Sometimes I Cry Because I Am So So Happy

In what appears to be a growing journalism trend where the writer bypasses research and poses a question instead of delivering information, I read a particle a few days ago in which the aught-er asked his readers to explain why people cry when they laugh. I returned the aught-er’s effort by asking more questions. Do you also wonder why people cry when peeling onions, facing the sun, yawning, or battling foreign objects in the eye area?

I consider myself somewhat an expert on tears. My credentials, for those who might question this determination, are as follows:

^ My maternal grandfather and uncle cried every time they laughed.

^ A paternal uncle cried at weddings and after his second highball every Christmas Eve.

^ I cried for three straight days once and think, even if that is not a record, it deserves special recognition.

^ Several highly-specialized ophthalmologists have examined, prodded, x-rayed and MRI’d my eyes and concluded that they are sufficiently dry to warrant permanent plugs in all four tear ducts and a lifetime of bankrupting prescriptions.

^ I can almost recite Iyanla Vanzant’s poem, Yesterday, I Cried and I have read the entire book more than once.

^ I enjoy the benefits of crying so much that I schedule cries if too much time passes between spontaneous one.

^ My granddaughter respects my crying wisdom enough to turn to me for advice. *

Before stressing myself with the gruesome task of typing tears in my search engine box and consulting the fact monster, I flung myself on the proverbial limb, resolved that the body produces tears without emotional involvement (as in the onion, sun, yawn, and foreign object examples), and brazenly put laughter-associated tears in that same category. Even though laughter is a response to an emotion, I believe my laughing tears are more reflexive than physic.

After doing basic research, I am not sure all experts agree with me. However, even without the benefit of chemical protein testing, I am sticking with my belief for now since I am not the only one to question the wikipedia report. I am a hearty laugher, and think the pressure-in-the-head-causing-an-overflow-of-basal-tears explanation works much better than the I’m-moved-to-tears rationalization for my laughter-induced tears. Besides, a real cry requires a coordinated effort of emotions, cells, and glands, and I am quite sure I am not focused enough to carrying that out while I am enjoying myself.

* Bonus grandchild story

My four-year-old granddaughter surprised me when she left her toys to come sit beside me on the couch and watch the television special about Oprah’s Leadership Academy For Girls. She listened intently to the applicant interviews and watched the docudrama profiles of their histories. When the selected students were shown their new school and home, and a few expressed excitement over having showers, Tatum stopped breathing and looked up at me.

“Gramma, do you ever cry because you are just so so happy?” she finally asked.

I blinked away my tears and assured her that I often cry when I am so so happy.

She smiled, said she does too, and released her own little river of tears.

Double bonus definitions:

basal tear – protective (lubricate)
reflex tear – response (onions, foreign objects)
physic tears (weeping or crying) – different chemicals in these tears

MAJOR ANNOUNCEMENT (and call for help) – Courier Journal Does Not Have Time to Speak With Me

As I lay soaking in the tub this weekend, totally unaware of my latent yearning to subscribe to the Courier-Journal, the phone rang. I decided to hop out and answer that ringing phone, since my answering machine did not pick up and a close friend was in intensive care.

Fortunately, it was good news. Someone in the Courier-Journal sales department had received the psychic message I had inadvertently sent and called me. The call went as follows:

Me: Hello

Caller: Nothing

Me: Hello

Computer voice: Hello. This is a sales call. Our representatives are busy at the moment and will call you later.

Me: (a bunch of stuff I can’t say here unless I flag this for adult content)

After thinking about my rude behavior, I realized I should do something to make up for cussing at that recording. If the Courier-Journal cares enough about me to let me know when they do not have time to speak with me, I should return that favor.

I have called them (502) 585-1763 three times so far today to let them know I am too busy to talk but will call back later.

If anyone else is looking for a Random Act of Kindness activity, I hope you will let them know when you don’t have time to speak with them.

Nosy Business

I think I was shorted. Sweat that one out, baby. What if I suddenly grew long? I do important things for you and get nothing but abuse in return. What's up with that? Up? Sweat that one out too; what if I decided to turn up and make you look like a pig?

Every reference to me is negative, and that gets old. Nosy butt, honker, beak, snorter, don't get your nose out of joint, keep your nose where it belongs (like I've ever left my post), keep your nose clean, and worst of all, put your nose to the grindstone. Do I deserve that? I may not be the brain, but I think not.

