dark humor – sparkledame

Choking

“Aren’t you lonely?”

“Of course I’m lonely, isn’t everyone?”

“I’m not, I’m in a relationship.”

“Last week you told me you were miserable with Mark.”

“Well ya, I’m miserable, but I’m not lonely.”

“Right.”

“You are alone alone. Like you could choke to death eating an apple at home.”

“I don’t eat apples.”

“Well, then you could choke to death eating takeout at home. We need to find you a man. You’re attractive, you’re better prepared than anyone I now for the apocalypse and you make the best brownies. Surely we can find you someone.”

“So, just so I’m clear: we need to find me a man so that he can save me from choking.”

“And so that you’re not lonely.”

“Got it.”

“This is serious. You’re not exactly young anymore. You need a partner to build a life with, someone who knows the Heimlich manoeuvre, is gainfully employed and doesn’t hate his mother.”

“That’s a tall order.”

“You use humor to avoid talking about things that make you uncomfortable.”

“The only thing making me uncomfortable is you – you sound like a Trad Wife from Project 2026.”

“I worry about you. We live so far away from each other. If something happens I can’t just stop by – I’m like a five hour plane ride away. I would feel much better if you were partnered up.”

“Even if we live in the same city you won’t be able to help me if I’m choking. I should actually transfer you money now for the cost of my cremation.”

“You’re insane.”

“I don’t want you to be stuck with the bill.”

“What about the owner of that cafe around the corner?”

“Bob?”

“Ya. He’s cute.”

“Bob smells like vinegar. Bob has never not smelled like vinegar.”

“You’re super judgemental. Smelling like vinegar just means he likes to clean using natural products. That’s a good thing.”

“A few years ago Bob told me that his cat died at home on a weekend, the Vet’s office was closed. So he wrapped her up and put her in the freezer until Monday. But then he got attached to having his cat in the freezer, he said it brought him comfort to be able to check on her everyday. So his cat is still in his freezer. It’s been three years.”

“Okay forget about Bob. Bob is a fucking freak. What about—”

“What about I stay single and chew my food really carefully?”

“Can you hear me? This is me deep sighing.”

“This is me ignoring your deep sigh.”

“You’re the most annoying best friend a girl could ever have.”

“I know, but you still love me.”

“I do, I love you fiercely.”

Grief

“Can a person die from grief?”

“No. Plus, don’t even think about dying. I already have three mini urns on my mantel, there is no room for a fourth.”

“You’re not getting my ashes. I’m having myself turned into a pod, then planted in the forest.”

“That can’t be legal.”

“It is, I read about it in The New York Times.”

“What will I have to remember you by if I don’t get your ashes?”

“You’ll have my vintage purse collection.”

“I’m listening.”

“And I’ll leave notes in each purse. So you’ll have little memory prompts like, ‘remember when we were Goth for six months in high school and our boyfriends were brothers?’ The notes will help you with your dementia.”

“I don’t have dementia.”

“Not yet, but you’ll probably get it.”

“What a lovely thing to say, thank you. Honestly though, what is up with you and your grief? You’re literally cloaked in it. It’s like a sad girl perfume that you spray on each day. And you spray on so much – like the cosmetic ladies at the mall used to do in the 80’s. It turns people off:
So some of your people died.
So some of your people are currently really sick and are probably going to die soon.
You are alive, you have to live.”

“Do I though? What if I’m just tired and kinda over it all and I just want to take a permanent nap. I should be able to decide my own fate.”

“First of all, if you kill yourself I’ll never forgive you and I’ll haunt your decayed pod in the stupid forest. Second of all – the whole point of life is that we don’t get to decide our own fate, life just unfolds. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get smashed by a dump truck tonight. Or, maybe you’ll live to 103 in a cottage by the sea with only a sprinkling of arthritis. Girl that’s the wild ride of it all, you don’t know what’s going to happen. You can’t control everything.”

“I am a bit of a control freak.”

“Ya think? Maybe you should go do that ketamine therapy, they just opened a swanky clinic near me.”

“That sounds dodgy.”

“It’s not, it’s legal, I read about it in your precious New York Times. Plus their office is really chic, like a minimalist-artisanal vibe. And the doctor who founded the place is hot. Dream-boy hot. Do it! Do the ketamine and shed your sad girl scent. I honestly can’t take it anymore.”

“Okay, okay, you made your point. I get it. My grief spiral has become unbearable, I’ll deal with it.”

“That’s my girl. Now let’s get back to people watching and being snarks. Like what is that woman even wearing on her feet?! They’re kitten heels with a super long toe. Ugliest fucking shoes I’ve ever seen.”

