BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Let me tell you the story of my trip to the kitchen for coffee, also known as The Day AFTER Thanksgiving Massa-Cree…

I needed coffee. One cup simply hadn’t been enough, and wingnuts were everywhere on Facebook. If I were going to survive, a healthy bolus of caffeine was an absolute must.

I knew I would be going into enemy territory. After all, it was the day after Gluttony Day… The Big L… No, not that L, the L-tryptophan L… But that wasn’t my greatest concern. No, not at all. Truth is, what frightened me the most was the pie. Sure, it was wounded, and hanging out in the icebox with its cohort in crime, whipped cream, but everybody knows that when a pie is wounded that is when it is at its most dangerous…

I tiptoed into the kitchen, being as quiet as I possibly could. The icebox door was still shut, so that was a good thing. I refilled my coffee, then started to leave. I was fairly pleased with myself that I had evaded the pie. That was my first mistake. In my moment of overconfidence I was attacked by the soaking roasting pan and pie dishes in the sink. I had no choice but to engage. It was an epic battle, but I won, “cleaning up” nicely. I didn’t want to run the risk of a second attack, so I went on the offensive, even going so far as to hoof the kitchen compost bucket out to the composter for emptying.

I returned to the kitchen, confident that I had won the war. This was my second mistake. Same as the first, but still the second. Just as I finished wiping down the counter, the cornbread dressing and giblet gravy leapt from the icebox and engaged in a coordinated flanking attack. I was fending them off, but then a bowl and spoon joined the fray. Still, I continued to put up a good fight, right up until the microwave attacked me from behind.

And then… It was all over but the digesting.

I know a lot of Wendys…

I realize that’s kind of odd, but throughout my life I have come to know several Wendys. Or, in one case, Wendi. There’s also Wendie, as in Wendie Malick, but I don’t actually know her. I’ve just seen her on TV, so she really doesn’t count.

And, these Wendys are all across the board as to personalities and professions. There’s a blond Wendy who was a Flight Attendant for TWA – remember them? TWA, I mean, not Flight Attendants. Although, I could certainly wax nostalgic about how Flight Attendants used to be Flight Attendants, and not psychopathic hall monitors who seem to think they are Air Marshals. In any event, I have no idea what TWA Wendy is doing these days. I haven’t seen her in years, but I did use to joke with her quite a bit and call her an Airborne Waitress. Fortunately, she had a good sense of humor about it.

Then there’s small Wendy. I have no idea what she is doing, or what she grew up to be. I met her shortly after I graduated high school. My dad and I went on a hiking trip in Colorado, and we had set up camp in a public – but little used – camping area halfway up a pass in the Rockies. Small Wendy and her parents were camping in the same area, albeit several sites over. She developed a crush on me because she thought I looked like John Denver, and would come over to our campsite whenever she saw us out and about. Her parents even sent her over with leftovers from their dinner – they had an RV with a kitchen – because they felt sorry for us having to eat freeze dried rations.

And, there’s “Mistress Wendi”. That’s where the Wendi with an”i” shows up. That’s not her real name… Well… Not when she’s just being her normal self. It’s more of a moniker attached to the alter ego of a friend. Based on the honorific I’m sure you can figure out what she does for fun. We’ve been friends forever, and she was an invaluable source of info when I was researching the Miranda novels.

There are others, but I don’t want to bore you too much. I mean, all I am doing is rambling about women named Wendy. There was, however, a particular Wendy in my life who wasn’t exactly a friend. She also wasn’t exactly an enemy. She was, for lack of a better description, a thorn in my ass. I have no clue what happened to her, but I think of her often, believe it or not. Well, maybe not often as in often. More like whenever I am startled by something and jump out of my skin.

I was all prepared to write the story of why this happens to be when I received notice that one of my recent workshops, which had been videotaped at an event, was now online. I was watching it to see how it came out and lo and behold, there I was, right there on the screen telling the story about this particular Wendy in order to illustrate a point. So, rather than toss a whole ‘nother mess of words out there, here it is, from my lips to your ears.

(Video Courtesy of Spiraling Up Video Productions)

Moral of the story?

Don’t let your guard down around anyone named Wendy. Especially if she has a roll of Scotch Tape in hand…

More to come…

Murv