For years, I had the responsibility of carrying those coke-bottle glasses, not an easy job at all. (And, I might remind you, if your eyes had done their part, things would have been much easier on me.) Oh, but if I got tired, and slipped just a little, you weren't kind enough to remove the glasses, or even use your hands to gently put them were they belonged. No, you wrinkled me up and forced the plastic frames right back into the spot that hurt in the first place. Just once, I used to think, just once have a little respect for me.

Do you have any idea how miserable I was during puberty? The breasts, the emotions, and the female organs got all the sympathy. I got no credit for the torture I endured. You squeezed, scrubbed (remember the brush your crazy friend suggested for black heads), dried me out with astringents, and steamed me with that unbearable little machine guaranteed to deliver a perfect complexion. If you had taken the time to remove your make-up so I could breath, these torture devices might not have been necessary. But, I wasn't the mouth, so I couldn't say a thing.

And then, to add insult to injury, you blamed me for your fear of kissing! Did it ever occur to you that it was my job to know where to go, and I was prepared to do my job? I was anxious for a kiss. I looked forward to snuggling up close to someone else's face, someone who may run a finger gently down my side, or bless me with a little kiss instead of torture.

I led the way, filtered your air, alerted you to danger, and what did I get in return? Black heads, zits, allergies, and paper towels instead of tissues. Personally, I think I deserved silk handkerchiefs.

I am kind, not too long, not too wide, and a nice little bridge for glasses. I keep the hairs inside so you don't have to be embarrassed. But, you drag me to stinky situations, and pinch me when I react as I'm supposed to, and draw attention to my compromised position by shouting some ridiculous word like phewweeee! It's not a bit nice.

You're the one who smokes and drags me around molds, cats, rabbits, dust, and Oak trees. You know full well what will happen, and you still curse me for running. But oh, the feet get praised when they run.

And please, learn to swim or stay away from the pool. For years, you squeezed me so tightly before going under water that I thought you'd pull me right off your face. What a baby you were. You still don't have a clue. Exhale! You jump in and let me drown and sting from the chlorine when you could easily exhale and force the water in the other direction. Is that so hard to comprehend?

Admit you know the truth. I treat you better than anyone else does. I don't have any muscles or joints. I give you no pain. I don't bleed. I don't keep you awake. And I don't sag or wrinkle.
I think we are going to become closer friends as you age.

Musical Chairs

On the last day of the retreat, I dropped into what had become my favorite position in the discussion circle, back to the windows, facing the door. "Carl Hiassen? John Grisham?" I mulled over possibilities with the young girl in the seat next to me.

"Maybe Barbara Kingsolver!" she said. "It's bound to be someone we talked about this week."
I folded my new handouts into the collection already in my purse, and shoved the bag under my chair while a hotel staffer thanked us and reviewed departure plans. When I rose again, Hillary Clinton had replaced the young girl beside me. Hillary Clinton! And no one else seemed to notice.
Unashamed, I regressed to teenybopper mentality, choked, grabbed her hand, and blathered like a fool. "I can't believe it! I'm a huge fan. I have your books and your tee shirt." In case she had amnesia, I threw in, "You're Hillary Clinton!"

She pulled the tight, closed-lip smile and greeted me with a wink as our moderator took the floor. A revelation and carotid thumping slammed me at the same time. Bill Clinton was the mystery guest. His book was out. Hillary would be waiting in the wings if she were the speaker.

"I have to call my daughter," I announced and stuck my head between my legs to find the purse. "My granddaughter is in love with your husband," I went on once I had the bag on my lap. "She has to bring her here. My daughter, I mean. She has to bring my granddaughter."

Hillary nodded. I think she leaned away from me but I didn't have the composure to be embarrassed. I was to busy fighting the zipper on my purse. Finally, phone in hand but speed-dial number on vacation, I punched in my daughter's home number, managing to hit all the numbers on the second try.

A kid answered. Even in my star-struck state, I knew it wasn't one of my daughter's kids. I asked for Jessica, using my hand to hide the phone and my voice from the frowning moderator.

"She's not here. This is Brian."

I kept my eyes on the floor and whispered. "Get Brent."

"He's not here. Just me."

