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She was late for the class. Her husband arrived first and told the instructor, “We have one more coming — my wife is going to meet me here. She’ll probably be late. She’s navigationally impaired.” We all smiled at that. I even thought about how I could relate since I get lost in my own driveway. We went ahead and started class without her.

We started learning about pencils. We made smudges and shaded in boxes. I was having fun and even starting to think I could be good at this. That was until the woman next to me pointed to my paper and said to the instructor, “Why can’t I draw like that? I want to be able to stay in the lines just like her!” Great. If there’s one thing all brilliant artists are known for, it’s always staying in the lines.

That’s when we heard the shrieking. We were sitting at tables in the back of the bookstore, and the shrill voice sounded like it was coming from the parking lot. “SORRY I’M LATE! SORRY I’M LATE! SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY!!!”

She hadn’t even reached us yet. It took her almost five minutes to catch up to her voice. We all sat dumbfounded while every head in the bookstore turned to see who was making all the commotion.

She didn’t really arrive; it was more like she burst into existence from behind the rows of bookshelves. She was a hyperactive middle-aged woman with white hair and glasses. She flung herself into the seat next to me, waved wildly to her husband, and said, “Hi honey! Sorry I’m late everybody, I was hungry and had to have my protein, I just can’t draw anything until I’ve had my protein.” (pause for breath) “I can’t draw on the right side of my brain until I’ve had my protein.”

My first thought was that she’d overdosed.

She proceeded to take over the class. She talked nonstop. She was so excited about this workshop. She loved to draw. She was an ARTIST. She hoped everyone else didn’t feel discouraged when they saw her work because she’d been drawing for a long time and was taking this beginner drawing class to keep her husband company since he wasn’t an ARTIST and needed a beginner class. Hey, was that coffee? She really really really needed some coffee. She was going to go get some coffee and would be right back.

Yes, if there was something that woman needed, it was definitely coffee. I can’t believe the bookstore wasn’t supplying cocaine and Snickers Bars as well. I made a mental note to discuss this with the events coordinator.

The teacher tried to keep us on track. While Crazy Art Lady was getting her coffee, he told us about an art class he took in California. When Crazy Art Lady heard him mention California, she reappeared so fast, she scared him half to death and sloshed coffee on his shoes. “CALIFORNIA?? You lived in CALIFORNIA?? So did I! They have the BEST sushi out there, don’t they? Don’t tell me you didn’t eat sushi in California! Oh, you MUST! You HAVE to eat the sushi there! You HAVE to!”

I prayed that she would run right out to California that minute and get us some. Since she was navigationally impaired, that little errand could buy us a few months.

But no, she plopped right back down next to me and kept talking. “Isn’t this FUN? I love art. I love classes like this! My mother told me I could never be an artist. She told me I’d never be able to draw. My mother was wrong. Watch THIS!” She began scribbling madly on a sheet of paper, shaking the table. “You know, I have a lot more time for art since I was let go from my job!”

The woman on the other side of me did a classic spit-take with her coffee. Crazy Art Lady didn’t even notice. “Yup. They just let me go. So now I draw all the time.” Hard to believe that woman didn’t fit into the corporate environment.

She kept going. “I’m glad we’re not using a book. I never used any books. All my talent comes naturally. I never read. Never ever ever.” I guess that explains why she missed all those ads for Prozac and every Miss Manners column ever written.

I was starting to get tense. The teacher was starting to get tense. And from the way the woman on the other side of me was gripping her pencil, I could tell it was taking every ounce of control for her to keep from plunging it right into Crazy Art Lady’s neck. But suddenly, we had a reprieve. Crazy Art Lady jumped to her feet and announced to everyone in the bookstore, “I have to go to the bathroom!” And before we could blink, she was gone, leaving a sheet full of frantic scribbles on the table.

Silence.

No one really knew what to say. We all sat quietly, pushing our pencils around and not looking at each other. The teacher stammered and fumbled with his notes, trying to figure out where he’d been thrown off track. I noticed that the woman’s husband was chewing on his kneaded eraser. Evidently someone had forgotten to tell him erasers aren’t food.

