Moves Like Orson

I've always imagined moving like the old Orson Welles. The massive, ponderous, mastodon Welles, pacing himself, filling space with his dignified girth.
I would love to pause over a chair, trying to discern whether it was strong enough to hold me. The man exuded gravitas. Walking across a room, his significance forces itself upon you. I can hear deep grunts and heavy breathing with each step. When someone that size sighs it is as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. There is certainly solidity there, but little grace.
Now Jackie Gleason was a graceful man. He could execute a polished soft shoe, arms extended, wrists bent, eyelids cooley drooping, brows arched, moving like a slab of butter across a pond. Oh no, Jackie never grunted.
I often wonder what would happen if either man got a wedgie. Would EMS people have the tools to pry apart their cheeks? Would taxpayers have to foot the bill? Would folks in the immediate area have to be evacuated? I'm going to practice moving more deliberately and deepening my grunts. I'll do anything for respect.

That Damn Tree

I went to Rockefeller Center to see the skaters, not that damn tree. I have nothing against big decorated trees. It's the people coming from miles away that drive me nuts, families with tiny cameras pointed straight up as they lean back wearing a beautific smile like this is about as good as it gets.
Charlize Theron is as good as it gets. This is madness. I couldn't get anywhere near the viewing section to see the skaters. I was crushed against Kansas and North Dakota and South Carolina and foreigners from land locked countries. Many lugged Volvo sized shopping bags, pushed streamlined strollers, swung elbows, dipped shoulders and bulled ahead. Someday a Rockette will be crushed in the maelstrom and we as a society will have to answer for it.
Know this--that tree is never is big as it seems on TV, unless Justin Beiber is standing next to it. In fact, that rink is quite small compared to Wollman or even Bryant Park, which has better music and a calliope. Since it's free, one will see more of a variety of native New Yorkers, actual people of color. You won't see some little girl from a rich family getting a lesson in the center of the rink like at Rockefeller, doing awkward spins in her $300 skating dress.
I shouldn't be bitter. This is the holiday season and even though I can't skate I can work out on the elliptical without losing my balance. That's something to hang my hat on. Where the hell did I put my hat?

Paragraph Strike

I just got word there is a paragraph strike. Their union rep released a vague statement mentioning unhappiness about working conditions. This is all I need. A couple of years ago there was a wildcat comma strike and I was frantic. Commas are the underpinnings of my writing. I depend on them for pace and clarity. I floundered for weeks until it was settled. I agreed to use only ten commas per three hundred words so they could have more personal time. I can't imagine what commas do with their personal time, but I suppose they could say the same about me. Normally this is where I'd take a paragraph break, but right now that is not possible because of the circumstances described above. Frankly, I don't feel guilty about this state of affairs. I've never been one to abuse paragraph choices. All of us are familiar with those writers who throw together a couple of sentences, abandon that thought and start a new paragraph. This is slight of hand intellectualism, a sad attempt to convince the reader they have more ideas and insights than you do. God, I want to create a new graph right here so bad. But I don't cross picket lines, except that one time when asterisks went out. I think asterisks are ridiculous and superfluous, especially when you can use a star symbol. I just hope when this mess is settled I still remember how to indent.

My little Dramas

I don't like the way you're looking at me. Did you just say something? Leave my name out of it. I know what I heard and I heard my name mentioned.
Don't squeeze me, alright, I need my space. You know I have boundaries. I sense you're trespassing. Why did you grab for that apple, that particular apple? I told you I clearly had my eye on that piece of fruit. It's called imposing your will on me.
You had all those empty seats. Why did you plant yourself right next to me? Are you bringing that stuff up again? That is old news. I see judgment in your expression. Don't tell me I didn't come to a complete stop. Who's driving here? I know exactly where the place is. And this time I do the ordering. You usurp my independence and take control, knowing I hate lentil soup.
You said it was your idea. I was the one who thought of it and I trusted you. You sucked up all the adoration from our group while I was looked upon as the slacker.
I gave you three choices where to put your tongue. Do not push for four. Shut the damn light. Because it's on your side of the bed. Dear.

Murmuring

I find myself murmuring to myself. It started out as a whisper and escalated. Understand, I'm not talking out loud, but my lips are moving. Usually I am carrying out some task while I'm murmuring. Somehow it doesn't seem as quirky if I'm doing something. If I were just standing there carrying on this personal monologue people would notice and move away. Understand, this is not a conversation or any kind of dialogue with an invisible entity. It's me and me alone.
What subjects are covered? Mostly reminders what I must do next, because, you see, my day consists of hundreds of tiny projects, which, if completed successfully, boost my confidence. Example: (soft voice) Okay, now I open the car door and stick out my legs and emerge. Lock door. Put keys in pocket. Put away glasses. Walk to Staples. Make sure I have my wallet. Don't run over the little kid running right at me with no sense of direction.
In this way, I am twittering to myself, providing instantaneous updates about my goals, like purchasing large paper clips in great quantities. It's called controlling one's environment. Seldom has anyone noticed or heard these soft words. I stop immediately if I sense someone looking at me strangely.
Should I unconsciously raise my voice and begin talking out loud, I would probably seek help, an intervention of some sort. Maybe chew a giant wad of tobacco so no sounds emerge. Okay, here I am in the paper clip section...

In My Trunk

It's all about balance and proportion when organizing a trunk. My car trunk contains the usual--flashlight, seat cushion, spare, anti-freeze, tool kit,Cameron Diaz inflatable doll for those long trips.
     My other trunk is in my basement and contains a wealth of history. I keep rejection letters from editors and women right next to my banded collection of therapist receipts. My one athletic trophy for hop scotch is centered, next to a recording of my Henry Kissinger impression from the seventies. Autographed copies of Jewel's and the Octomom's collections of poetry are in the corner.
Family photos predominate, including Uncle Dom's unfortunate attempt to hang glide and baby Ernestine spitting up on Cousin Sophie.
Over 1400 marbles, won during various competitions, are in a sealed box. Fleece clothing lines the bottom of my trunk. When I'm depressed I empty the entire contents and relive all the poignant experiences these objects represent, including the failed recipes for fish. Somehow things seem brighter when I rub fleece all over my shirtless body. If only I hadn't traded my old baseball cards for investment advice from John Corzine.

My Doctor's Son

My doctor's son is now my doctor. He's much taller than his father and seems energetic, not at all jaded, which is natural since he's only been in the office about a year. He listens to me without being bored. Or maybe he's bored, but disguises it well. His father listened to me too, but spent too much time answering the phone. The problem could be with me. I'm basically a boring patient. I report the same problem every visit--too much eating at night leading to high sugar numbers in the morning.  Lately I've been getting this pain in my right buttock, which is separate from the discomfort in my hip. I don't think it's my posture.
Am I boring you?
Anyway, I have a family photo of my doctor's brood from years ago and his son is maybe ten. He's smiling and looking really small and preteen. Now this little fellow has my life in his hands. His mother works right in the office and his aunt handles billing. Sometimes they have a family conference right in front of me, arguing in Indonesian about something I know has nothing to do with me, unless the son is angry at his dad for transferring such a dull patient to him. Maybe they're pissed at me for breaking their toilet last visit. It's a long story I've probably already told because, not only am I boring, but my memory's going.