There was no way my daughter and son-in-law had left an eight-year-old nephew alone in their house. No way on earth, and I didn't have time to play games with this kid. I disconnected and hit redial, hoping an adult would answer this time.

Hillary clamped my shoulder in a vice grip. "Don't move." She twanged, in a nasal monotone. Without turning my head, I rolled my eyes to confirm the nightmare. Hillary had turned into Laura Freaking Bush.

The cell phone slid to the floor as the doors across from me opened and secret service agents, one for each of us, flooded the room. They circled the group and stood behind our chairs. That could only mean one thing, and it was the last thing I could bear.

"He's never written a book," I cried. "Probably never read one."

"Don't move," Laura repeated. "And don't speak."

The air stopped. My life ended. That was the only logical explanation; I died and there was a hell.

Smirky swaggered through the door, blinking and clearing his throat. He started on the left, shook a hand, and made an ignorant statement that had nothing to do with writing. I wanted my money back, but I probably couldn't use it in hell. He moved to the second guest, hand outstretched and on topic this time. "Gosh durn, I like books. The American people like books. I tell the American people all the time how much I like books."

My stomach rolled into my throat. My sweaty hands shook. I leaned over to pick up the phone but it slid from my hand. He moved to the third chair, getting closer, Laura reprimanded me again, dizziness set it.

I pulled my sleeves over my hands and realized that wasn't enough. He would still be in my face, breathing the same air. He would have me arrested when he saw the look in my eyes, but they'd probably shoot me if I tried to run.

I woke in a sweat, just after I slid my face below the neckline of my blouse. I'm still afraid of writing retreats, and I don't try to interpret this dream.

These Feet Were Made For Walking

I would drop to my knees and deliver the most heart-felt apology ever if I thought it would change anything. But the damage is done, and I doubt it would make much difference now.

I walked all over you, forced you into uncomfortable positions, allowed others to step on you, too, and a whole string of other injustices I can't bring myself to mention. I am truly sorry, especially considering how you carried me through the toughest times in my life and stood with me during the happiest. And you danced with me, the greatest gift of all. I'd give anything to do it again, and appreciate you the way I should have back then.

I guess the first memories I have of you are childish, but I want to go back to the beginning and remind you of the fun we once had. Remember when Granddad pulled my socks off and pretended you smelled bad so I would giggle. Once I started laughing, he'd grab you and tickle, and I'd kick and scream? I hope that was as much fun for you as it was for me.

You must have seen the abuse coming, because you toughened up early. Did you hate shoes as much as I did, and that's why you didn't complain when I jumped rope in the gravel, or walked miles on hot blacktop, or ran out in the snow without covering you? Remember that time I jumped on the broken bottle and it didn't even penetrate your skin? I was proud of you. I didn't mean to be abusive.

This is kind of embarrassing, but when I got older, I thought you were on the wrong body. The rest of me was long and thin, but you were short and fat. Why is that? Did you want to belong to someone else? For what it's worth, I learned to appreciate you for not being boats, and was glad you belonged to me.

You got me back with the warts. Warts are not cool, especially between the toes. However, I apologize for letting it turn into cellulitis, and for refusing the anesthesia when they cut on you. At least you got a break from gym and track.

Someone should just smack me for the years I forced you to travel eight floors of that hospital in high-heeled shoes. I'm sure you heard me vote out the nursing uniforms and comfortable shoes, so I won't try to make excuses. You can probably bribe the hands to deliver that punch if you want. I wouldn't blame you.

I do understand why you had to sit me down. Arthritis was more than you deserved, and you sure took the brunt of some years. I forgive you for making me wear the high-top sneakers all through 1987, even though I did feel self-conscious in my dresses and sports shoes. It helped you, so I'm glad I did it.

Can we call a truce? The rest of my body is just as miserable as you are now. If you will just promise not to hurt on the same day as my hip, I promise I'll never stick you in another pair of miserable shoes. Just keep me out of the wheelchair and I'll be happy walking as little as possible.

With a little compromise, I think we still have some good years left.

Breasts - Who Wants Them?

For those of us sentenced to Catholic school, back-to-school shopping promised few thrills beyond walking to Kresges with all the neighborhood mothers and our supply lists. The most we could look forward to once we got there was something as mundane as two-holed versus three-holed paper, or a choice between anklets and knee socks. Vickie Johnson changed that for all of us the summer before sixth grade.