Slowly, the class got going again. We talked about different kinds of paper. We drew more lines and learned about hatchet marks. We were enjoying ourselves, thinking that maybe Crazy Art Woman wasn’t coming back. She certainly was gone a long time. I figured she got sidetracked in the ladies’ room and was terrorizing some poor introvert in there. “My mother told me that I would never be able to swallow an entire roll of toilet paper, but watch THIS!”

Sadly, she reappeared at the tables like a human lightening bolt and began making up for lost time. “Whaddimiss whaddimiss whaddimiss? Oooh, are those hatchet marks? I know all about those already. I’m an ARTIST. Isn’t this fun? Are you out of coffee already? Is anybody going to make more?”

After a while, I couldn’t take anymore and excused myself as politely as I could. As I said goodbye to the instructor, I saw the silent, pleading message in his eyes: Please send help.

So what have I learned from my experience? What did I discover while masquerading as a person who does not spend every waking moment writing but actually goes outside and interacts with other people? I have learned I can never be one of you. I have tried. I will stay here with my computer, where it’s safe. I have also learned that despite my seclusion, I will find a husband someday. Being a total raving loon didn’t stop that woman from finding a husband. So somewhere out there, hiding behind his own computer screen, is the man for me. Please don’t let him be eating an eraser.

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During the eighties, I recall the whole ERA movement.  What perplexed me, however, was I did not feel I was being infringed upon.  I have never felt that way.  Oh, I used a few ‘sayins’ in my day, trying to create a short cut to a place (raise in pay) that doesn’t allow such nonsense but I never once believed I wasn’t equal to anyone anywhere.  And I always believed if I did a good job, I would be paid well for it but it was up to me to make it happen.  As far as the whole ‘equality’ thing goes, we may be a bit different from each other but I like that about people and culture.  We get to experience different flavors and ideas that aren’t a part of our everyday life.  It’s what makes life fun and interesting, in my opinion.  I mean, my Lord, could you imagine life with only one ice cream flavor?  Now that would be hell!

However, it seems I did get sucked into the notion, even though I knew otherwise, that being a woman meant not being ‘as good’.  Plunging myself into a broadcasting career in my early twenties, I set out to make myself equal to a man and perhaps better.  I would have a good paying job in a career I would excel in, be able to create a wonderful home for my family, cook outstanding meals, raise perfect children and be – in my mind – the idea of a powerful, glorious woman.  Where in the world was my head and who in their right mind wants to do all of that stuff?  Oh, it’s a good idea if your heart’s in the right place but I was all about ‘proving’ something to some unseen entity, which does nothing but exhaust a soul and starve a family.  Plus, the idea was all about me, me, me and was more of a fantasy than reality.  It’s funny about fantasies.  In truth, they are not nearly as fun as reality.

First off, a job is just that – a job.  If you do a good job, you get paid a good salary.  It doesn’t matter if you flip burgers or become the President of the United States, if you are thorough you will pace yourself well into a good life.  In all of my years of working, I have learned that selfishness, pride and mean-spiritedness has no place in our society.  I know this because I used to be this way and it’s just plain stupid and leads to nowhere.  It started out innocently enough.  A rumor went around that I had ‘the best female voice’ in the state.  At first, I was shocked.  In reality, I thought I was just a dip shit without an education.  But as the years progressed, I began to actually believe this in the most wrong kind of way.  I began to take on the attitude of a diva, as if a company was lucky to have me.  HA.  Another thing I’ve learned in the working world is no matter what you do or how good you are you can always be replaced.  This is not a threatening statement – it’s the truth.

I needed to learn how to be irreplaceable as a human being.

I am saying these things as a light in the dark for the younger generation of women coming up: Please, PLEASE do not go down the dark road I am referring to.  Recognize your thoughts before they become a runaway train.  Don’t send your parents to the doctor’s office for migraine headache medication or your boyfriend to the utter brink of doom.

Be irreplaceable as a human being!

Where does one go to learn this?  What education does this require?  Who could I look upon to guide me?  What sappy movies could I watch that would show me the way?  Well, unfortunately, not a dang soul can do it for you.  Oh, they point the direction and sometimes, when you are really out of line, they use the middle finger to do it but the changing begins in you and in me.  And it’s not so much changing as it is getting rid of the wrong ideas.  The art of being a woman requires that we move past the commercialization of what we ‘think’ a great woman is and be the simple creatures we were born into: Rational, logical, kind human beings.  It’s not that hard.  We just make it hard at times.

