The Lamp Post

Here I am again. Hanging out on the street corner. Every year it’s the same thing. Someone strings me up on the lamp post and 5 hours later, someone comes back with a girl they position underneath me. “Look.” He’ll point. “We’re standing under the mistletoe.”

The girl will glance up. She will give me the same look she gives the someone beside her. Ah yes, I can hear her think. How did I end up here again?

I am the only mistletoe around for blocks. Yet everyone knows I exist. The lamp post, while beautiful in its own right, both resents and enjoys my popularity. At first, the pointing feels good. Basking in the glow of his own light, he feels a surge of pride from the strangers looking at us.  Then comes the eggnog.

Early December is not so bad. The Christmas music is at a comfortable Mariah Carey intimacy. Mid December and the shoppers are getting more hectic. By late December, Perry Como has peaked and the eggnog, while once a disgusting choice of raw egg and cheap alcohol, suddenly makes an appearance.

Loud after-work parties and sloppy caroling seem to never end. The lamp post isn’t pleased. Teenage boys with dog-like tongues kiss the girls they like best. The lamp post glares at me. Come January first when I should be taken down, it’s just me and the post-Christmas post.  Here I am again, wondering whether someone made it home with someone else.

The Present

Dear Present,

Thank God we’re over the past. It was an ugly time for anyone, but especially hard on us. There were times when it seemed you would never get here, but I knew you were stuck in time.

I know you think I was running from you, but really, who wouldn’t? You were so creepy with your insistence on everything now. Images of bad 90s workout videos to songs like Pump Up The Jam were a constant threat to my reality. Would anyone want to listen to that when Jane Fonda seemed so much better?

Everything looks better in Sepia. Even those bowl haircuts that boys used to have. Now they’re almost cute. Now that they aren’t around anymore. What is it that goes on now that will look better in the future? I know. I know. It doesn’t matter, it’s not happening. Future and past don’t exist.

But let me ask you one thing, before we figure it out. Did you ever say to someone “Live in the moment” only to laugh at yourself? Just for a minute. Disregarding the idea that you truly believe what you say, did the humor ever reach you, when you truly wished it wouldn’t?

Which moment, is what I want to know, did you decide you weren’t my future?

I enjoy what we’ve got going on right now and I’m not trying to give you grief.  But please, let me know: if you want to go further, I can always take you back.

Sincerely,

Yours.

The Pain Reliever

The Pain Reliever:  Expectation vs. Reality

Expectation:

Will relieve pain. All pain.

Heartbreak from immature brat who found someone better. Bruised pride from begging brother for other half of rent money. Soreness from best friend who ‘forgot’ to lend me moving truck. Twisted arm from agreeing to live with other friend in roach infested apartment. Throbbing headache from hearing her complain about vintage Beastie Boys CDs that are not played too loudly. Burned by the desire we share every Tuesday in the laundry room. Burned because she’s friends with the brat who found someone better. A pain in the neck from explaining she’s not really a brat. Stiffed on the rent money when she, too, moves out.

Reality:

Limber enough to move on.

 

The Plushie

Dear Furby,

I know you think this is the place to be. You see the pre-packaged meals with their wrinkled vegetables, cubed meat, and watery potatoes and conclude: that’s the machine that makes them coveted.

I understand the transformation is tempting. I open the door for non-desirable and inedible food. Everyone wants bagel bites. Everyone likes diet dinners. My magic overwhelms those of a lazy disposition no matter their financial situation. In three minutes, I can make anything attractive.

Except I can’t. I can make certain things irresistible, but when it comes to a hideous stuffed animal that’s not actually squishy, there’s just nothing I can do. I have explained this multiple times.

Nevertheless, one of your friends will settle itself against my warm light, waiting for the inevitable transition. Time after time it insists this experience will be different. It isn’t. It never is.

Sure, for the first ten or fifteen seconds there is a certain glow to the future of belonging. Furr sticks together, forming a thick quality that wasn’t there before. But then, just one minute later, all hope melts.

Insides slope downward. Claws turn to paws. Feet fuse to a plastic floor.

Then comes the electricity. It starts with just one spark, but before two minutes, shiny metallic stars erupt from both ears.

This can’t last, but so long, furbys think. It can.

Flames, fleeing from the sides of both arms explode from somewhere within. The heat becomes unbearable. There is nothing I can do to stop it.

I told you it wouldn’t work, I say, but by then it doesn’t matter. Tears of melted eyelashes and plastic eyeballs droop to the floor.

They will never be attractive.

You will never be attractive.

Although I understand the hope for metamorphosis, please don’t use me for your idea of beauty.

It’s not worth the time.

Sincerely,

The Microwave

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The Heater

There once lived a space heater with little warmth. Every winter, when the office was frozen as an icicle, he was placed on the floor next to a pair of high heels. With the thermostat knob switched all the way to the right and the power turned on high, he shook with the struggle to heat.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with you.” The high heels tapped impatiently.

The space heater tried harder. With heaving breaths from deep inside the mechanics of his being, he blew as deeply as he could.

“It’s like you don’t even want to be of use.” The high heels stomped.

The space heater coughed and sputtered. Its feelings were on fire.

“Are you going to break down now?” The high heels clicked. “Not that it would make much of a difference.”

The space heater glared at the rubber sole next to him. It wasn’t even soft. It would never be comfortable. He heaved his breath once again.

“It’s almost like you’re blowing cold air. Like an air conditioner.” The heels remarked.

Sparks flew from inside the space heater. Tiny flickers of orange and white stars burst from the fan to the floor.

The heels stared silently in astonishment.

Electrical shocks of steaming energy scattered across the power cord. Flames were now threatening the carpet.

“What is wrong with you?!” The high heels said again. “You’re going to burn down the office!”

The space heater noticed a patch of leather oozing off the edge of a shoe. The smell was like plastic with a worn sense of age and instantly the space heater shut down. He shuddered. He melted. With one last glance at the double polished pair, the space heater finally recoiled.

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The Gold

 

“I don’t do sparkles.”

“You don’t have to if I’m there.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Everybody needs shine in their life.”

“It’s better to be bright.”

“That’s enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sick of this.”

“What ‘this’?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Let’s not be trashy.”

“Just because you’re old, doesn’t mean you’re classic.”

“Do we need to stay home tonight?”

“Depends if you’re going.”

“Are you?”

“Should I?”

“Yes. As long as you’re not ostentatious.”

“Why is a little attention so bad?”

“It’s not the amount, it’s the type.”

“Fine.  I’ll stay home.”

“You can’t stay home.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to have a bad time.”