Sunday, November 27, 2011

True Stories and Other Lies


a benefit reading by Zee Zahava
Tikkun v'Or (The Ithaca Reform Temple)

Sunday, December 11, 2011
3:00 - 4:30

Tikkun v'Or
2550 N. Triphammer Road
Ithaca NY

I'll be reading many of the stories I've posted on my blog this autumn, plus a few new ones. It will be a FUN event: I guarantee!

Refreshments will be served.

Suggested donation: $10

Everyone is welcome. Please come. Bring your friends, too.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Thanksgiving Letter

Thanksgiving Day, 9 a.m.

Dear Ava,
I’ve been up since six, bet you were too, and I wish I could have come over but Daddy says it’s slutty the way I run over to your house all the time and I told him it’s not slutty when it’s two girls but he said he’s speaking metaphorically and anyway this is Thanksgiving (like I didn’t know that) and it’s meant for families to be with families, which is just plain stupid, but anyway that’s why I’m writing to you and not talking to you in person and as soon as I can get out the front door without being caught I’ll run this over and put it in your mailbox. I hope you look there. Try to read my mind this second: 
M-A-I-L  B-O-X. 
Do you like this paper? It’s not really purple. I know it looks purple but it’s called mauve and no I didn’t spell it wrong, my grandma sent it with a note telling me the color because she’s always trying to improve my mind, so get used to this mauve, you’ll be seeing a lot of it, who else would I write to?
She also sent me a book, "A Child’s Garden of Verses," she is so two centuries ago, but I don’t want to be mad at her because the reason she’s sending me this stuff instead of waiting until Hanukkah is she thinks she might be dead by then which is really sad. But on the other hand it’s not sad because there’s nothing wrong with her, she just gets seasonal dread she calls it, but if she’s still alive on New Year’s Day then I’m really going to be mad at her for being so negative about life.
There was a lot of activity in the kitchen this morning, Dad and his new live-in girlfriend playing around with the turkey, giggle, giggle, giggle. I stayed up in my room because watching them make out over a naked animal would turn my stomach, but now they’ve gone back to bed and it’s quiet as the grave though any second I expect to hear her panting and oh-my-god-ing and I'm sure this is not good for me, mental health-wise, but Dad, being a psychologist, would probably say “Facts of life, Dorrie, get used to it.” 
So I'm just wondering about something: “quiet as the grave,” what do you think? Is it quiet in the grave? I doubt it. Gross. Hold on a sec, I’m going to change the channel in my mind. Okay, I’m back.
My ex-step-mother and her two gnomes will be here at one. Is this the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard of? My father is like one of those men with a harem, he gets his ex and his current to come and fuss over him with their cranberry sauces and we’re all supposed to act like it’s normal. He says “We make the rules, not society” but by "we" he means "he" because if I made the rules I’d be at your house right now and we’d have mac-and-cheese from the microwave and we'd play with the Ouija board until our finger tips fell off.
One of the things I’d really like to know is how a woman who is old enough to drive still can’t figure out the meaning of the word vegetarian. When Dad’s live-in realizes I’m not going to eat a single ounce of that 300 pound turkey there’s going to be World War 4 in the dining room. My ex-step-mother might even start crying. She’ll be sad because now that she’s a guest in the house she won’t get to call me names and throw fits. But you never know, anything can happen, I’m sort of hoping for a food fight with the two gnomes, for old time’s sake. 