Oh, heck, I don’t have all the answers but I do know that we, as Americans, tend to take something simple and make it darn near impossible.  I know because I’ve done it!  I tried half my life to come off as intelligent only to end up sounding like an idiot.  For all my theories and philosophies, only one thing holds true: how true am I?  That’s what counts.  The rest is a bunch of baloney.  Just ask my grandma.  She can tell you how full of baloney I’ve actually been.

So, I reckon, the secret to the art of being a woman is there is no art to it.  It is the same with a man and with other various cultures and races and everything in life.  Pay attention (listen) in class (life), play fair, take care of those who are smaller than you, respect yourself (then respecting others will be easy), share your peanut butter and jelly sandwich and your toys, brush and floss your teeth and don’t drink sodas before you go to bed.  If you want a puppy, make sure you take good care of it – same with a baby.  If you want a treat, do your chores first.  Don’t start a fight but if someone hits you, defend yourself and fight with integrity but don’t give someone a reason to start a fight with you.  I did that once when I was a kid and got the tar beat out of me.

Aside from that, here are a few other things to watch out for: Do not eat too much salsa in one sitting, find your own special someone and leave the rest alone, it is OK to drink out of someone else’s glass as long as you love them and don’t pick on a sore – let it heal.

Oh, and above all, be yourself.  Except if you are an asshole.  If you are an asshole, please patch yourself up and then be yourself.

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I just returned from a short vacation in sunny south Florida, which most of you can understand is just about the complete opposite of my home up in Northern Michigan. When I pulled out of my driveway last Friday afternoon, it was maybe forty degrees out in the sun…a day later the temperature was nearly double that,at eleven o’clock at night!!! Why I even came back is still a mystery to me, but I suppose the more important question would be ‘How did I make it back???’

For those in the audience that might be a bit slower than the rest of us, I’ll spell it out for you: I drove the entire length of the country – from Michigan to Florida – in my very own car. It only takes a quick look at any U.S. map to realize that these states are several inches apart, so saying that it was a pretty long road trip would be the understatement of the century! The exact mileage from Gaylord to Tampa is just short of 1500 miles, which typically translates to approximately twenty hours of driving time. Although I’m not saying that this is how long it should legally take for the trip, most of us understand the entire concept of keeping up with the flow of traffic and Sammy was right – sometimes 55 mph just doesn’t cut it! Besides, let’s also remember that I’m from Michigan, the home of Detroit – The Motor City, so it’s all good…

Under normal conditions, I would’ve been on the beach to enjoy the sunset the following evening, but that certainly wasn’t the case! Now I understand that our national freeway system requires constant attention to keep it operating at optimum levels, but I never knew that it would come down to this. It seems that somebody at the Department of Transportation had made the uncanny decision to place every single orange barrel available along I-75 to enhance my traveling experience…lucky me! In fact, I’m convinced that the DOT actually requisitioned barrels from various contractors around the nation specifically for this purpose because at this point, that’s the only explanation that makes any sense at all for the amounts of road construction that I encountered.

Don’t get me wrong – I’ve experienced more than my fair share of road construction already – I live in Michigan (official motto: Traffic fines are doubled in work zones). There’s so much work being done on our roads as it is that our children are beginning to believe that our state tree is the orange barrel (and I wish I could remember the name of the comedian who deserves credit for that one!). Of course, when you become as accustomed to these fluorescent obstructions as we have, one would think that we’d be used to our speeds dropping thirty or so mph under the speed limit frequently during our travels, but when you’re driving over a thousand miles, every second counts!

I sat in Tennessee for nearly an hour because they were polishing the reflectors on a bridge or something – not exactly a reasonable excuse to stop traffic on the biggest North-South artery in the country, if you ask me! I understand that this work needs to be done, but for God sakes, if you’re going to slow traffic down to a crawl, at least be doing some actual work when I drive by!!! Nothing rubs me the wrong way more than driving by a construction site at two miles per hour and looking up to see eighteen guys in orange vests, all getting paid out of my tax dollars, sitting around drinking coffee and laughing at the drivers having to go so slow. You’re getting paid $25 an hour – most people could only dream of those kinds of wages – so the least you can do is look busy!

