my vampire boyfriend threw my punches for me
3.) Use my paranormal gifts as a demon slayer to back flip around the room while wearing leather pants and Monolos
Please ladies; let us take the rest of August to celebrate the heroines we can idolize and emulate that prevent us from assuming helplessness and/or lying about our weight to imaginary homicidal maniacs. Don’t get me wrong, I LOOOVES me the daffy bumblers, the wise-cracking vampire slayers, the size zero shape-shifters, but let’s all try and take one final summer week to roll out the brainiacs, the mis-fits, the “articulettes”. (Oo! Great name for a debate team.) Women who use words as their weapons and mirth as their shield. The chicks who can shatter a stereotype as well as a kneecap. I am on vacay and all ears for your suggestions for the beach read.
Well, one ear, the other is tuned for trouble on the lake in case I need to leap up and defend peace and justice clad in this delightful strappy sundress with matching peep toes and with my crime fighting accoutrements in my Kate Spade beach bag…