So now it is so much later, how did this happen? 
You might have noticed I still haven’t managed to get this letter into your mailbox,  hope you haven’t been waiting there, that is if you read my mind in the first place. Did you? 
There’s something of a scene going on downstairs, I’ll tell you every single detail when I see you tomorrow, but for now just try to picture this: After the so-called feast my ex-step-mother stood up and recited a poem she wrote especially for the occasion. I thought she would have outgrown that sensitive phase of hers, but apparently not. It was a very long poem, seemed like 3 hours, and I didn’t understand all of it, but I think it was supposed to be erotic, and it kind of upset the live-in who might be living out soon. Hallelujah.
This is the last letter you’ll get from me on this mauve paper. You remember Jeffrey, one of my former step-gnomes, well he was hanging out in my room — don’t ask me how he got through the barricade — and it turns out mauve is his favorite color, which was something of a shocker but not in a totally bad way, so he’s taking the whole box of stationery off my hands except for one sheet which I’ll use to write a thank you note to my grandmother. I couldn’t get him to take "A Child’s Garden of Verses," though. What did I expect? It’s only Thanksgiving. They don’t promise you miracles on Thanksgiving. 

Look for me early in the morning, I’ll be right there on your doorstep. You'll know it's me because in spite of everything that happened today I still look the same. On the outside.

Love, Dorrie

Sunday, November 13, 2011

11/11/11: a diary project

62 people from all over the country, ranging in age from 9 to 80+, contributed to this collective diary that describes one particular day: November 11, 2011. 

Sometimes I call this kind of flowing list a text mosaic, or an assemblage, or a glimpse into group consciousness. One of the contributors referred to it as a zippy goulash. That's a good description, too! 

Whatever you call it, I hope you'll enjoy reading this account of a day, arranged simply in the order in which the entries were received.

THANK YOU to everyone who participated. All the contributors' names are listed at the end.