Long before anyone else thought of shopping that year, Vickie's mom left the other nine children behind, shunned Kresges and the other mothers, and took Vickie downtown to shop, just the two of them. When they hadn't returned at dinnertime, I wasn't sure I could eat around my growing anticipation. I pictured her with all sorts of extravagant things: the cartridge pen with the pointed cap, the roll top pencil holder, a madras purse. If she came back with them all, I'd die of excitement with her.

As I shoved bites of pork chop around the plate, picturing Vickie in a red stretch-headband, she charged through the door without stopping to knock. "Wait 'til you see what I got," she squealed.

I didn't have to wait; my whole family sat staring at the bra she swung over her head like she'd win a prize if she lassoed the light fixture. I hid my disappointment, hoping she would still get at least one of the good things I had dreamed for her.

She handed the bra over for my mother to examine, neither of them showing any sign they shared my regret. After I had my turn at holding the bra, Vickie rushed out to show the others.

Mom bit her cheeks. Daddy said now Vickie would have something to carry her apples to school in. I asked to be excused and ran to catch up with my friend.

Within an hour, every girl in the neighborhood had rubbed, stretched, fastened and unfastened, adjusted the straps, and pined for Vickie's bra. She pulled a few of us aside and promised we could all try it on the next day.

Caught up in the excitement of being included in the select fitting club, I approached my mother that night to see if my world was changing also. "Am I getting a bra before school starts?"

"I don't think you need one," she said. "Do you?"

Suddenly I wanted breasts. "When do you think I might grow?"

She reminded me we were in the same grade, but Vickie was a year older. "Besides, people grow at different rates. It'll happen when the time is right for you."

That was my first lesson in careful what you wish for. Had I known the bra would become a pain in my ass forever, I would never have wasted those wishes.

My time came, and I got my bra. Even after Mom helped me adjust the straps, it refused to stay where it belonged. I tried not to move, but it didn't matter how still I sat, the darned thing climbed up and I had to tug it back down. At times, I was afraid it would crawl out the top of my blouse. It itched. I couldn't pay attention in class. Mom said I would be more comfortable after she had washed the bra a few times. She lied.

Once the newness wore off on that first bra, I wondered who could possibly have invented the contraption. What woman hated herself so much she decided to design something that would make her miserable every waking second of her life? Who thought gee it might be a good idea to bind her breasts tightly, connect the binding to her shoulders for added discomfort, and then put a piece of elastic across the back so boys could snap the crap out of her back? That woman must have been crazy, along with all the ones who followed her. And if a man thought it up, women were stupid to listen to him.

I changed my mind. I did not want breasts.

Not much changed over the years. My friends saved for months to get implants, I turned down freebies. My plastic surgeon friend retired feeling like a failure because my chest was still flat. I didn't want a hunk of flab hanging off my stomach, so why would I want two hanging off my chest?

I haven't seen Vickie in years. I picture her as a Victoria Secret regular, with a wardrobe of sexy lingerie. I'm still thinking about that fountain pen with the pointed lid.

Let It Be - Revisited

Our eyes locked. Her grin confirmed the shared memory, enhancing the pleasure for me.

"I wasn't crazy about the song before," I said as the last notes played, sure she knew before what. "But I'll always smile when I hear it now."

She laughed. "I guess so. That was one of the funniest things I've ever seen."

Funny? My cheeks ached from smiling through the song but I didn't consider hilarity the key motivation behind my smile.

I replayed the original experience. Several times that night, I had noticed the wiry little guy in the corner, legs hugged tightly under the chin that propped his forlorn expression atop his knees. More impressive than his agility was his apparent ability to shut out the screaming music and hubbub of the crowd around him. He might have been grieving, contemplating the most serious decision in his life, stoned out of his mind, or so utterly comfortable with his own company that nothing else mattered.

As if sneezed into a fresh cosmos, he suddenly landed--arms flailing and feet stomping—in the aisle, where he danced something similar to a jig/clog blend, to a less-than-jiggy rendition of "We Will Rock You". Blown away by this opportunity to experience a transformation before my eyes, I laughed with him, and enjoyed his dance as much as if I had been his partner.

