A Very Good Day

Yesterday was a very good day. My husband took a personal day off from work for his wife’s “mental health.” He was Dada for the day, and I was writer chick first, Mama second. This meant I could go to the Lucille Clifton 10AM poetry reading and feel smug and slightly agitated as a little girl, two years old I imagined, babbled incoherently in the back of the auditorium. Can’t her mother remove her for the 45 glorious minutes wherein Lucille has the floor? Lucille, a woman of far more patience and grace than I, used the tiny heckler to launch into yet another sweet, yet quietly subversive poem. I took a deep breath and was transported . . . until the little fucker shouted “blah.”

Lucille rocked the house and that was just the beginning of my day. Cut to the near end. . . I grabbed a front row seat at a Willamette Writer’s craft lecture and busied myself by reading the little pamphlet the snarky woman at the greeter’s table had given me--after she tried to bilk me out of an extra $5. I handed her the ten, smiled sweetly and said, “Isn’t it $5?”
“Wellllll, there is a sliding scale.” Yes and that sliding scale means 8 more tins of applesauce for my baby, bitch.

Undaunted, I lunged for the thick pamphlet she held hostage under one elbow. “Are those free?”
“Oh yes, please do take one.”
So there I was sitting in the front row, skimming the free pamphlet, the very boring free pamphlet detailing the workshops at this year’s very boring Willamette Writer’s Conference. Will it be “Mindfulness practice and the writing process” or “Yes, you do have a voice?” Arghh. But wait, hark, the dates are August 4 through 6 and I’m scheduled to be touring wineries, riding horses and eating lobster with my husband, baby boy, sister, mother and a bevy of her friends for my mom’s festive 60th birthday at the always lovely Skamania lodge on the Oregon/Washington border. Gorgeous. Crisis averted.

So there I sat, pamphlet read, wondering why it was that I had chosen to wear a bright blue low-cut fake silk blousy number with 3/4 sleeves when the room temperature was 82 degrees. Why tonight when Dr. Scholls and old man shorts abound behind me? And did I camp out in the front row because I was thrilled to be within 8 feet of the keynote author, Marc Acito? Or was it because sitting further back and staring out into the sea of white, blue, silver and pewter haired heads one more time might be so overwhelmingly depressing that I’d be forced to chuck the evening’s syllabus, sprint back to my Volvo and speed home to my husband and this week’s Tivo’d episode of House? So there I was mulling over the evening’s potential suckage factor when an older gentlemen motioned at the seat to my right. Was it taken? he asked. No I said, smiling sweetly as I thought to myself, Christ, there is no escaping. But I am, despite my sharp, critical nature, an optimist at heart and a bored one at that. I chatted up this gentleman and soon we were like old friends. He had kind eyes. (Writers overuse this line but in this case, trust me, they were the kindest—light green, twinkling eyes like Santa).
The evening’s topic was comedy and how to make your writing funnier so we talked comedy. He opened with Lewis Black and I countered with love him and did you know that despite his acerbic humor, he’s beloved by other comics for his quiet, generous nature? No, older gentlemen did not know this. Oh yes, I said, you must must must rent this little documentary where I think I heard this about Lewis. Yes, a great film, the name of which I can’t recall right now. Shoot, Mr. Gentlemen sir. You’re so very nice and I sense you possess a truly youthful funny bone, and this film, while naughty as hell, I do think may afford you a few chuckles. The film is about the dirtiest joke in the business, a joke I’m not going to say partly because it’s so filthy even I won’t say it, partly because I’m hormonal and can remember neither the fucking film’s name nor the punchline but mainly because the punchline constantly changes. It’s the joke that comics twist and contort in an effort to amuse each other backstage, the profession’s in-joke with infinite versions. Do rent it, Santa. Santa, for his part, dutifully scribbled down the description and volleyed back with yet another comedic moment. Santa and I were in the zone and Marc Acito hadn’t even taken the floor.

Did I mention I’m in love? No, not with Santa, silly (although he’d make a great rent-a-Grampa for my son). No, I’m in love with the gay Dave Barry, Marc Acito. More to come on this later. . .