Sipping sweet coffee as the babies sleep in. I will go out soon and pick some oranges off the branch of my neighbor's tree, that hangs on my side of the fence. Got the last 9 posts pounded for my 5 wire high-tensile fence while the snow came down; women farmers are tough! I'm so glad to walk to work in daylight now. During lunch hour, I pass by a group of veterans gathered in Dewitt Park; is my dad there? Today would have been my mother's 93rd birthday. A few mallards swim along the shore, dipping their bills into the cold water, searching for an unsuspecting meal. Like our house, my body enters its November with more systems failing more often, costing time, pain and money. I stand perfectly still in the middle of the street so hundreds of dry yellow leaves can swirl around my feet and fly all the way up to land on top of my head. For no special reason I decided to count all of my books and the total number seems both high and low to me: 306, and each one is beloved. Realized, not for the first time, what a sappy sentimental fool I can be, but I don't mind. Walked a few blocks over, to stand in front of a stranger's porch and listen to my favorite wind chimes. Continued my ongoing quest to be more like Mary Poppins. The numbers 11 11 11 look like bars, or the continuous parallel lines that can only meet up in space. I hear all the lonely people. Eleven is one of several numbers that are referred to as “master numbers” in numerology, a bit of esoteric knowledge I learned through the hippie grapevine in my early teens. Arriving at a playground, bright sun & bright wind & bright November thoughts about a different kind of future. Joyful chaos, macaroni & cheese, girl scout songs, early bedtime, exhausted dogs at the end of the day. Wake, wash, crack the windows open, strip the beds, free the germs from my head. I read (by the fire — always the fire) poetry to the kids: Wordsworth, Dickinson, Frost, William Carlos Williams, Langston Hughes, and Poe. I re-wrote "The Raven," calling my version of the poem "The Chicken." Wrote a long funny morbid dream poem. Sat down at my spinning wheel to ply alpaca rovings into yarn; peddled my wheel until my mind stopped racing. Washed dishes and looked out my kitchen window to see red swiss chard, arugula and parsley in my garden bed, unfazed by November. My eyes roll across the words from left to right and the lines scroll down swiftly on the screen while I process text into meaning. I send up a prayer to the patron saint of parking meters, Saint Agnes, that I’ll find a spot on the street on Friday afternoon in downtown Ithaca. I mostly talk and my therapist listens. Read more of Eudora Welty’s "The Optimist’s Daughter" and am awed by the durability of good literature. Horse manure, covering our garden, smells fresh. Dreamed of missing appointments. Bought a pair of pink and turquoise sneakers. Called up my son who is an Iraq War veteran. Wrote a haiku about bare sycamores in the November sun. When I came back from my Hard of Hearing Support Group, the moon was rising. Began the day by calling my favorite veteran, my 91-year-old father, to thank him for his service to our country during WW II. Ended the day sipping Bad Ass Organics Berry Kombucha while knitting place mat number 13 of the 15 I'm hoping to have completed by Thanksgiving Day. At 1 a.m. I cannot tear myself away from my new picture puzzle and wonder if I am addicted. The power went off in the basement and we smelled a strong acrid odor. The seafood cake at Moosewood tasted extra delicious because I was so hungry. Ran into Zee in front of the State Theater and she asked how my 11/11/11 day was going; I screamed and pointed at the storefront next to us: "OH MY GOD LOOK AT THE ADDRESS!" — it was 111. My first and last thought every day, including today: Where will I begin my new life? Why do I always put too much jelly on my PB&J sandwich? The older I get, the more I love bathing; feeling warm water on my skin is one of life's little luxuries. Watched a "Star Trek" episode from the original series, which I've loved since I was a kid, when I wanted to be a Vulcan; specifically, I wanted to be Spock. Breakfast was oatmeal with 11 raisins, 11 slices of banana and 11 blueberries, at 11 a.m. I stuffed a pumpkin (bread, gruyere, garlic, and cream), put the top back on, baked it for two hours, and carried it to the potluck lunch. Installed a new doorbell that plays either the "Hallelujah Chorus," "Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here," or "Auld Lang Syne," each time someone presses the giant red button. Had successful laser eye surgery. Watched the clock, will I miss it, oh there it goes, it will never come again: that particular moment on this particular morning. Sun streaks burned white hot against a crystalline sky of blue, grazed by a buffalo herd of fast-moving clouds. Rendered fruitless and naked by my own two hands, spindly apple trees now surrendered their leaves to a stiff north wind. In the barn, I traded my slip-ons for work boots, gathered my rake and greeted the crew. My mind — to speak of it seems almost perverse — was sour with rotten apples. While sipping hard cider and imbibing wine pressed from grapes grown from our vines, we celebrated our harvest and our veterans. I miss my sister. Finished sewing the backing for a quilt, for a school project. Read about the Corduroy Appreciation Club; 11/11/11 is one of their  most sacred days. Looked up the meaning behind the nursery rhyme "Baa Baa Black Sheep," and discovered it is "a child's guide to taxation." Getting ready for tonight's swim meet, my suit is falling apart at the seams and my back-up one is see-through. Woke up and promptly had a bad hair day. Fed the neighbor's chickens and found feathers, iridescent and mottled in black and white. I remembered something that I'd forgotten to do. I procrastinated. I saw birches that had been bent and twisted by a snowstorm, their white branches spindly like so many bare bones. The realtor called to say people are coming tomorrow to take a second look at the house we rent; this is not good news. Today I struggled. Reminded myself: when the path I’m on seems overwhelming, there are always options. Brought out the arsenal of cleaning supplies and scrubbed the bathroom to within an inch of its life. Sat on my living room floor sipping peppermint tea and chatting with a friend as she sewed the arm back on a favorite old sweater. My twin nieces, daughters of my own twin sister, celebrated their 2nd birthdays today. Stopped at the grocery store for ice cream and a few other things, but forgot the ice cream. My children played with a friend's pet squirrel, vehemently defending it as gentle even after it scratched both of their faces. Packed a red pepper in my purse for a snack to eat on the bus. Yelled into a piece of art that is meant to just be looked at. Decided to one day live in a large, industrial building. Comforter smells like laundry soap; the smell of comfort. Forgot to make a wish at 11:11 on 11-11-11, but I figure the whole day must have been lucky. Productivity was beyond my reach. The only thing I have now is clean laundry. The day was less about others and more about myself. I'm knitting a blanket. I drew circles on a canvas in cadmium yellow light and filled them in while listening to Leonard Cohen singing, “So Long, Marianne.” I got so sleepy I just had to lie down and close my eyes for a little while. I coughed on and off all day, a cough I can’t seem to get rid of. I wrote about this day in my journal so that I’ll be able to go back and find out what happened to my life. Woke to the realization that pregnancy has completely wiped out the part of my brain that knows about the appropriate use of commas. Heavy lunch: cheese, bread, potatoes, family. Ate last night’s stir-fry leftovers for breakfast. Toilet plugged up; is this going to be a cursed day? I got stoned and realized I should have done it much earlier. Enjoyed an episode of the BBC series, "Cranford," where one of the characters writes in her diary each morning about what she thinks will happen, and then writes again at night about what actually did happen. Observed a large flock of crows that landed in my yard, then discussed their habits with friends who were visiting. Woke from a dream in which I was like Odysseus. Last minute packing: "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle," an umbrella, and a green bag full of goodies — yogurt lassi, apples, hummus, rice cakes and dark chocolate. Through the moonlight, the gnome statue welcomes me to the Bed & Breakfast where I'll be staying tonight. Took my not-quite-dry jeans off the line because it started to snow. Picked up seven books at the library. Juncos, chickadees, and titmice go wild when I fill the bird feeder. I check over and over again for the mail, until I remember there is no delivery because of Veterans Day. I climbed a tree and watched the village kids play. I decided not to cut my hair. I had this thought: Our Planet is Gold and We are Stars. First decision of the day: should I use spicy mustard or yellow mustard on the sandwich? In this crisp air, I wear my friend’s vest, my friend who has moved away. V’s of geese veer low over the inlet, flashing black, white, black, white. On this "11" day the classical DJ plays Saint-Saens’ "Carnival of the Animals," because it requires a hendectet, an 11 piece ensemble. Finished reading "The Little Book," by Selden Edwards, about a time traveler to 1897 Vienna who falls in love with his 20-year-old grandmother, and hoped this would never happen to me. Topped off the day with a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, and drank a lot of water to make myself feel healthy afterward. As I walked to work I realized I had put on a lot of pink, for some reason: pink underwear, mauve turtleneck, raspberry fleece vest, bright magenta shoes, and, as I was contemplating the essence of pinkness, a very tall woman in a very short skirt walked toward me wearing hot pink stockings! Trying to look cool in my dad's Buick. Remembered that I want to be a writer and said it out loud. Called contra dances to the sweet, driving music of mandolin, fiddle, and guitar. Carefully reviewed the latest catalog from L.L. Bean and thought about buying a pair of cross country skis, as I imagined myself moving gracefully and smoothly through winter snow. Watched one episode of "The Dick Van Dyke Show," allowing me to retreat to a less stressful (but totally imaginary) time in my life, and fell asleep knowing that I laughed at least once today. Ate breakfast with my sister at a French cafe on 1st Avenue, then paid $55 to get my car out of a parking garage on 23rd Street. Meditated with a group of friends, in an attempt to communicate with people on the other side. Wrote eleven rhyming couplets, all on the theme of oranges. Two dozen gourds in a basket greeted me on my friend's porch: gifts from her compost pile. Much drama when I thought my cats were lost, but they weren't; spent the rest of the day squeezing and hugging and loving them. Even in my red sweater I was cold all day, indoors and outdoors. I worked on my novel but my mind kept flying off to Occupy Oakland, where my son is deeply involved. Listened to a program on the BBC in the wee hours of the morning: an interview with a numerologist. How can there be Christmas lights up already? Wanted to get to bed early, but was having too much fun. Just wondering: how have we humans been influenced by pandas, turtles, deer and other animals? I went ice skating and only fell once. Practiced "March of the Belgian Paratroopers" on my tuba while my sister played "Dory's Waltz" on her violin. Cuddled with my cat, Mischief Marvel Miracle Max Mezuzah. Watched willow branches swirl like seaweed in a cold wind, beneath an alternately gray and sunny sky. Received a belated happy-birthday phone call from a lifelong friend in New Mexico. Played Scrabble with my mom; my words included bream, cornea, facile, jasper, salvo, and vixen. Woke up in Tokyo, went to bed and to sleep in Oak Park, Illinois, adding 15 hours to make a 39-hour day. Goodnight you perfectly symmetrical day. 