"Seriously," I returned to the present and my daughter. "I will never forget this guy, and I'll smile every time I think of him. Don't you appreciate what he has given you? "

"I guess." Her expression lost a little of the here-goes-my-crazy-mom look. "Remember the first time we met Jeff and Christine? That's the song I'll never be able to hear without losing it." When able to control her laughter, she wiped her eyes and sang Jeff's line. "If you don't blow me right now –"

I did Christine's part with a straight face--"I will never never never-"--and become conscious of the impact the many single moments of pleasure people, often strangers, have given me.

"Don't you hope you've given others moments they will never forget?" I asked. "That people you don't even know smile every time they think of you?"

Her smile faded. "I'm not sure I want to be remembered because I made a fool of myself."

I thought about the time my boot hit a slick spot in the middle of a busy intersection and tossed my legs over my head. Six lanes of stopped traffic and the four co-workers crossing with me watched as I untangled my skirt from around my face and scrambled to my feet before the light changed. I don't begrudge any of the people who still smile when passing that corner.

"What about the Mambo Kings picture?" I asked.

She closed her eyes and shuddered. "Shut up, Mother."

"You know some of those people still tell friends about the crazy girl who flipped through her pictures and drew a crowd when she fell on the floor laughing." I gave her an encouraging nudge.

"Come on. Admit it isn't such a bad thing to make so many people laugh."

She wasn't admitting any such thing.

"How about the time you wouldn't let go of Duncan's leash, and he pulled you between my legs and knocked Bill and me off the porch?" I asked. "It doesn't make you the least bit happy to know your grandmother will always have that memory?"

"Let's go back to other people making us laugh," she suggested. "Remember when Tim asked for a tampon, thinking it was a popsicle? And when the bird perched on Mike's glasses?"

Later, as we held our sides and wiped our eyes, my thoughts returned to the shared memory that had started this laugh fest. "The dancer makes me smile for a different reason. He made me happy."

We decided it didn't matter how we leave good impressions, as long as we give others a reason to smile when they remember us. I might learn to clog, but I think she's looking for something different.

Dear Girl In the Red Convertible

Dear Girl In the Red Convertible,

I know you haven't seen me in thirty-three years but something tells me you remember me as well as I do you. If I knew how to contact you in person, I would apologize face-to-face, since that's how I delivered my low blow.

My only attempt at an excuse is that I was with Paula, whose laugh is one of the most wonderful sounds on earth. She has a unique combination of a melodious belly laugh and giggle. Once she gets started, you think she might never stop and just have to join her. Still, what I did is inexcusable, because Paula would laugh at most anything. I could have encouraged her without hurting you.

I did not know your boyfriend. I had never seen either of you before. There you were, making out at the red light, and I just lost control. The convertible made you so approachable. Before I knew it, I jumped out of the car and delivered my Academy Award winning performance, surprising myself with the tears.

He told you the truth when he said he didn't know me. I didn't really catch him at anything; I broke up with a perfect stranger. I hope he convinced you later.

My greatest wish is that the two of you eventually got married and are living happily ever after. Maybe you are even laughing about this.

Sincerely,
Sandy

A-non-y-mouse Smiles

For the first time in my life, I couldn't force a smile. I had been through most of it before, just never so many things at once. And the one thing I hadn't experienced before was worse than all the others combined.

The kids were two and thirteen; that alone was enough to warp a smile. I was recovering from surgery, working full time, going to school three nights a week, doing my best to ignore the ugliness of the divorce proceedings, selling the house I had worked so hard on and loved, and watching my father die.

Friends noticed before I did. The engineers on the other side of my office window drew cartoons and placed them on my side of their blinds. Doctors checked me for physical symptoms when they came in to work with me, and the girls in the cath lab invited me up for watermelon. I turned up the corners of my mouth, but didn't convince anyone.

Cheryl placed my mail in the basket one morning and dropped an unopened envelope on the desk. It looked like a greeting card, but my birthday was months away. I couldn't imagine anyone sending a card to the office anyway. I slit the flap, expecting a creative seminar invitation.

It was a greeting card. The outside read Noticed you lost your smile, and the inside, So I'm sending you one of mine. It was signed A-nony-mouse. It worked. I stood the card on a shelf and smiled each time I looked at it.

Similar cards arrived every day that week. No one admitted having any idea who had sent them. I watched for guilty eyes and smiles but found none.

On Friday, a sizeable audience had gathered to watch me open my card. I laughed, and said the greetings were nice but flowers would be better.

