Title: Damsel in Dis Mess
Blogging since: January 2013
Post Title: It’s a Wonderful Life
Post Date: September 27, 2013
Films reflect life. Domesticity includes plenty of plots that include action, adventure, comedy, and drama.
I mean, what if I drop the coffee maker on my foot, jump up and down in despair, then back into the counter, pushing a glass to the edge, where it teeters? What if I sneeze, sending the glass to the floor and breaking it into smithereens, then step on the broken pieces, so that major blood flows from my soles, and I die?
What if then, my entire family has to gather together and come up with niceties to say about me at my funeral? And also, wipe up the mess and clean out my refrigerator? I can hear it now: “I can’t come Friday; Tuesday there’s a Twilight marathon; Thursday is all-you-can-eat at the Home Town Buffet; weekends never; Wednesday I’m going to have a cold; maybe Monday if I’m done Facebooking.” And if they did come, they’d probably say, “Did she think that the one who dies with the most crap wins?” I don’t want to boast, but I can still fit into all my hair bands and jewelry from the ’60s. Though I’m not about to become a household name by appearing on Hoarders.
After the near-death drama in my kitchen, I went door-to-door, begging for a tourniquet or at least an Ace bandage. Because some necessities never get purchased, and at 60 years old, I still don’t have any of those dang things around the house. No one was available to help cease my bleeding, or to call the county coroner if I bled to death. But at least it was a happy ending: I didn’t croak. I should get a lifetime achievement award for the most consecutive days lived.
I see now why no one answers their door, or phone. What happened next was like a scene from Scream. My phone rang. Only it wasn’t a sadistic slasher calling. It was a sweeper salesman. I had neither the time nor the patience to debate whether his vacuum’s sucking abilities were any better than mine. I have to worry when they find out my address and fling themselves over my threshold to hold me hostage till I buy their product. He wouldn’t leave. I threw my copy of Death of a Salesman at him and he still didn’t get it. He showed up a month later. Now I’m more prepared When A Stranger Calls.
Since I’m on the subject of strangers: it was about midnight one summer’s eve on the homefront. I heard rumbling on my terrace. It was a sound I imagined thieves make when they are ready to make off with your TV or T.J. Maxx jewels. I turned on the outside light and saw a skunk staring me in the eyes. He had knocked over my sweet azalea planter. I wanted to tell him he was a stinker, but it might have initiated something terrible. I wanted to fling a book at him, too. But that got me nowhere for the first 50 years of my life. So, I told the skunk to scoot.
He scooted, all right, straight into the house. He cocked himself, fully loaded, and shot me with a lethal dose of despicable spray. Now my home held a stench similar to a potato factory at 90 degrees during a strike, and I smelled like Patty Le Pew. I turned into unabated Uma when she was raring to Kill Bill. My skunk slaughter would have been a good sequel.
This tiny glimpse of events merited a red-carpet walk. Why couldn’t I have banked two million dollars for my starring role as the stupefied mother after being in The Parent Trap? The minute I saw my babies at birth, I knew an action-packed adventure was about to begin and disrupt everything I had planned, plus put me in the poor zone. Dramas played out more frequently than in all the Harry Potter movies combined. A good title would have been Mummy Goes Mad. I’ll sum things up in a few films. True Lies. Torn Curtain. Ice Age. Downward Angel. Mission Impossible. Shaft. Les Miserables. Monsters, Inc. Tangled. Courage under Fire. The Perfect Storm. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.
[Post edited for length and form]