Ann Wexler, Anne Killian-Russo, Antonia Matthew, Ava Mailloux, Barbara L. Heller, Barbara West, Bill Holcombe, Bridie Alano, Cady Fontana, Carol Miller, Cassandra Shortle, Chris Bankert-Wray, Christine Garrett Lyng, Cindy Golos, Dylan Matthew Pakkala, Elizabeth Sharp, Ellie Detert, Erica Hostetler, Greta Singer, Gwen Glazer, Jack Alano, Jacqueline Treml Gottlieb, Janet Steiner, Jennifer Jones, Jill D. Swenson, Joan Victoria, Judy Kugelmass, Julie Clougherty, June Wolfman, Kathleen Galland-Bennett, Kylie Spooner, Laura Gates-Lupton, Laura LaRosa, Laurel Detert, Laurie Petersen, Lisa Todzia, Lourdes Brache, Lynne Taetzsch, Maggie Goldsmith, Marty Blue Waters, Mary Peck, Miriam Frischer, Misha Foote, Noemi Kraut, Pamela Goddard, Patty Flannery, Peggy Adams, Peggy Conolly, Phoebe Lakin, Rachel J. Siegel, Ray Petersen Sally Kamerling Sally McConnell-Ginet, Sasha Paris, Sharon K. Yntema, Sheila Dean, Sue Heavenrich, Summer Killian, Susan Dixon, Susan Luther Koon, Tiger Ramanujan, Zee Zahava.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Invitation to be part of the Collective Diary Project on 11/11/11