A single flower arrived on Monday. I was embarrassed, and positive A-nony-mouse worked somewhere near me. I thanked everyone I passed that day. No one took responsibility. Finally, I told Cheryl the flower made me uncomfortable and asked her to spread the word.

Everything returned to normal, until Friday. Six flowers arrived late that afternoon. I laughed, thanked everyone again, and still they denied sending anything.

Flowers came every day the next week. Word got around and I attracted visitors from other departments. Everyone agreed that A-nony-mouse was quite the nice person, but no one had any idea who he might be. On Friday, I upped the ante. I said flowers and cards were nice, but diamonds would be better.

You guessed it. My co-workers liked me, but not that much. When I let them know this gift scared me, they understood. Not only did they promise they weren't responsible, they tried to help me find A-nony-mouse. The florist wouldn't budge, and I had no way to track anything else.

I almost went straight home that evening, but decided at the last minute I needed to unload on the shoulder of the classmate who also came from work and had thirty minutes to kill before class. He had the matching earring. Apparently, I had told him more than I realized.

John Wayne and Elvis Were Full of Shit and You Probably Are Too

:According to Christian Evangelist, Daniel Viera, who has scoured the bible for shit related issues and come up with the Almighty Cleanse, on autopsy, John Wayne's body contained forty pounds of feces. Elvis Presley's body carried sixty pounds, and the rest of us are probably packing at least ten pounds of contaminated, smelly, disgusting feces. Mr. Viera (I find no evidence the Mr. should be Dr. but will change this if any one else finds documentation of a degree) says if you are not producing well-formed stools after each meal, you are most likely a walking vessel of fecal toxicity.

I have to admire a man whose conviction to shit allows him a jovial, hopeful tone while discussing this subject in all its gory detail.

After watching the Almighty Cleanse infomercial, the fact that his eighteen-year-old son has never seen a physician or dentist or taken any medication was the only credential I remember hearing Mr. Viera present. However, I admit my gagging and giggling distracted me from factual matter of the discussion at times. I hope someone does produce documentation of Mr. Viera's connection to the medical profession; otherwise, his claim of having removed ungodly (pun intended) amounts of black, truck-tire-consistency fecal matter from colons gives me the creeps.

Per Mr. Viera (and possibly the bible), the common, pencil-thin stool indicates a coating of toxic stool in the colon prohibiting passage of well-formed stool, and fewer than three bowel movements a day is dangerous. Mr. Viera frowns on laxatives that produce watery bowel movements, and has developed the Almighty Cleanse to promote his favored process of cleansing – frequent, well-formed, thick stools.

I believe there is validity to Mr. Viera's claim that most Americans do not move their bowels often enough. Now that I have poked fun at his Almighty Cleanse, I will try to be fair by posting a phone number should anyone want to order his product (1-800-884-4166). Please do not accept this as my endorsement of this product. My suggestion to anyone who feels full of shit is to conduct a thorough study of many sources, and seek the assistance of a medical professional before using any infomercial (biblical endorsement or not) health care products.

Roly-poly Slobber

My granddaughters, ages three and four, spot and pluck insects and worms from the grass with the precision of a starving-bird. My neighbor with the Venus Flytrap encourages them. I usually do my best to look away since I'm not a fan of slimy, crawly creatures.

Today, the girls built their insect castle of stones, sticks, dirt, and grass a few feet from my chair. I couldn't help but get involved.

Fiona stared at her opened palm. Tatum leaned closer to see what her older sister found so interesting.

"Is that my roly-poly's head?" Tatum asked with a hint of sadness.

Fiona squinted, her nose almost touching her hand. "Where?"

"Right there." Tatum pointed to a smudge near her sister's wrist. "By the green chalk."

Fiona twisted her hand to view the speck from different angles. She studied thoroughly before making her announcement. "No, silly. It's a baby caterpillar. Or an ant." She moved Tatum back a step and blew the grass cover off the castle. "There's your roly-poly. I think you stepped on it."

Tatum scooped up the bug. "I'm sorry," she said, hugging him to her chest.

Fiona placed her baby caterpillar or ant on a leaf bed and pulled Tatum's arm down to examine the wounded roly-poly. "I think she's dead," she pronounced. "You should release her so her mom can find her."

It was Tatum's turn to squint. "She's not dead." She studied her palm. "Look. She's slobbering."

