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Reb's Choice

Issue Date: Wednesday, Jul. 07, 2004

This morning I stumbled out of bed, walked into the restroom and turned on the light. The cat was following me with his quiet, early morning “mmmrrrow?” punctuating the steady rumble of a purr coming from his chest (or where ever it is those purr things come from… throat? belly? whatever.). We stood quietly staring. Me staring in the mirror, and him, staring at me.

He kept questioning me with his quiet “mmrrrrrrow?” which I think means, “Geeze woman, I know you are smooshy-faced and sleepy, but could you hurry your lazy backside up and get me some fresh food? The food you put in my bowl last night has gone horribly awry and I am a feared that I will faint lest I gobble up a fresh cupful of Nutro pronto. And I mean NOW missy.”

Or… he could just be saying, “Good mornin’ to yer.”

Why must I give my cat an impatient attitude and an awful Cockney’d accent?

::blink::

Anyway, I just sort of stood there and tried to wake up. I looked on the corner of the counter and there sat a book that I have been reading for the past couple of days. The book is Eliot’s Banana. My sister gave me that book with a smile and said, “No. Really. It’s good!”

And I… like a tool, believed her.

This is the same woman who buys and asks for O-frah’s book club listings for Christmas or birthday presents.

I was sucked in to two books by this guy. One was a book about some chick named Delores that was so mentally unstable that she tried to drown herself next to a beached whale. And the other was about a pair of identical twins and their struggles, one to be like his brother and the other to be anything else but like his twin.

Both of those books disturbed me deeply, in several ways. I found myself sucked into the sickness of Delores and her unhealthy self-image, because she was fat, she had to be crazy. Right? And because the only man she ever loved, her daddy, left, she had to eat and eat and eat to make herself fat. Right? Ugh. And the other one… the twins. Shit. One hacks off his hand because God told him too? Co-dependant relationships are not a joy to read about.

And both of them… Both of them. BOTH. Of. The. Books. Ended poorly. Sorta like… blah-dy blah-dy blah Big POINT. The end. No denouement, no “In Conclusion”… Nothing. I’d like a little closure with my poorly written bucket of crazy, Thank You.

Um hi.

Yeah, Reb. I do love you. Really, more than my luggage.

I love your sense of humor and your ability to make people feel really special with your attention.

I love how you research and complete the smallest detail when planning something for somebody or a group of friends.

I love your huge brown eyes and long eyelashes and that precious little birthmark hidden in your eyebrow.

I love how you go from calling Mom and Dad repeatedly on the phone to karate kicks when you have had a few glasses of red wine.

I love your loyalty to friends and loved ones.

I love that you are both my older sister and a best friend.

I love that you have anal tendencies that run amok when you are coordinating a trip or an event, but that your closet could be hiding Jimmy Hoffa or the missing Monkees and you’d be okay with that.

I love how you treat your son with the utmost care, love and respect and how he has gleaned the best parts of you and your husband to make the most perfect little boy.

I love how you chuckle with that deep belly laugh when something strikes you as particularly funny.

And most of all, I just love you.

But please. No more books. Kay?

I sat down at my vanity this morning because I had like two chapters left to read in that Eliot’s Banana book. I had already grimaced at the sodomy with fruit and the painful way the main character deals with her brother’s death… but THAT is how you end it Ms. Swain?

::heavy sigh::

Spoiler ahead… seriously. I give it all away. If you want to read that book without an inkling of what the end is all about… Scroll down past the second line.


Dear Ms. Swain,

Regarding the end of your book:

Handing your dead little brother’s cleats to your lover that you cheated on with some guy who has a diabetic cat is not the way to leave a smile on someone’s face. It is almost a surefire way to guarantee your spot in literary history will be right up there with Mr. Lamb, under the heading of “Had pictures of O-frah canoodling a goat… so she had to feature my book on her show.”

Sincerely,

Me.


In conclusion, Yes, I know that Ms. Swain and Mr. Lamb have enough money from the sales of their collective books that they could have my gender reassigned and put me out for rent in Tijuana, and that my entries suck some serious gorilla wang occasionally but alas…

No more, please.

Note to self: regardless of how cute Reb is and how much she assures you that a book is, indeed, good. Run the opposite way. Screaming.

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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.

To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

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