11/11/11, a day to keep track of!

Dear friends,  

I’d like to invite you to participate in an online literary collaboration: “11/11/11: A Diary Project.” 

This "Text Mosaic" will illustrate the different ways dozens of people of all ages experience a single day in November. Selected entries will appear as a continuous anonymous list, published on my blog, with contributors’ names noted at the end.

Feel free to share this invitation with others, of all ages.

You’ll find submission guidelines below. Please follow them carefully to ensure that your contribution will be considered. I may not be able to include work by everyone who sends me something but I will try my best. 

I’m looking forward to reading about your “11/11/11” day!

Irene (Zee) Zahava


“11/11/11:  A Diary Project”

1. On Friday, November 11, keep a record of what you do, say, hear, observe, eat, think about, dream about, read, ETC.

2. Type your entry as a VERTICAL list in chronological order, but don't include specific references to times. You might write entries that take you through the entire day, or just focus on one small part. You can submit one sentence only, or a whole lot more. 

The important thing is that each sentence must be able to stand on its own, without anything coming before or after it to give it context. Your sentences will be "deconstructed" to fit in with dozens of others. Please note: I may edit, condense, combine, etc.

I am most interested in reading about the things you do that are unique to you.

3. Send your entry to:

Paste your text directly into the email; no attachments.

DEADLINE: Saturday, November 12, 5 p.m. I’ve intentionally imposed a very short time-frame. The sooner you send me your entry, the fresher it will be, and the less chance there is that you’ll forget to do it.

4. Be sure to include your name exactly as you would like it to appear at the end, on the contributors’ list. Names don’t always correspond to e-mail addresses, so this is important. 

I hope to have the collective diary published on my blog some time during the week of November 13.