Fiona amended her diagnosis. "She's going to die if you don't get her some food."

They admitted the roly-poly to a private room in the castle-turned-
hospital, went inside, and returned with food. Together, they crumbled a soda cracker in what was left of the hospital after they each stepped on it, and left the infirmed to eat while they followed a million-legged, hairy, crawly thing making his escape down the walk.

I looked up from my book a short time later and noticed the cracker crumbs also making their get-away, in a slow convoy across the lawn. The girls spent the next twenty minutes watching ants haul crumbs home to the hill. Meanwhile, Gramma traded out the slobbering roly-poly for a fresh one.

In special circumstances, I can manage a roly-poly or a lightening bug, even if they're drooling.

Marcelle Dreams

Swiping a forearm across her sweaty brow, Marcelle exhaled and whipped up an imaginary friend to help kick her fatigue in the ass. Michael Landon won the honor this time. (Sandy is generous)

Starting out with a dead man seemed fitting, seeing how somebody croaked in her last two fantasies. Her breasts smothered puny little Truman in one; she keeled over from boredom when she let Felix take a go in the other. She swore off friends after that, but might reconsider once a few of them had more experience. For now, Michael was perfect - too damned sexy to bore her, and already dead, so she didn't have to worry about wearing him out or losing him between the bazooms, as Truman had called them.

She wound the top of her trash bag into a knot (wishing she were twisting her fingers through Michael's curls instead) and hefted the sack of dead leaves over her shoulder. She would ride Michael to the dumpster and cool off before she returned to clearing the courtyard alone, since nobody else cared how sorry the complex looked. If she was lucky, the sun would die and Michael would return to life somewhere along the way. If she was lucky, which she wasn't.

Out of habit, she blew a kiss at Juanito's window before noticing he hadn't even opened the blinds. Michael's grin took care of that disappointment but she forgot both dark-haired knockouts when she spotted a sling chair in the dumpster. Maybe her luck was changing; she had made several decent finds lately. And, despite her complaints, most of the time she honestly felt as happy as she acted. Some people questioned her for laughing while she griped; others just said they couldn't imagine how she could even be happy. Years of practice, that's how, and a few bits of good luck now and again.

Like this - she either had a new chair, or at the very least a shot at trying on the latest fad in lawn furniture, without an audience. Several times, she had pulled a sling chair off the shelf in the drug store but chickened out before she sat on it. If she tried and didn't fit, or got stuck and couldn't get out, other customers would laugh. That might legitimately piss her off for the rest of an otherwise decent day.

She traded her bag of leaves for the trashed chair and carried it behind the dumpster to open it. The fabric and legs were intact. Not bad. But that didn't mean it was as new as it looked. It could be like the white jeans. They didn't have a stain on them but were so dry-rotted the seat completely blew out when she leaned over the meat counter at Kroger.

She played it safe; tested the seat of the chair with her foot, gradually adding more pressure until she was afraid she'd lose her balance. It felt sturdy. While working up the nerve to give it her full weight, a sniff from the other side of the dumpster distracted her.

Marcelle folded the chair and looked out. Bill's skinny girlfriend walked toward the dumpster, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. Marcelle ducked back. Maybe the girl had physical ailments that caused her disgusting habits, sour attitude, and nauseating body weight. It didn't matter; the thought of making nice to the dimwit made Marcelle's skin crawl.

The dumpster lid opened and closed. Marcelle waited a few seconds, opened up the chair again, and peeked around the side to check sourpuss' location. Roughly two hundred fifty pounds of tattooed flab, chrome jewelry, and vinyl clothes barreled across the parking lot and cornered the anorexic sourpuss less than a yard from the dumpster. Marcelle's head throbbed as she closed the chair again and tried to flatten herself against the hot metal, noticing the stench for the first time.

"Your man say anything about finding money in the parking lot?" The male voice asked.
Sourpuss sniffed. "Who are you?"

"Nick. I'm with Wendy. Number ten." Marcelle slid down when the dumpster lid opened and stayed in position until it had closed again and Mr. Flab continued with his investigation. "You're in thirteen, ain't you?"

The female voice sounded father away. "Not your business."

"Ha! Guess he didn't tell you nothing." Big Guy cleared his throat and spit. "Cut your skinny ass right out of his windfall, I see."

