by Carla René
That of course, leaves only the question of "Why." The breaking point came the day my invitation to the inaugural ball came. Formal. Black tie. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANT? EARRINGS!! I'm sorry, but a woman has her breaking point, and George Bush, Jr. was mine.
So by now, you have found me, no doubt looking fetching in my Manolo Blahniks, which I bought special for the occasion, and my Gaultier gown. I do have one request however, and that is to be careful and remove the Q-Tip from my nose before you take the coroner photos, since I never liked me in cotton; I was careful to never buy off the rack, and I at least want my life to stand for something.
Radio Shack, Earwax and Toilet-Paper
"I'll just drop you off while I run to Radio Shack next door. Pick you up in twenty." Words I have heard many times from my husband. I have been married to this man for almost ten years, and I still cannot fathom the fascination of entering a store that caters particularly to the gender who picks their ears with their keys.
But I just meekly nod and shut the door. The icy air catches my breath, and I grin wide. They are calling for a whole three inches today, which, for the deep south, is akin to a blizzard. The walk to the entrance is always an exercise in long-suffering, as I consistently end up walking behind some woman with a screaming baby who refuses to walk any further, a pack of stray dogs who mug me for meat, and since today is December first, an overzealous Salvation Army man who would rather be at home in front of his TV, watching Radio Shack commercials and picking his ears with his keys.
Today however, I simply pull my scarf around my face a little tighter, pretend that I am invisible to everyone but me, and plunge headfirst into the door.
The inevitable blast of warm air from the overhead blower makes me immediately grab for the neck scarf that I just got done adjusting, and I toss it into my pocket as I absentmindedly pray that I can locate a cart that doesn't look as if it barely survived Korea. I grab the handle. The metal of the bar is cold. Relentless. Unforgiving. Very adept at mirroring my mood today. Pretending that my dime store jeans (you know the ones with the fashionable white top-stitching that no one but your mother thought attractive) are really Tommy Hilfigers, I hold my head up a little higher, purpose in my heart to get this unnecessary and overdone ritual over with as soon as possible, and head for the first aisle.
My journey is cut short, however, by a set of strange, yet familiar sights and sounds coming from the milk and paper products aisles, and my chest tightens. "Not again," I mutter under my breath, as I vehemently push my cart toward the wailing and arguing.
There in front of the Dairy-land butter, are three very animated and angry women, too busy arguing over the last jug of milk to notice being watched by an invisible woman with ugly white top stitching on her jeans.
"ExCUSE me, but I was here first. I need that milk for my baby."
"Oh REALLY. I know for a fact that you have no children. I need this milk for my sick husband."
And a third lady sneaks in, "Well, unless your husband made a miraculous recovery, I don't think he'll care about the milk; I attended his funeral last year." The first two women declare her the winner and relinquish the jug.
I just shake my head in disbelief as I make like a Ninja toward the bread aisle. A similar scene is taking place there as well, except this time, the players are a minister, a college student and a five-year old kid who was sent by his mother—too busy pelting a poor old woman with M&Ms over the last box of Nutter Butter Peanut Butter Sandwich Cookies one aisle over.
Finally, I make my way over to the toilet paper aisle, and it is here that I am greeted with the most hideous act in this entire sordid theatre of the absurd: a retired man with a wooden cane, beating a young yuppie on a cell phone around the head and shoulders, in hopes that he will give up the last role of Charmin. I suddenly black out. When I come to, I find myself standing in my still empty cart, and I hear my voice shouting at the huge gathering crowd below.
"What in hell is the matter with you people? Have you just completely lost your minds? Have you nothing better to do than head to the local Kroger each and every time the weatherman detects a hint of snow in the forecast? It's only THREE INCHES! Get a life would ya? You think you people had never seen a snowflake before! As soon as there is one flake on the ground, you go running, kicking and screaming for the bread, milk and toilet paper. Which makes me wonder, who you people are, and why you spend your winters in the crapper eating bread and milk sandwiches!"
I stop. I listen to the silence. You know the one. The silence that told you you've tucked your dress up into your pantyhose and the president was looking. Everyone's heard it at least twice in their lifetime. The first was when you told your father that you wanted to quit business school, bum around Europe and "find yourself", and the second came when you told your mother flat out that you wanted to be a hooker. As everyone stands there staring at me, yelling that silence at me, I begin slowly backing away. I would have made it with a clean break too, if it isn't for that damned Korean shopping cart: the wheel sticks on a green M&M, flipping the cart over, pinning me right underneath it like a miniature bat cave. I can't move.