Be sure to check in:

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

From the Private and Personal Diary of Lotus Louise Klapper

Entry #9
National Take to the Hills Day

I’ve decided to run away. I don't have any choice, now that Mr. and Mrs. Klapper have become totally unbearable.  No blue hair, no navel ring, no sleepovers on school nights, no purple walls, no HBO, no Girl Goddess Jamboree at Fiona Feingold’s house. The Klappers are acting like parents, not subjects, and I’ve had it with them. 

I will run away to Grandma Iris’s and transform her house into my Castle-Away-from-Home. If Lotus Nation is a state of mind (which is what Mrs. Sheridan told Godiva, and I’m sure she meant it in a very positive way) then any place I go my Sovereignty will come with me.
I feel 99.9% certain that Grandma Iris will take me in. But that one little tenth of a percentage point (or is it 1/100th?) is what’s keeping me from calling her in advance and telling her to expect a Royal Visitation. I think if I just show up on her doorstep it will be more effective. That’s what they call “the element of surprise.” 

The fact that I am a monarch on the run should count for something, sympathy-wise. Plus, Grandma Iris is my Jewish grandmother. I’m sure she knows the story of Anne Frank. Though I won’t be living in her attic. Grandma Iris has a nice guest room, with its own TV, and HBO. I expect to be quite happy there until Mr. and Mrs. Klapper come to their senses. 
I decided not to pack a suitcase. It is undignified for me, as the Queen of All, to schlep luggage around town. Everything I need is in my backpack, except  for my diary which, naturally, is in my lap. But now I will pack her (you) away — temporarily — to make a safe journey across the ocean. 

Okay, I'm only going eight streets away. Still, it’s like another universe over there. But as soon as I walk through Grandma Iris’s door I will establish Lotus Nation in Exile. 

I hope Becky and Avis and Godiva can come over tonight and help me map out my bloody revenge against the Klappers and Mr. Harold P. Loomis and Fiona Feingold, who stole my idea for Girl Goddess Jamboree (I didn’t want to go to her stupid party anyway) and Kenny Bergermeister, who is not the gentleman I thought he was. 

I know what I know and some day everything will be revealed.

The end (for now).

Monday, November 7, 2011

From the Private and Personal Diary of Lotus Louise Klapper

Entry # 8
National Protect Yourself Day

At school today Mr. Harold P. Loomis, a.k.a. The Gnome of Rising Creek Middle School, gave one of his spittle lectures. That means if you're unlucky enough to be sitting in the first three rows of math class you will drown in Mr. Loomis’s spit. 

As The Queen of Lotus Nation you'd think I could do something to spare myself and my loyal subjects from the Degradation of the Beast Creature, but unfortunately my powers — vast though they be — do not yet extend to Room 208 in Rising Creek Middle School. 

I put both my hands in the position of “Warding Off Evil,” exactly as Becky Waller-Klein taught me (“Make the sign of two horns and point them at your intended victim”) but it didn’t work. Mr. Loomis did not fall down in a fit. I made the sign of two horns, under my desk, for the entire period and nothing happened. 

I am in great despondency. 

Godiva looks really cute with pink hair.

To be continued . . . 

Sunday, November 6, 2011

From the Private and Personal Diary of Lotus Louise Klapper

Entry #7
National Hair Alteration Day
Mrs. Klapper is leading an insurrection. She has  gotten Mr. Klapper entirely on her side and these two serfs have forbidden me (ha!) to dye my hair blue. 

Godiva Sheridan’s mother, who is a psycho-therapist, let her dye her hair pink. Mrs. Sheridan knows how important it is for a growing person to have Freedom of Expression. If she weren’t so old I would let her be one of my Ladies in Perpetual Waiting. She is the only decent grown up I know, except for my Grandma Iris. Naturally, Mr. and Mrs. Klapper hate Mrs. Sheridan, although they try to deny it. (“I don’t hate anyone,” Mrs. Klapper says. Double ha.)
I said if I couldn’t have blue hair then I should at least be able to get my navel pierced. Mrs. Klapper started to cry. She acts like that’s some holy part of the body. I told her “Please stop saying ‘belly button,’ Mrs. Klapper, the proper word is navel.” 