The road construction business reminds me a lot of any local fast food restaurant, with the exception that the construction workers are making a hell of a lot more money. By this I mean that they really couldn’t care less about the services that they’re providing; they’re just there to collect a paycheck, which is a load of crap as far as I’m concerned. When was the last time you went out to get a burger and the cashier was actually courteous back to you? That’s what I thought…people have no sense of pride for their work anymore. I know that seasoning curly fries might not be the most prestigious job in the world, but for the time being, it’syours, so do it right! No, some of us won’t notice, but I’ll tell you that I certainly don’t want to reach into my fries to find your used chewing gum because you hate your job, just as I don’t want to be driving down the highway dodging construction cones and barrels because the workers weren’t courteous enough to keep them in the lane in which the construction is being done…

Yeah, it sucks to work in the rain and snow, moving thousands of pounds of concrete and steel each and every day, but that’s why you’re making the big bucks, remember? If you’re really looking for a break from the grind, I’m sure your favorite fast food joint could always use another burger flipper and from what I hear, those burgers weigh next to nothing! Or if you’re willing to take an even bigger pay cut, just become a humor columnist, where the only things we have to worry about are paper cuts and nasty letters from our readers.

I’m already planning my next road trip so that I can get through the latest batch inspired by this one…

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Twenty-seven years ago, I made a horrible mistake.  I got pregnant by a guy who claimed to be a wealthy ex-frat boy but turned out instead to be just a caddy at the local country club.  He had no family status, no money, and no prospects.

It’s inconvenient enough to be pregnant under any circumstances, and when I considered the hugely negative impact an unwanted child would have on my lifestyle, I realized I couldn’t go through with it.

Unfortunately, by the time I learned the terrible truth about the child’s father, I was already in an advanced stage of pregnancy.  I put a 2-pronged plan into action to rectify the situation.  First, I fired the private investigator who took so long to find out the truth about my lover.  Next, I did the only prudent thing I could to spare myself the financial anguish of single motherhood: I wrapped the newborn in a receiving blanket and left it in a basket on the doorstep of a Tudor-style mansion in the wealthy district and put the whole sordid incident out of my mind.

Recent events, however, have brought me a tremendous amount of guilt and pain over what I did.  I’ve cried a river of tears since last Tuesday, when it suddenly hit me what a horrible mistake I’d made in not staying in touch with my dear, darling daughter.

You see, I read in the newspaper’s business section that despite my daughter’s genetic heritage, she turned out to be very smart, graduating from an Ivy League college with an MBA.  In fact, she just inherited control of her late adoptive father’s vast hosiery empire. My baby is now worth several hundred million dollars.

I’m inconsolable.  I can’t express to you how much I regret giving up my baby.  It pains me that my daughter, my flesh and blood, has no idea I exist.  I’m not even sure she knows she was adopted.

How can I ingratiate myself back into her life and pocketbook?  After all, don’t I deserve to embark on a financially fulfilling relationship with my long-lost daughter?  I mean, consider all the suffering I’ve gone through in the past few days, not to mention 20 hours of labor to bring little Jessica into the world and the thousands of dollars of plastic surgery required to rid me of all those stretch marks. 

I figure if anyone knows the answer to these difficult questions, it’s you, Savannah. Thanks in advance!

Pining birth mother,

Becky Sue
Lincolnwood, Nebraska

Savannah Says:

I always knew there was at least one good reason to have children, and I do believe you’ve pinpointed it for me.

I can well understand how you must be feeling.  Once, I gave away a puppy that eventually became a champion stud worth thousands of dollars.  How I rued the day I ever gave him up!

The first thing you must remember is that you hold the high moral ground in this situation.  After all, you were only thinking of Jessica’s happiness when you relinquished her.  How happy could she possibly have been, tagging along with you on those all-expense-paid singles weekends in Cancun, pretending to be your nine-year-old sister?  Or posing as the maid’s illegitimate child when well-to-do gentleman callers arrived to take you to the opera?  No, you did the right thing by leaving Jessica on that family’s doorstep.  So, stop punishing yourself with guilt.