Their voices came together then, close enough that Marcelle feared they might join her behind the dumpster soon. "What are you talking about?" Sourpuss asked. "Am I missing something?"

"My girl went out last night. Dropped two, hundred-dollar bills somewhere between the car and the apartment," he said. Sourpuss responded with a go ahead grunt. "She come back in yapping about seeing your guy eyeing her from the breezeway. Weird shit, and I was fucked up so I only half listened." He spit again. "Says she don't remember it this morning but I think she's trying to protect him now. Screw that."

"What's any of that got to do with me? You think Bill has something going on with your girl?"
Marcelle bit her tongue to keep from telling them this had even less to do with her and Michael, so they should stick to talk about the lost money or move the hell on.

"Nah, Wendy ain't interested in him. Just thought I'd see if you know anything about the money."

"You really think he has it?" Sourpuss sniffed a couple more times. "Interesting."

"If he found it and didn't tell you, he's a real prick." The big guy lowered his voice. "You could get high on two hundred bucks. Know what I mean?"

"I'll check it out. Nick? What number are you in?"

"Ten. Between the wailing birds and the Mexican Fucking Riverdancer."

Relieved that they walked away before she passed out, Marcelle stepped away from the dumpster. Mexican Fucking River Dancer? Ami wasn't going to like it when she found out that's what he thought of her Argentine Tango.

Marcelle sucked in a few clean breaths and returned her attention to the chair. It would be low for the card table, but a fourth seat was a fourth seat and she could use it in the courtyard. With a little maneuvering, she fit between the arms but was still afraid to put her weight on a discarded chair. When she had extra money, say something she found in the parking lot one day, she'd buy a new chair and try it out in the privacy of her own apartment. She tossed the chair back in the dumpster and returned to the courtyard.

Before she worked up a second sweat, Loretta stepped out her door in the gray cotton jumper that had become her uniform but nobody had the nerve to ask why. Marcelle waved. "Did you come out to help?"

"Maybe after my workout." Loretta walked toward Ami's door. "Why don't you join us?"
Marcelle's idea of exercise usually involved the likes of Michael Landon, but she followed Loretta. Anything to get help with the cleanup.

"I'm in the studio," Ami called out when Loretta opened the door. "Come on back."

Loretta followed Arabic music down the hall to the master bedroom that Ami had turned into a dance studio. Marcelle stayed close behind, finding what she thought was a beat in the unusual melody and wondering if that was what the tattoo guy had mistaken for Riverdance music.
Without stopping her routine, Ami met Loretta's eyes in the mirror. "Just warming up. Glad you're going to join us, Marcelle."

Loretta kicked her sandals to the corner and slid across the laminate floor on her socks. She landed in position next to Loretta and rolled her shoulders to the music.

Marcelle left her shoes with Loretta's, and waddled into place behind the younger girls. No sooner than her shoulders found their groove, Ami bent over and grabbed an ankle.

"Wendy has a hot head over at her place," Marcelle said, forcing her face in the direction of her thigh. "Thinks you're Mexican."

Ami touched her nose to her knee and held it there. Marcelle's stomach turned just thinking of the pain. "Mexican? Must be the wrestler-looking guy."

"That's him," Marcelle wheezed.

Ami sat on the floor, arms in the air, and twisted her torso from side to side. Loretta and Marcelle joined her. "Marcelle needs help in the courtyard," Loretta said to Ami's back. I get nervous when she works so hard in this heat."

"Don't take this wrong," Ami said. "I think it's nice you want to keep things neat. I just don't understand why." She scooted down, stretched her arms out to the sides, and twisted some more.

Marcelle did her best to follow Ami's graceful lead. She didn't have the breath to continue the conversation. After stretching and straining every muscle in her body, and just when she thought she might die, Ami got up and shut off the music.

"That's enough for today if you want us to help you in the yard."

Marcelle climbed to her feet, too exhausted even to think about Michael Landon, much less the remaining leaves. "Maybe we can finish tomorrow," she said, stepping into her shoes.

"That's what you told us yesterday," Loretta said.

"And the day before," Ami reminded her.

Marcelle walked toward the door. "If I didn't know better, I might think you girls distract me on purpose."

Before entering her apartment, Marcelle caught a second wind. It probably wouldn't hurt to search the parking lot for that missing money. Dean Martin seemed like the perfect companion for this trip.