She said if I don’t call her Mom or Mother I shouldn't call her anything at all. We are now totally not speaking. 

Mr. Klapper is spending more and more time at work. He said the atmosphere at home is no longer conducive to his well-being. I don't know what he's talking about. I may have to make him my Minister of Foreign Affairs and send him off to some other planet. Let's see how conducive that is to his well-being. 

To be continued . . . 

Saturday, November 5, 2011

From the Private and Personal Diary of Lotus Louise Klapper

Entry # 6
National Colors Day
Mrs. Klapper said I absolutely, positively cannot paint my bedroom purple. She is what’s known as an Infidel, but believe me she didn’t like being called that. I was as patient as any Queen anywhere has ever been. I explained to her that my bedroom is my Sacred Domain but she was unmoved by logic. I may have to resort to threats. In any case, she has forbidden me to buy paint. That will not deter me. I’m experimenting with Magic Markers. 

On the minus side, it’s a very slow process. 

On the plus side, it works. 

The wall behind my bed has been magic(marker)ally transformed — stripes of red, orange, green, blue and lots and lots of purple. It took me three hours to get the right effect but it was worth it. A Queen has to set a high standard. My subjects look up to me (except for the Mrs. Klappers and the Mr. Loomises of the world). 

As for Mr. Loomis, I have come up with a diabolical scheme to drive him mad — and hopefully convince him to quit teaching at Rising Creek Middle School. And to leave the Nation of Lotus forever. I will write more about that later, right now it’s still in the planning stages.
Mrs. Klapper has aligned herself with the powerful force of Mr. Klapper (a.k.a. my father). I had hoped to win him over as an ally but so far he is under the very mistaken notion that this is all some sort of a joke. 

At dinner tonight he called me Princess Princess which, according to him, is hilarious. What is the opposite of hilarious? That's what Mr. Klapper is. He offered to build me a moat in the backyard, which is also extremely not funny, although the backyard is a giant mud hole right now and if I had swine they’d be very happy there. 

Perhaps I will make Mr. and Mrs. Klapper my official swineherd and swinherdess and make them live in the shed. Except we don't have a shed, so they could live in the garage. 

If only they realized how merciful I am. 

They should be kissing my toes in gratitude.

To be continued . . . 

Friday, November 4, 2011

From the Private and Personal Diary of Lotus Louise Klapper

Entry # 5
A Day of Troubles (no scheduled celebrations)
Things are not going too well with Mrs. Klapper. She was downright insubordinate today and called me “Your Royal Heinie” in a very snotty tone. She thinks she’s so funny but everyone knows women of her age have lost their sense of humor. I wouldn’t even let her audition to be my Court Jester if I were holding auditions, which I’m not because I already gave that job to Godiva Sheridan. 

Godiva was feeling bad that she didn’t get to be my Chief Lady in Perpetual Waiting, but I have three best friends and they can’t all be my Chief. Avis Beam, who I've known practically since the day I was born, is my best-best friend and that has to count for something. I made Becky Waller-Klein my Enforcer (her height is finally coming in handy) so that makes Godiva the Jester, which works out perfectly because she is really, truly funny. 

It’s not easy keeping all my subjects happy all of the time. Which is why I need Becky as my Enforcer, for when people step out of line. I will not put up with rebellion of any sort and that goes for Mr. Harold P. Loomis as well as Mrs. Klapper.
Mr. Loomis seems to think that everyone — including the Queen of All — must learn the metric system. He was adamant. And apoplectic. I’m thinking of having him decapitated. 

In the meantime, Mrs. Klapper is trying to limit my telephone privileges. 

She has no idea who she’s dealing with. I might just have to banish her.

To be continued . . . 

