Saturday, April 12, 2008

I’m a dreamer. You may find me sitting behind you, doodling on my notebook: Love Always, Sukey; To Life, Sukey; Best Wishes, Sukey. I’m working on my handwriting should I run into members of my fan club who will undoubtedly beg me for an autograph.

I’m a listener.You’ve seen me in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. I sit there, with my head behind The New Yorker, torn, desperately between Shouts and Murmurs and your telephone conversation.

“Well, she needs to get her stuff out of there!…. I know. Who does she think this is? I’ll throw everything she owns out the Goddamned window, Tracy! No! This is so unfair! She still owes us money from last month’s rent…. What the fuck were we thinking… Okay, gotta go, they just called me in. Time for my pap! I’ll call you back.”

There is no such thing as a “private” cell phone conversation in public.

I’m a reader. I turn my attention back to my favorite magazine, The New Yorker. Writer George Saunder’s piece titled, Proclamation, is a response to the following excerpt from the Associated Press: TEHRAN, Iran (July 29)Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has ordered government and cultural bodies to use modified Persian words to replace foreign words that have crept into the language, such as pizzas, which will now be known as elastic loaves. Saunders writes:

No. For us, all Western decadence is finished. McDonalds, chief villain of the American imperialist program, will henceforth be known as Burger King. That will really mess with everybodys head. Some enemy of the revolution here in Tehran goes into a McDon Do we still even have McDonalds? I used to really like the cheeseburgers. The snack that is surprisingly caloric because, you sense, there is even sugar in the bun. Anyway, some enemy of the revolution goes into a McDonalds, orders a Big Mac, andha ha!he is really in Burger King. I love it! He is undone.

Similarly, Burger King will be known as Wendys, KFC will be known as Home Depot, Farouqs Funeral Home will be known as Blockbuster Video, and Pamela Anderson will be known as Mrs. President of Iran. Joking! I know she is already married! Didnt she just Well, in any event, I am. At least, I think I am. Can you get my wife on my cell? Is this going out live? That Pam Anderson thing might have rubbed her the wrong

Speaking of women, that is another thing: dont you find that word provocative? Say it a few times, softly, kind of moaning it to yourself, while picturing some slut undulating. See what I mean? Provocative. So that is why we are outlawing that as well. No, just the word. At least for now.

Hmmm. “Women,” I whisper softly. “Wooommmeeen,” I say again, nice and slow, trying to add some moaning action without being too obvious. Nothing, it just doesn’t sound sexy. I am suddenly asking myself why I had to be born into such conservative circumstances. How can I get into the role of playing a provocative,sex-hungry, man killer? How can I prepare for that role? Hmmm… a little foreplay might be in order with the hubby tonight. I smile my sinful “cat woman” grin until I notice the old-timer sitting across from me with his brown cane, and his seething yellow smile lusting for me. “Oh, gross!”

Daydreaming at Mr. Leo’s Malt Shoppe. “You told me how many times that it was my turn to order? … Twice, huh? ” I am suprised with this statement. “And I didn’t hear you, obviously. Fine, I’ll order my fucking milkshake so that the line can move up and all you assholes will be happy drinking your fucking milkshakes,” I’m not yelling, just whispering very loudly. Everyone in line is pissed off at me right now. Complete strangers giving me looks that can only communicate, “Wake the fuck up!” All eyes are on me.This always happens to me when I loose myself in a scene from one of my favorite movies. I am the totally hot, irresistable Nicole Kidman, except she’s me or is it that I’m her? Oh, well. Who cares, I’m disgustingly good-looking. “Do you know who I am?” I manage to say this just after the zit-faced teeny-boy hands me my banana milkshake. I turn around to look at my audience. I not surprised to see the line of strangers roll their eyes at me. I say in an exhausted tone, while patting my forehead with the back of my hand, “I’m so under-appreciated! Everyone is a critic! Well, good bye all! Good bye!”

“Can I order now,” asks the brusque, tight-lipped, Mary Magdalene.

I’m so dramatic. “Cocoa! Where were you?” I love immitating Paris Hilton’s voice, “Don’t you ever scare mommy like that again! Do you know what I was thinking when I…. couldn’t find you!!!!!DO YOU?? I thought you were dead!” Tears stream down my face as I lunge toward my favorite stuffed bear, Cocoa. He was under my bed with a thick blanket of dust on his soft fur. “Damn it, Cocoa!” I cannot control my tears. “Someone! Get me my phone, I need to call Kiki

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