Story 59: Winter Wonderlanding

            I love the snow.

            It may just be the fond memories from childhood days of yore, but I’ve never gotten over it.  Even before Winter officially starts, I prefer to have at least one blizzard to get things rolling; however, I will settle for a few inches of snow in November, as long as it’s before Thanksgiving.

            People say to me: What about having to shovel the driveway all the time?

            I say to them: Why shovel?  If my driveway has enough frozen water on it that I’d have to shovel, then obviously the roads are bad and I should stay off of them.  I have an obligation – nay, a duty – to my fellow human beings to stay home and curl up in my blankets with a cup of hot cocoa and a book.

            People say: What if you absolutely must drive somewhere and the roads are all icy?

            I say: Wheee!!!

            People say: What if the power goes out and you have no heat?

            I say: See above regarding blankets.  And that’s what fuzzy kittens were made for.

            People say: Well, you can’t go building snow forts and pelting passers-by with snowballs and topping it off with rolling around until you’re covered in the stuff.

            I say: And why not?

            People say: Because you’re not a kid anymore.

            I say: I fail to see your point.

            Bottom line: I love the snow less for itself and more for all of the things that come with it – sledding, hot drinks, snow people, mittens, cancelled work, muffled outdoor noises, the beauty of it all.

            Although, it is awful cold when it gets stuck under your clothes.  That, I can do without.                                                                                                          

Story 58: Giving Thanks

            (The table is set for Thanksgiving dinner.  There are 10 relatives seated, with the Matriarch and the Patriarch at the opposite ends.  The Patriarch carves the turkey and distributes the plates around the table; each person takes portions of sides and begins eating)

            Matriarch: The mashed potatoes are lumpy.

            Son: (Chewing) They’re not bad.

            Matriarch: I say they’re lumpy!  And don’t speak with your mouth full.  (She eats some of the turkey) Dry.  Where’s the gravy?  (The boat is passed to her and she pours the gravy before taking another bite) Burnt.  Where’s the stuffing?

            Patriarch: There wasn’t any put in.

            Matriarch: Tsk.  Could somebody pass the cranberry sauce?  (It is passed to her and she ladles some on her plate to eat) Too sweet – it’s drowning in sugar.  I need more wine.

            Daughter: (Pours it into her mother’s glass) Here you go, Ma.

            Matriarch: (After sipping) This is best-tasting thing I’ve had all night.  The string beans look weak, the lettuce look wilted, and the corn looks like it died.

            Patriarch: It all tastes fine –

            Matriarch: No!  It’s all ruined!  I declare this Thanksgiving dinner to be a disaster!  (Daughter-in-law begins weeping softly) Oh hush, dear, your wine is about the only thing I can stomach right now.  I’m re-cooking everything!  (She starts gathering the dishes while the younger children watch with their mouths open.  The Daughter and the Son stop her)

            Daughter: Ma, don’t re-cook Thanksgiving, everything you made tastes delicious!

            Matriarch: Don’t lie to me!  That bird is practically a mummy!

            Son: (Still chewing) You’re the only one who thinks so.  Besides, Thanksgiving is about showing your appreciation for all the good things you have in your life; the meal’s secondary.

            Patriarch: Tertiary, son: football is secondary.

            Son: (Almost chokes) The game!  I forgot to check the score!

            (Most of the relatives dash out of the room)

            Daughter: Good – all the more for us.  (She sits and starts eating again)

            Matriarch: (Takes a bite of a candied yam) I suppose it’s salvageable.  I’m never making this meal again, though.

            Daughter: I’ll ask the same thing I did last year when this happened: would you like one of us to do Thanksgiving, then?

            Matriarch: Absolutely not!  You’d ruin it!

Story 57: Hit Song

            Ever since I was a wee tot, I’ve wanted to be the writer, singer, and producer of a hit song.  I wanted to be the one whose words people would sing to themselves until their friends were sick of them; the one they wanted to be as they sang my song in the shower.  I wanted to be the mastermind – nay, the genius – behind a song that was catchy yet clever, silly yet soulful, simple yet complicated, short yet long.  In brief, I wanted a moneymaker with heart.

            At long last, I struck gold.  After some tweaking by my team and intense, intense promotion, my song “Life Makes Me Want to Die” hit the number 1 spot on all the major music charts on its first week of release, and my album went platinum in two days.  I made history and no one, including myself, will ever be able to top this achievement.  I now am constantly showered with money, things, and adoration.  I am the voice of the age, I am the music of the heart – all love me and cannot get enough of my presence.

            As with an old-time record, there is a flip side: I am doomed.  Doomed, I say, to the hell that is having to perform the same song over and over and over and over and over and over and over and…. Till death do us part.

            The award shows are nothing; the song can only have one lifetime nomination for each organization, and I only had to perform at a few events.  The concerts, however, are a completely different animal.  The training for going on tour is similar to that employed by marathoners, and my whole body hurts until the numbness kicks in.  And sure, I usually have to do the same routine, but often I can switch out some songs, dust off some older stuff, and test out some newer stuff cleverly disguised as older stuff for my inevitable next album.  But I can never, ever leave out the hit song.  And I always have to end the show with it, at the point when I’m most exhausted.  I have to sing the song with all the vocal nuances I had used in the original recording on the 217^th take, and all the movements and facial expressions from the music video that were perfected after five days of filming.  If I don’t do the song in exactly the same way each time, the fan e-mails and online comments notify me and the world, and my success would end faster than immediately.  So I give it my all, every day, and sometimes several times a day for the fans who pay extra for special treatment.

            I’m sure many of you are thinking: “Oh, boo-hoo, the star who makes millions of dollars for seemingly little work is complaining about her success.”  And you’d be right – I’m extremely lucky and blessed to be paid so much to do what I love.  But I have this to say back: Take what you love doing most in the world and imagine doing it over and over (etc., etc.) with no end in sight.  Under those conditions, all love turns to tedium.

            So I keep raking in the money and performing the same song ad infinitum.  Maybe I can retire soon and hire someone to cover it, leaving me to face the accusations that I sold out.  Wait a minute, why don’t I do that?  I’m already a billionaire, why should I have to do something I now hate?!  Why am I enduring this torture when I have enough money that I could fly to an island paradise and live there forever?!  I’m calling my agent: cancel the tours, cancel the social media accounts, cancel the talk show appearances – oh, breach of contract, lawsuits, have to give back money.  Never mind: I like singing the same song over and over and over and over and….