Thursday, November 3, 2011

From the Private and Personal Diary of Lotus Louise Klapper

Entry #4
National Anthem Day

My mother (from now on to be referred to as Mrs. Klapper) is having a hard time adjusting to our new roles. I told her I am no longer her daughter but her Sovereign Queen, to which Mrs. Klapper responded with a word that would have gotten her thrown into the dungeon if I weren’t such an Enlightened Monarch. 

I explained that the transition might be tough on her at first, seeing as how she’s not used to being a subject, but now that I am Queen of All there will have to be some changes made around here. Mrs. Klapper told me to go to my room. I told her that I would go to “my chamber” to give her time to cool off. 

I trust she’s using her time well but I don’t have a lot of hope for her. I can hear her throwing things around in the kitchen this very minute and that’s not a good sign. 

I probably shouldn’t try to get her to learn the National Anthem of Lotus. Since I haven’t finished writing it yet, that’s not really a problem. 

What is a problem is that I have got to make Mrs. Klapper stop calling me WeezieSqueezie. If a Queen doesn’t get respect in her own castle than what’s the use of being a Queen?

To be continued . . . 

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

From the Private and Personal Diary of Lotus Louise Klapper

Entry #3
National Bumper Roses Day
Today I, Lotus Louise Klapper, and my best friends Avis Beam, Becky Waller-Klein and Godiva Sheridan, will wander among the cars in the faculty parking lot of Rising Creek Middle School and when we find a car with a cool bumper sticker we'll put a rose under the windshield wipers as a special commendation for wit, originality, outrageousness and/or excellence. 

It will not be hard for us to get a lot of roses for free because National Bumper Roses Day just accidentally coincidentally on purpose falls on the day when all the garbage cans are overflowing with slightly-used roses. This most clever of ideas was thought up by none other than Avis Beam and for her brilliance she has been awarded the title of Chief Lady in Perpetual Waiting. 

Now Becky and Godiva have incentive to be equally clever and if they are they will be suitably rewarded. But if they are not they run the risk of severe demotion. Times are hard and life is tough and the sooner they learn these facts the better off they will be. 

I didn’t receive a Valentine’s Day card from Kenny Bergermeister. I think that somehow he still doesn’t know who I am. I will have to do something about this. 

I did receive a card from Max Rainwater. He didn't sign it but I could tell by the smell. Pickles. Yuck. I hope that by ignoring him, he'll eventually go away. But if I have to take more decisive action I am certainly prepared to do so. 

I am Lotus Louise Klapper, Queen of All. Some people may call me the Queen of Mean but they better not let me hear them say that. 

To be continued . . . 

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

From the Private and Personal Diary of Lotus Louise Klapper

Entry # 2
National No Rulers Day
On this day all the people in the Sovereign Nation of Lotus will be forced to put away their rulers and promise to never again wave them around in the air like lethal weapons of doom and destruction, frightening the innocent children who just happen to be in their math class.

This is particularly true of Mr. Harold P. Loomis at Rising Creek Middle School. 

If Mr. Harold P. Loomis disobeys this edict he will have to face the consequences. I, Lotus Louise Klapper, Empress of All I See, will let it be known throughout the land that no one may talk to him. Mr. Harold P. Loomis will be shunned, just like in that book we read in Literary Arts class, and he will suffer greatly. 

If Mr. Harold P. Loomis realizes the error of his ways and begs to be allowed back into Lotus Nation it will depend on what kind of mood I’m in. I’m pretty sure I will be in a terrible mood and say no. But if I say yes it will have conditions. 

Mr. Harold P. Loomis will get the maximum number of demerits and be sent to detention for a very long time, which will be nearly impossible for him to endure because he has no strength of character.

I still haven't decided what to do with all the rulers that will no longer be used, but I'm sure I'll think of something wonderful. I won't let them be called rulers, though. I am the one and only Ruler of the Sovereign Nation of Lotus.

To be continued . . .