7:03 a.m. Vaginal embolism. I’ve read it in two different books. Yeah they’re both by Chuck Palahniuk, but he researches for months before he starts writing and—vaginal embolism! Two words in two different books by the same author. And I can’t get them out of my head. Two words out of thousands of should be equally rememberable words. (Is that a word? rememberable? Need to check.) A pair of words that can change the world if more people knew them.
I should tell them today, this morning, in front of the green screen. In front of cartoon suns and puffy clouds and the nation divided by imaginary lines, its cities numbered by degrees. “Good morning Why am I laughing? This is serious, earthshaking stuff! My golden egg. Chloe Clarimonde’s big piece that marked her transition to the front desk. No more green screens, no more weather. Real time on Air! Chloe Clarimonde. Beautiful. Smart. Anchorwoman. Sigh.
Chloe Clarimonde. Beautiful. Smiley. Weathergirl. I can dream… That’s why little girls are born. The world needs its dreamers.
7:14 a.m. Cell phone. Blackberry. Bag. Door.
7:14 a.m. Why is this mirror still here?! Lipstick. Too much shadow. Napkin. Okay! Door!
7:17 a.m. “Hey it’s my favorite doorman Greg!” He looks really tired. I’ll bring down a cup of coffee for him tomorrow.
“G’morning Miss Chloe, but you know m’name’s Glen. Very funny.” He says defeated.
Glen! That’s right! Glen gets coffee and a poppy seed with light salmon cream cheese tomorrow.
“Sorry Glen, too early for my pretty little head, can you get me a cab?” Eight hours overnight and even he can’t fight off my pretty little smile.
7:30 a.m. The cab smells like lilacs. Mmm lilacs… We used to have all kinds of flowers growing around my house. I’m not good with identifying, but I can smell lilacs from any other kind. We had lilacs on the side of the house, between the back and front yard. I would play there while mom was in the kitchen. I was six. She watched me from the kitchen. My little girl dress getting stained with brown and green streaks as I ran back and forth, a plastic can in one hand, a plastic gun in the other. My bubba makeen, I called it. My bubble machine. Bubbles.
The secret to parenting: give your kids a bubble gun and an extra large can of fluid and you’re free for hours. They’ll make those bubbles and follow them around like lemmings forever. While you take care of the house, the bills, everything else important. They’ll chase after those clear floating air pockets like dogs chase after—well anything. Until you have time for them again. Bubbles. Hundreds of babysitters in a pink plastic bottle. A can of Mary Poppins’. I ran after them like any other little girl would.
My mother used to call me her “little fool” chasing after air. I didn’t know, mom. I didn’t know the science behind those round sparkling things. I couldn’t understand why I could never catch one; why when I did, it would pop and disappear into the afternoon. All I was left with was the sun hurting my eyes and the smell of lilacs making the inside of my nose itchy and slimy. But I liked that smell. And I liked how the bubbles floated and sparkled. I wanted to catch them for you. Your “little fool” in a dirty dress with big dreams of catching the air in her tiny hands. I liked how you called me your “little fool”. I didn’t know what it meant but you always looked happy when you said it.
Don’t you know mom? It’s like that woman said in that book, ‘that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’
7:41 a.m. I walk into the building with my I.D. out every morning. I don’t have to. Every one knows me. But it makes me feel normal. I’m a walking contradiction. The famous weathergirl who wants to be an even more famous anchorwoman, who doesn’t want to feel too much like a celebrity. Sigh. I flash my I.D. at the suit behind the wide marble desk in the lobby.
“Good morning Miss Clarimonde! So what’s in store for today?” He looks like he just got in.
“Good morning, Greg!” I pause before his name. His expression doesn’t change. Thank the gods. “Rain.”
I walk towards the elevator bank and I hear a radio go on. It sounds like a small clock radio. Greg probably has one at his desk, probably turns it off when we walk in, on again when we go up. I know the song. Dad sang it, teasingly, to mom on their silver wedding anniversary. My dad in the middle of a catering hall with his guitar. Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash.
