Long Winded Short Cuts

by Barbara Poelle

Yesterday I was on the elevator heading down to the lobby and it stopped on the 6^th floor. The doors slid open. There was a pause. Then, a large black fly lazily boarded. The doors closed. We continued down.  The fly orbited a tiny, unseen planet. I checked my iphone. Time passed as it is wont to do. The doors slid open and we both exited the lobby and I muttered audibly, on an exaggerated exhalation of breath, “What a [insert air horn noise]-wad.”

Yes, I was talking about the fly.

Like, what kind of freeloader takes the elevator when they can fly?

 WHEN THEIR NAME IS ACTUALLY FLY!?

What. A. [insert air horn noise]-wad.

Look, I’ll admit, I take short cuts sometimes. I am all for the better-faster-now, in some cases. Like in my internet connection. And maybe even some of my gadgetry and hardware. In fact, I just purchased an ipad. It will help me access my submissions faster, without having to take the time to download to new hardware, but other than that, PLEASE, it won’t change who I am or how I approach life.

I mean, I will of course have to ignore my current social circle and make all new friends with people who wear casually irreverent, yet aggressively overpriced eyeglasses and are able, on an average day, to utilize hemp in at least 5 different ways, but still judge you by how many gigabytes of storage you have. I will have to play Joan Baez at my dinner parties and keep rolling my eyes at my own lack of imagination while sipping South African Shiraz from a stemless wine glass and mentioning how I had recently read a translation of Lysistrata and the cover should have just been an ouroboros  because what could make men MORE violent? Because reverse-reverse feminism is so what’s IN right now,  and my use of sardonic word play and the word “ouroboros” will make it CLEAR I would have been the first to withhold, and my new friends and I will laugh in synchronistically muted-yet genuinely jovial- gaiety as we gaze knowingly at our metro sexual husbands in their earth toned corduroys and vintage vests worn over ironic t-shirts silk screened with 80’s pop culture references  and someone would ask , “Oh my GAWD, Babs, are we listening to Joan Baez?” And YES, that IS paella simmering. More Shiraz?

Good LORD what were we talking about?

Oh, right: short cuts.

 Okay, so sometimes they are appropriate.  Like when you were supposed to be at a dinner with Husband and his family, but a client was in town and you accidentally ordered something that came served in a coconut and took pictures posing with it and then had to take a 30 dollar cab ride which included a stop at Rite Aid for Scope. Totally appropriate short cut.   

But this? Not appropriate:

 Ms. Poelle,

I could write a query and send pages as outlined in your submission guidelines, but I wanted to just get this manuscript in front of you asap. See attached.

Best,

Johnny Author

When I see this, I cross my legs which are clad in skinny jeans and legwarmers and thwap my Kate Spade flip flop (adorned with the ostentatious yet fashion forward faux daisy) against my heel and order another  half-caff soy chai latte just to GET THROUGH THE [insert air horn noise] DAY.

Don’t do this. Don’t ever do this. Let’s be honest people: short cuts should only be reserved for rush hour traffic and Last Resorts. (You know when the ice cube trays are empty, and the only clean glass is an Oktoberfest beer stein and you have tequila, diet coke and frozen grapes. Voila!  The drink known in the Poelle house as The Last Resort.)

Please. Pay attention to submission guidelines. Hold yourself accountable as the only voice for your work. Because let me tell you: I am going to start carrying a swatter with me on the elevator, because SOMEONE has got to hold that [insert air horn noise] fly accountable.

 

 

 

Comments

[Paula Matter]

Good post. But I'm still trying to figure out how the fly pushed the button.

[Keli Scrapchansky]

Um, Paula, I believe you mean the [insert air horn noise]-ing button.

[Sarah W]

Perhaps the fly was tired of waiting for someone to open the stairwell door for him?

The Last Resort in our house usually involves Godiva chocolate liqueur and Irish Mist. . . because no one will stoop to drinking the [insert air horn noise]-ing creme de menthe I bought for brownies a year or two ago. That stuff's like our dwarf bread - we'll fake a hangover rather than drink it.

[Heather Snow]

I've yet to decide which I'm more jealous of...the iPad or the faux-daisy Kate Spade flip flop. Hmmm...

Either way, I'd better get off of the blogosphere and get back to writing before a giant Poelle swatter comes barrelling down from the sky to hold me accountable for not getting my wordcount in... :)

[Pamela Cayne]

So does the iPad mean you're finally going to start tweeting now, oh awesome @sh*tmyagentsays? (or @smas for short)

[barbara]

[whip crack]

[Janet Reid]

Do you perhaps have a picture of the airhorn for our viewing pleasure?

[Amy Lindel]

Um, where's the [air horn] recipe for Last Resorts, yo? You think I'm going to puzzle that out myself? Short cut, please, kthxbai.

[Meredith]

kthxbai = best shortcut of this blog post.

[Alli]

Why didn't the fly hitch a ride on your twitching eyebrow? That way it could rest its weary wings and annoy the [air horn] out of you even more. Must have been a rookie.