By now you have quite accurately deduced that the life of the average writer burgeons with prolific adulation juxtaposed against excoriating rejection. Oh, stop with the faces and put down the dictionary. There. Big words go bye-bye now. See? All gone!
I'm loitering here at Barnes & Noble to finish this column while avoiding the dreaded paparazzi, because spicy meat like that gives me heartburn. This article - my memoir on running with the bulls in Spain - is overdue. Hey, puncture wounds heal slowly.
Clearly I'm gifted, able to smell trouble from the get-go. Not from the bulls. I mean trouble now, in the bookstore. My glasses are missing! Denial insists they're in the car, so I dash out and paw through the glove box and door pockets. Nada. Under the front seat? Hmm. In that cave of fuzz and grit lurk insecti unidentifiabili. I start to reach…No!!! Can't do it! Last night I watched "Snakes on a Plane" and…sorry, no way. Reality 1, Plans 0.
Wait, doesn't B&N sell glasses? I skip back inside, spin the "Fashion Eyewear" carousel, and Holy Hanky on a Panky! I snatch the last pair in my magnification-800%. What luck, the thick orange frames will also hide the bags under my eyes.
At the checkout I ask for a scissors to cut off the theft-proof tag, a hunk of plastic the size of a truck mirror. The cashier scans a drawer and says sorry. I let it go; with the fame and wealth we writers enjoy comes a civil duty to fake a little tolerance of the commoners. Reality 2, etc.
While a new plan incubates in the cranium, I stroll over to the coffee shop and buy a cup of scalding brew. Twenty minutes later not one proton of the tag's plastic tether has melted. The swirling film of orange paint on my coffee, however, looks funkier than the time my uncle's lipstick melted on the dashboard.
Next plan: bite it off. My chewing and grinding soon becomes growling. Could it be…? Yes, I'm channeling!! It's the spirit of a hedgehog in a trap…in Kansas…and he's also gnawing…his leg, I think. Behold, we are kin! Reality 4…. Ah, forget the damn score.
How about just flipping up the tag? Actually, that's not a bad idea, except some moron chewed it into a misshapen, gummy lump. I browse for tape, but end up buying a package bow. The sticky back anchors the mangled tag up on the glasses, and voila! I can see!
On to the article! Not much time left to narrate how I kicked serious bull butt, so pay attention. Strangest thing, I ended up running in the swimwear division. Would've won first place too, but officials disqualified me when one of my swim fins flew off. Actually, Spaniards don't give prizes; they figure we all win if our major organs remain tucked inside.
Hey, let's revitalize our downtown by hosting a bull run! Of course, here in America, a few rules:
- Mandatory helmets - to prevent hooves from tangling in the hair of slow runners.
- Strategically placed convex mirrors to warn that "Cattle may be closer than they appear."
- Any runner on blood thinner medication must be accompanied by a rodeo clown.
- All health insurance CEOs will be blindfolded. And handcuffed to politicians.
- Survivors will receive an artist's painting of their injuries, plus a reading by a local psychic trained in hoof print patterns.
At last, the column's done, no thanks to the constant snickering from nearby tables. How rude to mock a professional working on deadline! Gotta say, this package bow may be unorthodox but it's pure genius in helping me see. What? Yeah, maybe you're right. It looks like a Vegas showgirl exploding from my head.
Necessity is the mother of invention. And the father…lemme guess…stupidity? Sadly, for some of us, the bull never stops.
Copyright © 2008 Mary Tompsett
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