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Perhaps it was the lack of
sleep, combined with PMS and a slight hangover, but I woke up feeling like I
had to do something- anything -"worthwhile" so I could prove to
myself that my life wasn’t a total waste. Looking around, that task would have
to be cleaning the house, a chore I not only loathed and dreaded but also was
no good at, anyway. I mean, I've been blessed with a lot of talents but
housework is definitely not one of
them.
Dragging my pathetic carcass
into action, I washed a week's worth of scummy dishes. Filled with a sense of
responsibility and accomplishment, I decided that vacuuming would be in
order. No sooner had I started, the
vacuum bag burst, scattering who knows how many month's worth of condensed
dust-bunnies, cat hair, and general filth all over the room.
I went to the pantry and
knocked over a bunch of seldom-used and haphazardly stored cleaning products,
though unfortunately, there were no vacuum cleaner bags among them. But I was
on a mission, goddamit, so that meant
I had to go and get some. Popping a couple of Midol and fortifying myself with
a shot of tequila, I walked to the store. It was unbearably humid and the
moment I got outside my allergies started acting up, causing my
eyes and nose to run.
I made it to the store,
sneezing and wheezing, with period cramps from hell, but of course they didn't
have the right kind of bags. A clerk suggested I try a hardware store that was
fairly close by. "Close" turned out to be seven L-O-N-G blocks in the
glaring noonday sun. Sweating and sniffing, I got lost in the maze of faucets,
toilet tank covers, lighting fixtures, fan belts, screws, nuts, bolts, and
tools. The machine that grinds keys was whining at a supersonic volume,
insulting my increasingly bad hangover, and the entire place smelled like some
lethal solvent. Even though the store was incredibly crowded, there were no
salespeople in sight.
Finally, after about twenty
minutes of mindless wandering, I found the correct aisle by myself. I was so
dazed at this point, I could barely remember what I was looking for in the
first place. Luckily, a rotund, balding little man in a dirty gray smock came
up to me, offering assistance. Even though he stunk like garlic and B.O., and
had an abundance of hair sprouting from his ears and nostrils, I was happy to
see him, feeling more like a damsel in distress with every passing, agonizing
second. I told him what sort of vacuum bag I needed and he nodded sagaciously,
pointing out possibilities, riffling through the bags displayed.
"You have an upright
model then,” he said, as though I'd be pleased at his vast and all-encompassing
knowledge.
"Yup," I said,
monosyllabic by this time.
"I don't see the right
kind of bags,” he said. "Do you?"
"No, that's what I was
hoping you'd help me with,” I
replied.
"Well… if you can't find
them, then maybe you need a new vacuum
cleaner."
"I don’t think so,"
I said. "My vacuum cleaner is brand new."
A few months ago, a
department store had been foolish enough to send me a charge card, and I
immediately went and bought all sorts of household items I never would've purchased with cash. I bought a particular vacuum
cleaner because it had pale blue and purple New Wave splatters all over it, and
was called The Boss. In a perverse
way, I thought it would be hilarious to have an appliance named after Bruce
Springsteen, even though I detested most
of his music.
The troll didn't seem tounderstand,
and pressed the issue.
"If you need a new
vacuum cleaner, I have lots of them,”
he said. "I repair vacuum cleaners. I have a whole garage full!"
"How great," I said
vaguely, discreetly wiping allergy snot onto my sleeve.
"But my vacuum is brand new, I just need
the right type of bag."
I was beginning to feel
lightheaded and dizzy from the fumes inside the store. Who was I to think that cleaning the house on a Sunday morning would
add any meaning to my life? What I really wanted was more Midol, a slushy
margarita, a nice long foot rub and an afternoon filled with trashy
1940s movies.
A Valium would
be nice, too, and maybe some Fritos. Oh, and a maid.
"I could get you a nice
used vacuum," Rumplestiltskin continued. "I have lots of them!"
"I already told you,” I
said, losing what little patience I had left, "I don't need one!"
Just then, I noticed two
clerks standing at the end of the aisle. Both of them were young, tall, and
lanky, wearing nametags and polo shirts as uniforms, which were emblazoned with the
logo of the hardware store. They looked nothing like this horrible small old
man in his greasy smock. He looked like an industrial-powered, perverted
Munchkin.
Regarding him carefully, I
noticed he wasn't wearing a nametag, either. His garlic breath singed my
nostrils as he leaned in close and I noticed that his cheeks and scalp were
covered with moles and liver spots as he
on tiptoes to invade my personal space, getting right up in my face.
"I could help you," he said in an urgent
whisper, stroking my arm and simultaneously raising a propositioning eyebrow
meaningfully.
All of a sudden, the
horrifying reality of the situation dawned on me and I couldn't control either
my repulsion or my tone of voice, yelling at the top of my lungs,
"I'M NOT GONNA FUCK YOU FOR
A VACUUM CLEANER!"
A few nearby customers
whirled around and stared at us in shock. The little man winced at the
volume, but stood his ground for a second before scurrying away in
humiliation, his pick-up attempt foiled. I laughed dementedly at my own
outburst as the other customers pretended that nothing out of the ordinary had
happened…just another day in Hollywood.
On the way home, I rented a couple of vintage
movies and grabbed some margarita mix. The pile of filth in my living room sat
there for, oh, a couple of weeks, I guess.
#
The story
you’ve just read is from my book, Escape From Houdini Mountain. Get the
kindle version here:
If you’d
like me to sign the paperback edition for you, or sign
my
latest book,
Showgirl Confidential: My Life Onstage, Backstage And On The Road , click here and scroll down to find both
titles:
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