Little Pills

Lily adjusted her headphones and turned up the volume. Spotify knew her better than her boyfriend did. The songs were perfect: like little pills, each one numbing her just a bit more. No need to be fully sedated, but a light numbing – kind of like when the dentist freezes your mouth, then does painful things to you but you can’t feel it. Kind of like that.

Those guys over there look sketchy. Scary meth-head sketchy. They’re smoking something with a pipe. Crack? Is crack still a thing?

Looking around, Lily was struck by the style de jour:
white sneakers, fanny packs worn across chests and eyes searching phones for proof of life.

Dear God.

She wanted out of this. She wanted to live in a small, rural community surrounded by nature. The only problem was she didn’t have any country-living skills. Never chopped wood, knew nothing about gardening – except how to grow tomatos on her tiny patio – and was terrified of bears.

Taking a turn to get off the main drag, Lily passed a cute heritage home with old Halloween decorations left up. The owner had added Easter decor, so now it was a web with a giant black spider surrounded by pastel Easter eggs. So perfect that she stopped to take a photo.

This was modern life: decorating for holidays, one after the other with cheap toxic crap made in China. Everyone just Pod Person-ing around from Christmas to Valentines, to St. Patricks Day to Easter, to Cinco de Mayo to Summer, to Labor Day to Halloween, to Dia de los muertos to Thanksgiving and back again.

Wow. What a fucking nightmare world we’ve created. Like living in a 1950’s B movie, or an episode of The Twilight Zone.

The Loveliest Christmas

Our faux Christmas tree is shimmering in the prettiest way.
Every year I buy one new ornament, this year I bought a felted pink snail.

“Do you want some brandy?”
“Oh that sounds lovely, thanks.”

We’re sitting on either end of our long sofa, both balancing our laptops and now our glasses too.

I can’t tell if you’re playing a video game, or watching pornography.
Just like you can’t tell whether I’m chatting in my DMs with an old lover, or searching for the perfect winter wedge boots.

I accidentally see some horrible photos on Instagram:
“Dear God Almighty.”
“What’s wrong?” you ask worried.
“I just saw the most upsetting images from Gaza. I’ve been trying not to look at any of them because they’re too horrific, but they keep popping up in my feed.”

“You follow Democracy Now, what do you expect?”
“True, good point. Maybe I’ll just unfollow all the news and political accounts until things have calmed down a bit. Because it’s too much.”

“Solid plan. You have to protect your mental health. Plus, we’ve already given donations to multiple organizations to help, there’s nothing else we can do.”

“I know. This brandy is really good by the way.”

“Isn’t it smooth? I read about it in Bon Appetit and it wasn’t even that expensive, like $85 I think.”

“It’s fun to drink something different at the holidays, makes it feel special.”

“Do you want to listen to any music?”

“No, I’m watching these beauty videos. Trying to learn how to do a metallic eye for Jess’s New Year’s Eve party.”

“Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too babe.”

Pink felted snail watching its owners drink brandy while the world collapses

Shiny Pretty Things

Once, when I was little and my grandfather was babysitting me, I picked up a beautiful shiny green stone off the sidewalk. At least I thought it was a beautiful shiny green stone, but of course it was a piece of glass. I was wearing a yellow and white poncho which quickly became sprinkled with blood, as I excitedly showed off my treasure to my grandfather. Poor Pop, (that’s what we called him), he was visiting from Hartford and he had been charged with picking me up from school which was just a few blocks away. He scrambled to stop the bleeding as he rushed me home.

My grandmother gave him serious Irish side-eye when we came zooming in looking for first aid supplies. I still have the scar on the palm of my hand and honestly I could not love this memory more – to me it’s the funniest metaphor for life.

I still love shiny pretty things, but now I look a little closer before picking them up.

Photo by Lisa Larsen, 1953. The LIFE Picture Collection/Getty Images

A Million Pieces

“So, Janet, how have you been feeling since our last session?”

“Broken.”

“In what way?”

“In what way do I feel broken? You know, like in the typical broken way. Like if you imagine a vase dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces. And then maybe imagine trying to bend down and pick up the pieces, but in doing so you cut both your hands and feet on the ceramic shards. So now you’re sitting on the floor surrounded by pieces of your favorite flea market vintage vase and you’re bleeding. The blood is staining the ceramic shards so that instead of their pale oatmeal color they are turning a light rose shade. And as you’re sitting there in pain, both because you lost your favorite vase and because you now have cuts – and because you feel broken – you realize that you actually like the light rose color. So you think about just continuing to sit on the floor and allowing your blood to stain all the pieces of the vase. Because this rose color, it’s so much prettier.”