I recommend you take the bull by the horns and drive to her home unannounced,  preferably in the middle of the night or some other time when she’s sure to be at home, confused and/or emotionally vulnerable.  Weepily demand an audience with your long-lost daughter.  Present her with a piece of heirloom jewelry, even if it’s an heirloom from some other family.  You want to come across as a giving person.  As the old saying goes, “If you establish a reputation as an early riser, you can sleep as late as you want.”  By giving Jessica something of value right away, you open the door to a lifetime of receiving.

Good luck, dear!

© 2000-2002 Elizabeth Hanes

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This is not the only “so-called” problem I have had to deal with. When I first moved in, my refrigerator did not work. So the first day in my new home, I had to eat scrambled, fried, or hard-boiled eggs until they were gone. Let me now say, I could care less which came first, the chicken or the egg. Actually, I’m still curious about this age-old question. So if you know, please tell me.

This problem was fixed the next day when a brand new refrigerator came. Unfortunately, the booze I had was now warm and could have easily been substituted for urine.

The second problem I had to deal with was with my oven. Of course my burners worked (remember, the eggs), but who actually checks appliances in a new home until they’re needed? I still don’t know if my smoke alarms work (Note: I say alarms, plural, which you will see why in a minute). My oven did not fire up, with me finally realizing this notion when I threw in a frozen pizza, and four hours later it was still frozen. This event occurred after about a month of residing here. Now, if I knew how to cook in the first place, or even if I hadn’t forgotten that a frozen pizza was in there, I would have stumbled across this problem sooner.

After about two months of living in my Asian Lady Beetle infested home (another problem), a pipe in my bathroom broke during the early hours of the morning. When I woke up the next morning I found myself in knee deep of water. For a second, I thought I urinated outside the toilet rim, which is easy to do if you’re male. But I soon realized it was rainwater, because urine
has a much richer aftertaste. After I gargled the now identifiable rainwater, I called my landlord.

My landlord arrived with this trusty machine that sucked the water up like a hooker with a money happy pimp who was to arrive in five minutes. I also believe my landlord was unhappy about the sign I placed in the water’s deepest part that read, ‘No Dumping.’

Within a matter of hours, so it seemed, the water subsided to a level in which the carpet looked like my childhood dog after a bath. The only difference was that my dog had a much nicer aroma.

Another incident involving my landlord was when my heat went down. The heater is also responsible for my hot water. Well one day, as I said, I woke up to find my heat out. I had no idea it affected my hot water. That was until I jumped in the shower that morning. When I jumped in, there was only one word to say. “Ahhhhhh!”…..because there was a huge spider in there and it freaked me out. Then, I turned on the water. The temperature of the water was so cold I had to jump up on the ledge of the tub like I was a surfer trying to avoid a monstrous wave.

Now, when this happened, I remembered what my mother used to do when we (my brothers and I) were little. She would boil water and throw it in the tub. So this is what I did.

So what I have noticed is my landlord is very prompt when it comes to issues that directly affect the living conditions, such as the oven, flood, heat, and refrigerator.

But when it comes to minor repairs, like the one I mentioned earlier involving my door less trim, my landlord disappears faster than wrinkles on Cher’s face. I’m not sure if he means to fix it and forgets it, or that he has other projects to complete.

After mentioning this door less trim eyesore to him for the fourth time, he finally informs me that the wood has arrived and all he has to do is carve it to fit my doorframe. Finally, results.

I let him know that I’ll be out of town for approximately three and a half weeks, giving him more time to complete this project.

When I arrive home after almost four weeks, the trim is still bare. But instead, my landlord installs a second smoke alarm for me (which I indicated earlier).

I tell him that I’m appreciative for the extra (white) smoke alarm in my small, one bedroom apartment and tell him that it highlights my already white walls. I believe he wants me to wake up in a frenzy to a duet of screeching beeps rather than just a solo. After the compliment, I slip in my dissatisfaction of the trim not being completed. Also, I must add, since my time away,
my kitchen faucet developed a nasty leak, which drips to the sink, leaving me wondering if I somehow fell into a Poe story.

