The Long Search
1985
Marist College
Poughkeepsie, NY
“Describe Hell.”
My five college roommates and I are lounging around one evening in our tiny apartment living room, in various stages of undress – Flash dance socks inside big, mangy bunny slippers, sweatpants with camisoles, and other weird collegiate loungewear. Our good friend, John, is asking us this question for a Philosophy assignment.
One by one my roomies answered:
“Burning hot.” Kelly.
“Everyone hates you in Hell!” Lea.
“You hate them!” Tammy.
“It is u-g-l-y.” Lynn.
“Country music blasting 24/7!” Courtney.
“Dara, how ‘bout you?” John asked.
“Hell…is a beautiful place,” I decided.
“Yeah?” he asked, pen poised. I saw Tammy roll her eyes and heard Kelly sigh, and Lea disappeared into the bathroom. I went on:
“Hell fools you. It has gorgeous scenery and people and there are buffets everywhere. But…Hell is a cruel place. You are truly damned if you do, or don’t. People are smiling and pleasant but they hate you; the flowers stink; the food gives you the runs.”
“Yeah!” yelled Lynn from the bathroom.
“And?” John asked, scribbling.
“Cramps are even worse in Hell,” said Lea thoughtfully.
“And men are even moodier,” added Kelly.
“And nothing you do in Hell pays or means a thing. It is, like, totally postal,” said Courtney.
“Even worse,” I added, “no matter how many degrees you have you will always be referred to as a ‘housewife.’
“No!”
“And… everyone calls you Ma’am in Hell!” Lynn, really on a roll now.
“Not only is Hell hot, but it is humid and sticky and filled with bugs you can’t see. But they bite – hard.” I went on:
“No matter how hard you try to fit in, in Hell, you don’t. Your fellow Hellions hate you. It is no use. Even worse, in Hell you get everything you ever wished for but realize it sucks.”
“Oo, this is good. Go on,” John ordered.
“In fact you realize in Hell that everything you ever believed to be true is wrong. Lying is King in Hell and Love is taken away.”
“She went to one of those Catholic schools,” Lea whispered to Tammy, who nodded knowingly.
“Hell is NOISY. You are driven to distraction, no matter what you try to do. And, while it may look Rockwellian in Hell, everything is loaded with mouse dung.”
“Ew!” Collective disgust from the gallery.
“Anything else?” John asked.
“Hellions hate puppies.”
“Oh!” Group gasp.
There was a bit of a pregnant pause here. Finally, with wobbly pencil and saucer-like eyes, John asked,” What’s your vision of Heaven, then?”
“Heaven?” I asked.
Everyone nodded.
“Ask me if I get there.”
Thursday, September 17, 2009
To All Dog Lovers on Facebook...
Hey, all!
Check out my blog if you've ever loved a pet or a person a LOT.
Let me know what you think!
In a couple of months I have another book coming out for the whole family entitled, "WOODY'S GARDEN". I wrote and illustrated it to help pet lovers of all ages deal with the confusion and grief of losing a pet by planting a special garden. Kids and adults may like the pictures, too!
Will be available on www.xlibris.com and it is considered a Children's Book. Will keep you posted....
Check out my blog if you've ever loved a pet or a person a LOT.
Let me know what you think!
In a couple of months I have another book coming out for the whole family entitled, "WOODY'S GARDEN". I wrote and illustrated it to help pet lovers of all ages deal with the confusion and grief of losing a pet by planting a special garden. Kids and adults may like the pictures, too!
Will be available on www.xlibris.com and it is considered a Children's Book. Will keep you posted....
Even Kathy Griffin Can't Get Me to Laugh Now
*
This is sick, I am thinking.
I am holding my dead dog in his favorite blanket while my husband dickers with the vet receptionist over the $125 charge. This, after spending more than $500 yesterday on medicines that did not “make him more comfortable so he can die at home,” as the vet promised; diuretics that left him wired, awake, and aware of the fact that he was dying.
****
“Please. Please…”
David is stabbing the ground brutally with the business end of a shovel.
We wrapped him up in his green blanket with Vinnie the Pooh, his favorite teddy bear toy he tore one ear off of, years ago when we lived in Michigan. Together we gently laid him in a little box with palm trees and sail boats on it, inside another box, black leather like all the suitcases he was so used to seeing over the years. Now we are burying him in the back corner of the yard, near the plum tree he loved to sniff.
My eyes are nearly swollen shut. I don’t want to part with this box. No way.
David is crying. Hard.
A big wind kicked up and he held out his hand.
I handed him the box.
*
This is sick, I am thinking.
I am holding my dead dog in his favorite blanket while my husband dickers with the vet receptionist over the $125 charge. This, after spending more than $500 yesterday on medicines that did not “make him more comfortable so he can die at home,” as the vet promised; diuretics that left him wired, awake, and aware of the fact that he was dying.
****
“Please. Please…”
David is stabbing the ground brutally with the business end of a shovel.
We wrapped him up in his green blanket with Vinnie the Pooh, his favorite teddy bear toy he tore one ear off of, years ago when we lived in Michigan. Together we gently laid him in a little box with palm trees and sail boats on it, inside another box, black leather like all the suitcases he was so used to seeing over the years. Now we are burying him in the back corner of the yard, near the plum tree he loved to sniff.
My eyes are nearly swollen shut. I don’t want to part with this box. No way.
David is crying. Hard.
A big wind kicked up and he held out his hand.
I handed him the box.
*
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