“I see. Well, that doesn’t sound too good.

“Nope.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the Japanese tradition of Kintsugi? The art of putting broken pieces of pottery back together with gold? It’s built on the idea that in embracing imperfections you can create an even stronger and more beautiful piece of art. Does that idea resonate with you at all?”

“No.”

“Why do you think it doesn’t resonate with you?”

“Well, first of all I don’t have any gold to repair the vase with. Second of all, I’m kind of like bleeding out on the floor, so I don’t really have the energy to repair anything.”

“I understand. I’m very concerned about you feeling broken. Are you having any suicidal thoughts?”

“You mean like taking the broken ceramic pieces and plunging them into my neck or heart?”

“Yes. Or, any other type of suicidal thoughts.”

“Not really. I’m too drained from feeling broken to take any action, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

“Okay. Remember in our last session I asked you to keep a Joy Journal? Have you written down any moments of joy from the last two weeks?”

“Let me check…My favorite bakery gave me an extra cupcake, so like I paid for one but got two. I don’t know if that qualifies, but I did write it down.”

“Good. What else?”

“I discovered an affordable eye cream that works just as well as the expensive one I was using.”

“Very good. What else?”

“I saw a very pretty red bird on the bush outside my house.”

“A cardinal?”

“What?”

“Was the bird a cardinal?”

“I don’t know. It was just a pretty red bird.”

“Excellent. What else?”

“That’s it.”

“Nothing else?”

“No. I mean as I told you at the beginning of the session I’ve been feeling broken. So my life hasn’t exactly been joy-packed.”

“Yes, totally makes sense. Listen Janet I have an idea, if you’re open to it.”

“What is it?”

“Let’s pick up all the broken pieces, one at a time. And you name each piece – for instance grief or loneliness – then we’ll explore the emotions that come up for you.”

“I’m open to that. I mean we’re going to be picking up like a bazillion pieces, but okay. I just have one request.”

“What is it?”

“The Joy Journal has got to go.”

Dr. Finkelstein smiled.

A Simple Life

“Why do you have to bring such chaos into our lives? I feel like everything you do is complicated and noisy.”

“First of all, thank you so much. What a lovely thing to say – that I bring chaos into our lives. Second of all, I bring color into our lives, not chaos, there’s a big difference.”

“Well then you need to tone down the color, maybe add a little beige to it. I just want to live a simple, quiet life.”

“A simple, quiet life? What does that even mean?”

“It means the fire alarm always goes off when you cook. It means when you have your girlfriends over for wine and cheese it turns into an insane eighties dance party and you get mad at me for not joining in. It means you make super random decisions like you’re suddenly going to bake pot brownies, but then you don’t measure properly and the marijuana sends you into a paranoia spiral. A simple, quiet life is the opposite of all that.”

“Wow, okay, well…. The pot brownies were an innocent mistake – you know I’m partially dyslexic, I messed up the numbers. The fire alarm is because I like to try new recipes and sometimes they don’t go exactly as planned. What are we gonna do, eat baked salmon every night? And you should have joined our dance party, we were having fun. Remember fun?”

“You exhaust me.”

“Well you bore me!”

Amy put on her big chunky heeled boots and stomped loudly out of the house. Half an hour later she was back with three bags of groceries. She turned on her Spotify 80’s Hits Mix and started cooking.

“Guess what,” she yelled,

“I’m cooking without a recipe, so get ready for more chaos!”

She took a sip of Pinot Noir and twirled around the kitchen, using the spatula as a microphone to sing along with The Go Go’s:

Can you hear them
They talk about us
Telling lies
Well, that’s no surprise

An hour later:

“Dinner is served – even though I’m still pissed.”

Dave joined her at the table. The kitchen looked like a gang of toddlers had trashed it, but he didn’t say anything. At least the fire alarm hadn’t gone off.

“Tonight’s menu features Thai chicken and coconut rice.”

“Smells good. Thanks for making dinner.”

“You’re welcome.”

“This is actually really really good.”

“Take out actually and I’ll happily accept the compliment.”

“This is really really good.”

“Thanks. It love it,” Amy said, taking a giant bite.

“I didn’t mean what I said earlier, or maybe I meant some of it, I don’t know. But I love you. It’s just this fucking pandemic. We’re with each other 24/7, it’s not normal.”