I sit there for the longest thirty seconds of my life, still listening to the silence. Suddenly, I hear a sound permeating that silence. It starts like a huge tidal wave from the back of the store and filters to the front. When it reaches the crowd staring at me, I recognize it immediately. It is applause. Wild cheering and clapping. A veritable stampede of applause. People shouting how they are glad that someone has the ovaries to speak out on this controversial issue. Whistling, cheering, whooping and hollering, all for me. ME. The invisible woman in the unforgiving mood with the white top stitching on the ugly jeans, married to the man who lives for Radio Shack and picks his ears with his keys. The next thing I know, some extremely handsome man is rescuing me from the rubble of the Korean shopping cart, kicking the offending M&M out of the way, and helping me to my feet, all while still managing to join in the applause. Then he hands me a role of toilet paper and the last jug of milk, and I feel like I've just been handed the crown and scepter. As the employees now join in the celebration and I walk toward the exit, the people part like the Red Sea, still applauding me like I am the Proctor & Gamble Messiah, and I leave the store in a dense fog, unsure of what just really happened. I look toward the curb, and waiting there like a faithful dog is my Radio Shack husband, and true to his nature, he's sitting there with our house key … .
"So. Are you alright?" He says to me with a hint of concern.
"Oh sure," is all I can mutter. "Why do you ask?"
"Well honey, you went in there for food, and all you are carrying is a jug of milk and a roll of Charmin."
"Yes. I fail to see your point," I said.
"You have no food. What happened in there?"
I sheepishly turn my eyes to his geeky face, and let out a long, heavy sigh. "You will never believe it."
"Try me."
I take a deep breath. "I forgot my list."
Justifiable Lack of Initiative
I have made a very successful career out of being rejected, and I'm pretty proud of that. It's not been easy work either, let me tell you. It takes real skill and talent to be told by everyone from your best friend, to your gardener, that your shoe possesses more talent than you do; that your work would be best displayed on the tag of your underwear, rather than on public bookshelves.
But I press on. Why? Because I'm an idiot. And I need new underwear.
If you've ever attempted to write, act or paint for a living, then you know the heartbreak of rejection. And dandruff. I just hate it when it flakes off on your collar. All that ink on your new white shirt… … .
Where was I? Oh yes, the heartbreak of being told "NO." There's no doubt—ours is a strange and wonderful bidness, accompanied by heights of ecstasy when we're successful, and depths of bird shite when we're not. It's those times of ornithological crap that I had trouble dealing with.
Until I figured out
that I was going to be rejected more times than I was going to be accepted, and I decided that being rejected was something I could really get behind. It was an honorable way of life that I wanted to support. I had finally found something I was qualified for; something I had been training for my whole life, and something I was really good at. Hell, my dad even knew it. So that's what he meant each time he told me I'd never amount to anything. He was preparing me, molding me into the fantastic loser that you see before you now.
So. You've read thus far, and you're saying, "But I'm not to that point yet. How can I get to the point where I just don't care anymore what someone says about my work? Help me."
Well, that's okay, be patient. It takes intense preparation to become this lax in your overachieving goals. Don't expect to not care overnight. Give yourself some time to not give a shit. I'll run down a few of the "must haves" where being one of the most successfully rejected is key.
First, you must come from dysfunctional parents. The quickest way to not believe in yourself, is to have some narcissistic, self-aggrandizing, solipsistic bitch of a mother not care one whit about you. Learn quickly that as your mother, she just cannot be held responsible for your well-being.
Secondly, you must marry a dysfunctional partner. Again, continue that circle of lack of support, or this plan will not work. You must be relentless in your quest for rejection.
Thirdly, stop believing in yourself. And really, this comes easily enough if you have the first two foundational truths in your favor. Make self-absorbed whining a major part of your daily life. Make use of that dysfunctional partner, and play upon the selfish synergy being exchanged. You will be amazed at how quickly you'll embrace rejection.
Fourth, stop writing so much. It's that constant pursuit of perfection that ruins a perfectly good run of bad luck.
Fifth, begin reading idiotic, inspirational sayings daily, combined with constant psychic visits. Nothing kills the desire to over-achieve quicker than believing that it's the universe's job to make it happen for you and that you're not responsible for the hard work needed to accomplish something.
Well, you get the idea. These are a few of the biggest qualifications, but don't be disheartened if you were unlucky enough to come from a family that actually talked through a meal; from a family where your mother and father asked if you really did go to school that day, or even sent you to school. Don't give up if fate saw fit to curse you with bountiful loads of self-esteem. The good news is, ALL OF IT CAN BE REVERSED. You just have to want it badly enough.
I do hope I've enlightened how easy it is to pursue, and even fall in love with rejection. Now comes the hard part: waiting by a phone that will never ring, and enjoying it. Watching a mailbox that will never boil over with acceptance, and learning to celebrate it. Never again will you blame yourself for your lack of commitment to your art.
So what are you going to do now? That's right, get out there, shut off the computer, and watch some TV. Have a cookie and enjoy your lack of initiative. Make the best of it, for sooner or later, someone is going to actually like your stuff and want to publish it, and then where will you be?
Zen In the Art of Absurdity
All right, fine—you forced it out of me.
I believe it was Billy Graham's wife, that when asked the question, "Have you ever thought of divorce?" came back immediately with the quip, "No, but I have thought of murder."
It was two years ago. Just before Doubleday bought my first novel, and before I found myself contemplating the same solution as Billy's wife.
