Foolish Monkey

Foolish Monkey
MAGIC TOWN where the old never die, Connecticut,
January 31
*************************** "I find that I am so excited I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it's the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain" -Red in The Shawshank Redemption by Stephen King *************************** WARNING: I like to noodle. can't resist. and once is never enough either. ***************************

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JANUARY 17, 2010 10:01AM

Chapter 3: Mrs H in The Garden Of Eden on a Saturday Night

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 “I need companionship Agnes.  My lovelife stinks.”

“You have the dog”, replied Agnes crunching on Fritos.

“He went to look for the mister..he's gone", said Mrs H.

“I hope this isn’t getting to be a habit with you."

Mrs H had considered it - that she was losing an awful lot of important things in her life.  But no, it wasn’t she that lost Mr H.   It was Mr H who had gone and lost himself. 

One day he called her saying he had taken a wrong exit and he'd be home late and that was it - never heard another word from him.  

Gone.  Sucked up into the universe.  Maybe kidnapped by a UFO.  No had a clue.  It occurred to her one morning that their longevity may have been because they never went anywhere with or without the other one and they had hadn't thought to buy the GPS that HSN was selling for 3 payments of $33.33 on Flexpay.  


But Foolish the dog, he was another story. About a week after Mr H vanished from the face of the earth,  Foolish took to pining all the live long day, big flopping here, noisy flopping there, hounddog whining and pining and sighing and turning up his very big nose at food, even.  Who had ever heard of such a thing?  A big hound that wouldn’t eat?  


One day he walked to the gate and barked to be let out.  As she had done a hundred times before Mrs H opened it and Foolish, stepping through did something odd: he stopped and lifted his big wet nose to the breeze. Sniffing here. Stop. Sniffing there. Then STOP - dead in his tracks he lifts his paw up like some kind of pointer and freezes!  Then he quickly trots off down the road without even a glance over his shoulder at her.  Damned dog never came back.  

That morning she and Agnes had decided a respectable amount of time had passed since the mysterious disappearance of Mr H and it was time for Mrs H to be modern and healthy and proactive and seek out a little  male companionship for herself.  Why should only dental hygienists and sales girls have love lives?  Mrs H was still skirting her prime years according to all the magazines! 

So tonight she was to going to one of the nicer singles joints in town, The Garden of Eden, a very very very neon green tropical oasis on the edge of a mostly abandoned strip mall right smack dab in the middle of town. 


Sipping her Cherry Coke Zero through a straw so as not to muss her lipstick, a rather giddy Mrs H turns this way and that, striking poses in front of a mirror that stops just at the waist, gazing at herself provocatively, swirling her skirt and practicing dance moves and hip thrusts. 

I look pretty snazzy, she is thinking, ignoring the recent natural disaster that was bunched up around her middle, thanks to her recent deep forays into the world of Pillsbury, Hostess Ho Hos and Tombstone Pizza.  Mrs H felt this could easily be explained to any reasonable person.  Her lumpiness was due to 1) shock from the sudden loss of a navigationally challenged husband, 2) her abandonment by an ingrate hound, and 3) and her rebellious body parts.  


But now Mrs H was not dwelling on the negatives as she strained to see how the hem looked against her hopefully still shapely legs.  But the mirror wasn’t talking and it was probably for the best anyway.  If God had wanted her to know what she looked like below the waist, he would have put her eyes a whole lot lower or gave her a bigger mirror. 


Turning to the side to see a waist profiled which - if she sucked in her breath long enough - might suggest an indentation somewhere, she examined and then quickly exhaled in order to keep from becoming too dizzy.  Last check on the makeup, the hand (with a mind of it's own) had applied the ultra thick black lash lengthening mascara with hardly a blob - well nothing too noticeable. Anything particularly blobby, the hand had deftly rubbed into the lids, eliminating the need for eyeliner, which she was never much good at anyway, even in her disco queen years. 


Back then on party nights about the only eyelineing she could successfully do was the heavy duty Sophia Loren eyeline, a thick black line, under and around and nearly up to her eyebrows, the entire sultry black magilla slanting upwards towards the heavens above her poofy tousled hair, all of her promising a world of hot sexy trouble to any and all in her opulently fleshly presence. 

Back in the day Mrs H was quite the dish!  She had a number of boyfriends back then, Mr H was her best and favorite one, coveting and "hustling" her.  And life was a whirling bowl of dancing cherries.


She looked at herself one last time, reapplied her lipstick, blotting her "Pretty In Pink" lips on a tissue.  Finally satisfied she was booty delicious or something like that, she thought this is it! blowing herself a kiss in the mirror.

It was time to let the magic happen!  And with a swirl and a swish and happy hands, she was off to seek new vistas!



the continued mundane hijinx of Mrs H

Chapter One: Mrs H and The Dental Hygienist

Chapter Two: Mrs H Meets The Pillsbury Dough Boy


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apparantly Mrs H is clattering around in my head, so here she is once again.

happy bump
Time for Mrs H to hit the lights fantastic and get on with her life. Do I smell another man entering the picture!
Scanner, I don't know. Mrs H hasn't called me yet. And I'm still dizzy from her last communication.

Clark,'re sweet. I went to the library yesterday and got a couple of books by Walker Percy, just to see if there's a connection there for me. Someone else had recommended I read Raymond Carver, who I am reading now. I keep trying to figure out what I'm saying but I don't know. I think it's best to keep writing and reading and letting whatever it is that's happening, happen.
again, thank you. you're too kind.
I've been using the word "mahvelous" probly too much lately, because it's fun to say, as well as to write, and because there is so much mahvelous writing on OS.

Which is why now I regret having used it so much, because here is where it belongs. Indubitably. This chapter is...drumroll, cymbal clash: absolutely mahhhvelous!

If Mr. H could read this, wherever he might be and if he failed to fully appreciate its absolute mahvelousness, then he should be lost. He should stay lost. I'm sorry, but that is the truth!

Wanna know my favorite part?

OK. Here it is: ...umm...I can't choose. This is embarrassing. I simply can't pluck any one line or scene or image or combination of words or even a pause, that I could lift out as my favorite without hurting the feelings of the others.

Tell you what: If publishers or editors or their front men and women or agents or friends of agents and editors and publishers or distant cousins of same, don't beat a hasty path to your door, waving contracts and bearing highly caloric gifts and phone numbers of hawt dudes they "know" would die to have a dawnce with you at the Garde of Eden or any other exciting place, then the world would continue rotating and orbiting and dying and the world of publishing and moviemaking and play-producing would continue to be the crazy enraging crapshoot that it's always been, to the barely noticed loss to anyone in the industry interested in making a buck and the profound loss to us, who read and watch good movies with Barbra Streisand and attend plays that win Tony's (Tony's?)

Gasp...whew, I wasn't breathing there for a spell...
Sorry about the double post. The storm cover we have today is giving our satellite server fits and starts, giving me the same when cyberlink buttons stubbornly resist my mashing (how we say "pressing" in the South). So please, if you will, delete the most ridiculous one - both should you find them embarrassing. I'd tried to replace the original one with the same thing only with Meryl Streep substituted for Barbra Streisand. It seems so obvious to me...
don't worry about it. I was having weird hiccups too. I just deleted them so you don't look like a stalker.
Oh good will she find love, or Mr H, or the ingrate dog.....I can't wait!
I can not stop laughing. Must be that I'm an old broad and can relate to Mrs H's life circumstances! What's next? I will never look at myself int he mirror again.