He informs me that both of them will be taken care of within a month, which excites me. However, I don’t have enough time to enjoy this moment because I have to go out of town again.

When I returned home after two weeks, I was hoping to see new trim around my door and a dry sink bottom. In its place, I saw no trim, and my faucet still had a leak. And instead, he installed another vent in my bedroom. So, what I have figured out is when I need a repair, instead of fixing the problem, he adds something to my apartment.

I swear, by the time I move out, I’ll have no trim, my faucet will still leak, and I’ll have a freaking condo in my backyard.

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My brain has been doing a lot of strange things lately. For instance, it recently convinced me I should be doing standup comedy. Many of the writers I’ve spoken to have argued that it was not the brain that made this decision at all, but the balls. However, I doubt this is true, as my balls have never been particularly good at decision-making, and the slender object they are
attached to is known primarily for its wide range of staggeringly bad ideas, so I’m going to go with the notion that my brain was responsible.

I’m not sure why my brain decided we should do this. Logically, I suppose, it made some degree of sense, because I’m a playwright, an actor, and a humorist, which is, on some superficial level, a decent resume to have for such a venture. My brain unfortunately chose to ignore that in my function as a humorist I go out of my way to avoid punchlines if at all possible. It also chose to ignore my total inability to tell a story in less than fifteen hundred words.

I sat down with my brain and tried to hash this whole thing out. It didn’t go well.

ME: What were you thinking?

EGO: It wasn’t my idea. Ask the Id.

ID: Touch yourself!

SUPEREGO: Stop that!!

EGO: In all fairness, the Id can’t really help himself.

SUPEREGO: We’re going to hell, we’re going to hell…

EGO: Stop whining, we don’t believe in hell.

SUPEREGO: Maybe YOU don’t. We’ll go to hell for that, too.

ID: I AM A GOD!!!!!!!!

ME: Um, hello?

EGO: Sorry, right. Standup. You wanted to know why we suggested standup.

ID: A girl! Look!

EGO: The Id thought of it. We agreed because we figured it would keep him
busy.

ID: Wooo wooo!

ME: But I don’t have any jokes!

EGO: Is that my fault?

SUPEREGO: It’s all my fault! Oh, the shame.

EGO: Stop taking the blame for everything.

SUPEREGO: You’re right, I’m sorry.

ID: Shake it baby!

EGO: Stop it. That’s a magazine cover.

ID: Find a bathroom! NOW!

EGO: We’re busy.

ME: So what am I supposed to say when I’m up there? Did you think of that???

EGO: I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Talk about your kids.

SUPEREGO: No, don’t! They’ll resent you forever!

EGO: Like the time you caught Tim drinking from the toilet.

SUPEREGO: Noooo!

ID: I can do this by myself, you know.

EGO: Don’t you dare!

So I did my first set entirely without the assistance of my brain. I had twenty minutes to work with, fortunately, so I had enough time to tell at least five or six jokes.

ME: That wasn’t so bad.

ID: Worship me, you bitches!

ME: Hello?

EGO: Shhh!

ID: On your knees!!!!!!

ME: Why are you whispering?

EGO: The Id’s been out of control since you did the show.

SUPEREGO: (whimper)

ID: Muhuhahahahah!!!!!!!!!

EGO: You know, it would have helped if you had just sucked.

ME: Uh, sorry.

EGO: Then the Id would have shrunken up and slithered away like he’s supposed to after a staggeringly humiliating experience.

ID: Feed me!!

ME: How can I help?

EGO: Do another show, and remember to suck this time.

Tragically, I did not suck the second time either, although I did try my best. I learned a few things, too, like that jokes about the Boston accent don’t do well in Boston. And in a five minute show any joke that takes more than thirty seconds to set up doesn’t work, because evidently the average live comedy audience has the attention span of a fruit fly with attention
deficit disorder.

I made the decision to try a third time to suck on my own. I’ve been afraid to talk to my brain, as I fear my Superego has atrophied, and I believe my Id recently declared war on France. I have a couple of months to go before the show, so I’m hoping some time between now and then I’ll find some short jokes.

In the meantime, I thought I’d practice by writing a column that’s less than fifteen hundred words.

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