We were living in a one-room efficiency apartment. You know the kind, with the drop-the-damned-thing-on-your-foot-no-matter-what-you-do Murphy Bed, and the combination kitchen-slash-bathroom-slash entertaining area. I could actually soak my feet in the kitchen sink while enjoying my Sunday morning "quality time," and still have enough room to prepare a vegetable plate. We had to keep our laundry in our cars, and the cat was allowed to visit, but only on the weekends. Our mother-in-law detested the place and always refused to stay over. So we played the heroes and invited her as much as possible.
I love my wife dearly, don't get me wrong. It's just that… .I hate her. We are the kind of married that would take the hair off a sweater. The kind of married that if one of us farted, the other would say, "It was the dog."
She has never been very supportive of my career as a writer, and that's fair, since I've never been supportive of her career as a couch potato. But at least she does it well.
So when the time came for me to have my own writing space, I put my foot down, with her permission of course, and demanded one. She didn't take to the idea like I thought she would. And that's when the fencing began.
"You cannot be serious!" she said, one afternoon. "How pretentious is that? Look at you. You're 41, never held a serious job your entire life, and now you think you're some writing buff all of a sudden. Honey, it aint-a-gonna happen. Who do you think you are, Rob Walker?"
"Did you ever think of quitting your imaginary day job to become a comedian?"
"You're just jealous because I have a very full life," she said.
"You'd actually need to get up before noon and do something to have a full life," I said, very proud of myself.
"You know what your problem is?" she said.
"Oh puh-leeze, enlighten me."
"You never talk when I'm listening to you."
"All right. That's it. I've had enough of your self-aggrandizing, solipsistic BS for one day. Now, I am going to retire to a quiet corner of the house and do what I do best."
"Honey, the only people they pay for that kind of work, are sperm doners."
I picked up my laptop from the dining room table slash sink, pulled the kitchen towel-slash-toilet paper from the bottom of my shoe, and started to leave the room. "Oh, and another thing. You're wearing an ugly shirt."
"Best of luck writing the great American leaflet!"
I turned back to her. "You think this is funny? I need my own work space. It's pretty hard to compete with One Life to Live at one, Days of Our Lives at two, and Oprah at three."
"Fine. On Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays between the hours of 1:00 and 1:23 p.m., you can have the house for writing. Any room you wish."
"That's funny. You know we only have the one."
She ignored me. "And the rest of the week is mine."
"Tell me something. When you were little, were you dropped on your head, or thrown? How the hell am I supposed to get any work done in twenty-three minutes a day?"
"Well, you've pleasured me our entire marriage in just twenty-three seconds, so I'd say you have a real knack for operating within time constraints."
"You just never give up, do you? Always gotta have that last word."
"Do not," she said.
"Do too."
"Do not."
"Do too, stupid head."
"Do not, Rainman, now let's drop it."
"Hah. Fat chance. And let you have the last word? Never." I was not about to let this swamp insect in an ugly shirt get the upper hand. She did that automatically on the day she vowed, "I do." Did I already mention how ugly that shirt was?
"Do not."
"Oh would you just shut the hell up, hell?"
Well, I don't need to tell you that this inane exchange continued well into the evening, and the only reason it stopped then, was because I went to the store. I had to get out of that apartment-slash-walk-in closet, and look at something other than her face-slash-rear end, and that god-awful ugly shirt. Why was it ugly? Maybe because it was orange, with horizontal stripes of brown and pink, with tiny alligators all over it. I used to have one just like it, but I gave it away to the Salvation Army… .
When I returned some hours later, I carried in my hands the answer to all of my problems. I didn't dare tell her what I was doing, and worked well into the wee hours of the morning, opening boxes, making arrangements, rearranging, reading instructions, giggling like a school girl, opening more boxes, placing candl
es, until at last I was finished. Yes, I was excited, for I knew that very soon, my tiny corner of the world would summon my Muse, Sid, and together we would write some of the most brilliant prose that ever lived between two covers.
At three thirty a.m. exactly, I stood back and took one last look, surveying the fruits of my labor.
In the bathroom, behind the shower curtain… well, okay, it was in the tub. It was the bathtub! Are ya happy now?
And of course she took the news with the same oil of vitriol that you just did.
"So let me get this straight. When the shower curtain is pulled, I'm to assume that either means you're working, or giving your rubber ducky a workout. Got it," she said.
"Why do you have to make my life a living hell? Just tell me why."
She looked at me with a gleam in her eye. "It's relaxing."
"That's the last time I share something with you."
"Hmmmn. Kind of like our marriage bed, dontcha think?"
"Knock it off! You're fucking up my Chi!"
I stormed out of the living room-slash-pantry, and took a brisk two and a half steps into the bathroom, where I yelled back over my shoulder, "I am officially writing now! Don't bother me anymore, woman. I have serious work to do." All I heard from the other room was a snort.
I made a grand gesture of swishing the shower curtain shut in anger, but it just didn't have the same effect as slamming a door. Kind of the same let down you get when hanging up on someone with a push button phone.
I had my candles lit, all situated meticulously around the edge of the tub just like the Feng Sui book directed, my Japanese Tranquility water garden trickling so as to create kinetic energy, and my Zen garden, full of sand and pebbles ready to receive any cares or doubts that I felt like dumping. And speaking of dumping. Apparently, to one of the feline persuasion, it looked more like a litter box… .