“Preach!” said Amy, raising her glass in the air. “The other day you were so irritating that I was about to hop a plane – Covid be damned – to somewhere sunny where there are cabana boys and umbrella drinks.”

They continued eating in silence.

“Maybe we should take a mini-break,” said Amy.

“But where would we go? The U.S. border is closed. And anyways, I don’t feel safe flying yet.”

“No, I meant take a break from each other.”

“What?”

“Don’t get upset, just listen for a second. Relationships are suffering in the pandemic and divorce rates are skyrocketing. We don’t have kids, we don’t even have a cat. So why don’t we take advantage of that flexibility and try living ‘together but apart’ for a few months. It’s actually a very popular trend, it started way before the pandemic. Even The New York Times wrote an article on the phenomenon – lots of couples are living separately and they’re really happy.”

Dave wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“No. No way. That sounds like a one-way ticket to divorce.”

“Why don’t you read up on it first before you say no. It has nothing to do with divorcing. You could have more of the simple quiet life that you like and I could be…me.”

“This is just your pandemic stress talking. Let’s keep things as they are, I don’t want to rock the boat.”

“Well maybe the boat needs to be rocked. Maybe the boat needs to be fucking flipped over!” cried Amy.

“This is what I was talking about earlier – everything is always chaotic with you. You’re suggesting a major life change in the middle of a global pandemic. It’s complete insanity.”

“Fine. Do you mind cleaning up?”

“No problem.”

“Thanks.”

Amy went to the living room, took her laptop and googled “Caribbean destinations that Canadians are allowed to visit” and scrolled through the covid rules and regulations. Then she booked a hotel and flight, leaving in one week and staying for two weeks.

Yes, I’ll be on a plane, probably a crowded one. So yes, I’m taking a chance. But our boat needs to be rocked. And I need a cabana boy and an umbrella drink like yesterday.

Roxie

“Beautiful girl, I love you so much. Give me a kiss.”

“Why do you only talk like that to our dog?”

“What?”

“You never call me beautiful. You never tell me you love me and I can’t remember the last time we kissed.”

“You’re being ridiculous. And you’re making Roxie anxious with your weird energy. See how her ears are pointed back? That means she’s worried.”

“Oh Sweet Jesus.”

“It’s okay Roxie, come here. There you go, belly rubs solve everything.”

“And tonight, like every other night, she’ll lie between us – horizontally – separating us so we can’t cuddle.”

“Since when do you like cuddling? You always say that you can’t sleep in my arms, that you need space.”

“I can’t sleep in your arms because I get too hot. But it would be nice to cuddle before going to sleep. You know, like a normal couple.”

“We are a normal couple. Roxie’s eyes are bulging out, the tone of this conversation is upsetting her.”

“Holy fuckety fuck. She’s a dog. I love her, you know I do. But why can’t she sleep in her dog bed? The one in the corner that cost a bazillion dollars.”

“She’s a rescue dog and rescue dogs need extra affection.”

“Do you want out of this marriage?”

“What? No, of course not. Don’t be so dramatic. And don’t raise your voice, you’re scaring Roxie.

“She has you wrapped around her little paws.”

“Roxie, come here, it’s okay. Let’s all just calm down and I’ll turn off the light.”

“I can’t take this.”

“You can’t take what?”

“Your primary relationship is with our dog, not me. You love our dog more than you love me. You engage with our dog more than with me. You show affection to our dog more than with me. Our dog has a better wardrobe than me for God’s sake.”

“I think you’re having one of those hormonal imbalance meltdowns. Why don’t you take a Xanax and we’ll go to sleep. Roxie are you warm enough? Let me just pull this blanket up over you.”

“I just can’t…”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting dressed.”

“It’s eleven thirty, why are you getting dressed?”

“Because I don’t want to drive over to Sheila’s house wearing a nightgown.”

“You’re acting crazy.”

“Actually I’m fully rational and I’m – what’s that saying? – ‘leaning into my power.’ Maybe tomorrow you can take your four-legged wife to her favorite dog park, the one across town. That will give me time to pack my bags.”

“What? Don’t joke about things like that, it’s not funny. We would both be devastated if you left.”

“Actually you might not even notice I’m gone. And Roxie will be ecstatic to have you all to yourself.”

“What if I buy you the wardrobe of your dreams? Will that help?”

“What?”

“You said earlier that Roxie had a better wardrobe than you. So what if I gave you my credit card and you could buy all that Net-A-Porter stuff that I see you coveting on Instagram. Like those black boots with the weird chunky soles.”

“So let me get this straight: your takeaway from everything I just said is, that you think I would be happier in our relationship if I had a wardrobe as nice as Roxie’s?”

“Well, yes. It would be a tangible symbol of my love for you.”

“Wow.”

“Wow what?”

“Just like an all-around wow.”

“Well…”

“How much?”

“What do you mean how much?”

“How much would I get to put on your credit card for my new wardrobe?”

“Three thousand dollars.”

“Five thousand.”

“You’re negotiating with me?”

“You’re a lawyer, you would negotiate too. Plus, you make a ton of money.”

“Fine. It’s a deal. Five thousand dollars to prove that I love you as much as I love Roxie.”

“Okay then.”

“Thank God. Roxie has calmed down, she can tell that things are better between us.”

“I bet she can, she’s an Empath that Roxie.”

“Actually you’re right, she is an Empath. My sweet little girl.”

(Photo: iStock, NY Times article by Jen A. Miller, March 13th, 2018)

A Field Of Lavender

“This isn’t working, I still feel anxious.”

“You’ve been under the blanket for two minutes, it’s not like Xanax, it doesn’t work that fast.”

“But it’s so heavy, I feel like I can’t breathe.”

“Of course it’s heavy, it’s a weighted blanket. And you’re breathing just fine. They’ve sold millions of these, we would have heard if people were being smothered to death.”

“But we didn’t buy this blanket, your mother knit it. And your mother hates me, maybe she overweighted it. Maybe I’m dying as we speak.”

“Oh My God Laura, stop with the theatrics. My mother doesn’t hate you, she’s trying to help. She doesn’t want you to become addicted to pills, she’s worried.”

“You told me your mother doesn’t believe in anxiety. You told me she said I was just looking for attention.”

“True, she did say that, but that was like two years ago. Recently one of the ladies in her book club confided in her that she suffers from anxiety, so now she’s a believer.”

“Well I still think she judges me for it, but it was kind of her to knit the blanket.”

“Yes it was. She’s a good woman. I’m going to run a few errands and I’ll pick something up for dinner. Love you.”

“Love you too. Get some wine, we’re almost out.”

Laura put on her Sarah McLachlan playlist and closed her eyes. The blanket smelled really good, like lavender. Maybe Jeremy’s mother didn’t hate her after all. I mean knitting a blanket this thick was a huge undertaking. Laura decided to invite Mrs. Peters out for a girls afternoon. They would get mani pedis and then have a lovely lunch at The Row House, which was very old-school, white linen, shrimp cocktail-fancy. It would make Jeremy happy too.

She took a deep breath then slowly let it out, pulling the blanket all the way up to her chin.

But I fear
I have nothing to give
I have so much to lose

“I love Sarah McLachlan, she doesn’t get enough credit. I mean she created Lilith Fair for God’s sake.”

The heaviness of the blanket forced Laura to breathe slowly. It put her into a calm and somewhat meditative state. She started making a mental list of all that she was grateful for:
– Jeremy
– their beloved, but now dead cat Gus
– her new hair style
– their families and friends
– of course their rent-controlled apartment
– their relatively good health, not counting her anxiety
– her fall Stuart Weitzman boots

“I think this crazy weighted blanket really is working. I feel peaceful, kind of tired like I’m ready for a nap. I wonder how much longer I should lie under it?”

Laura adjusted the blanket so that it went around her neck, with just her head poking out. She would make this Saturday night special. After taking a nap she would dress up in something pretty and light some candles for dinner. They would watch a Criterion film and then make love.

Laura’s breath slowed, like it does at the end of a yoga class when the instructor guides everyone into a tranquil state.

“This is better than taking pills. Then again I can’t use it in public. Imagine me dragging my weighted blanket around like Linus from Charlie Brown. Hilarious!” She giggled.

Surrendering to the blanket, Laura drifted off ~ breathing quietly like a tiny mouse. She felt cocooned in a field of lavender.

“They were out of your favorite wine, but I found another one, it’s French. Apparently it has notes of lavender, which I thought was cool.”

“Laura?”

“Laura?! Wake up Laura!”

Love Scent

“I’m going to marry him,” I told my girlfriends. He smelled like home. When he hugged me I’d almost fainted from the sheer intensity of his scent. He smelled like the kind of love that inspires poets and songwriters. But God is a trickster. He created smell to mess with us. “She thinks she’s going to marry him because he smells like home!” God said laughing. “I’m just fucking with you, get it together girl, he’s not your future husband!” God tossed a handful of popcorn in his mouth and continued watching his reality show.