7:42 a.m. Inside the elevator I’m alone. So I start singing, deep like Mr. Cash. Love is a burning thing. And it makes a fiery ring. Absolutely. I fell for you like a child. Oh, but the fire went wild! Sing it Johnny! I fell into a burning ring of fire! I went down down down but the flames went higher! And it burns burns burns—the ring of fire, the ring of fire! Hah! Oh Johnny. Do you know what you’ve done?!
I never understood why people like to hear songs about men falling in love. Falling in love as if it’s so painful for them. Does it hurt, Johnny? Greg? Does it burn?
It’s not just them. Men all across America
See, Johnny, you had all these guys believing in you. In your suffering of love. They forgot that you’re a singer, a messenger. And that this message wasn’t yours. Ring of Fire was written by your wife, June Carter. All these men were ignorantly singing along with a woman! Stomping their boots down, beating their chests, echoing the pain of loving through the soul of, that’s right!, A WOMAN!
June didn’t mean for it to be, but this song should be the Feminist anthem. Johnny Cash as the new mascot: a hardened, black shell of a man, singing about what it’s like to be a woman in love, with the rest of men-kind on backup vocals. And it burns burns burns—the ring of fire, the ring of fire… I hum the tune as the elevator doors open.
7:46 a.m. Not even two minutes in my office and my assistant, Herbert, storms in with a handful of 8x11’s, envelopes, and his Bedazzler-ed! planner. I notice that he’s not carrying my mug with what should be my tea and his mouth is flapping and noises are coming out. I’m not listening.
“Herbert, darling, where’s my tea?” I interrupt. He stops talking, mid-breath, and gives me an un-Oregonian but very-Herbert morning-eyed murderous glare. I love him.
“I’m sorry Mrs. Clarimonde, there’s a very large mob in the lounge who are all waiting groggily and grumpily for their turn at the pot and I thought you’d want your messages immediately but I guess I was wrong. I’m a horrible assistant. The worst. Let me go get my ass in the line and I’ll see you in an hour!”
“Oh Herbie, it’s too early for your gay outbursts. I’ll do without the tea.” I groan loudly. “But make another reference to my mother and I’ll tell Mark in sports that you’re really straight.” I grin blackmailingly. (Is that a word? blackmailingly? Probably not.)
“I’ll ignore that. Besides, he won’t believe you. Anyway, you have three messages. Side note: that catchphrase of his? Wha-Wham! It sounds creepy when you’re the only person in the audience and he’s not talking about sports. You news people are weird.” Eww. But I’m not weird!
“So! Messages! Skip over the official stuff.”
“Ok—you have one message. ‘Do you have time for a lunch-break quickie? Nick’. You don’t. You have a meeting. But I do.” He winks at me.
“Ugh. Herbie, darling, please don’t wink at me. I hate people who wink at me.”
“Everyone winks at you.”
“I hate everyone. P.s. Stay away from my Nick.” I give him the murderous glare.
“But we’re so in love! Seriously though, I’ve made an appointment with him for next week. If he fucks up, I’m pissing in your tea.”
“I’ll make sure he gets a good night’s rest… Did you look up that thing?” He shuffles through the 8x11’s and pulls out a couple marked with a highlighter.
“Here it is. Everything I can find on Vaginal Embolism in fifteen minutes. I was out late last night. You have about 8 minutes till makeup.” He hands me the striped papers and walks out.
8:02 a.m. It’s easier when a woman is pregnant but apparently a woman’s pelvic region has such a dense blood supply that it’s easy to force pockets of air into her bloodstream, into her circulatory system. Enough air and she’ll die of an embolism. There’s a few ways to do this but the most obvious is cunnilingus. That’s right! If a guy’s going down on you and he breathes into your vagina—he can kill you. One source says that, every year, nine hundred women die on average this way. Another source says that they die within seconds.
There it is. The secret of the world; the way the world is going to end. Our vaginas; our weapon turned against us. If every man knew about this, knew how to kill us—I think I’ll keep my mouth shut instead.
In a way, it’s still very empowering. Very Feminist. We women, we’re all walking survivors. Every time a guy has gone down on us, we could have died! We’re fucking bedroom war veterans! I am woman! Hear me moan! Seriously guy, make sure I’m still moaning…
And to think that men feel so obliged! To “return the favor”! Add this one to the list of things we can do that men can’t. We can survive child birth. We can survive periods. And we can survive getting eaten out! Wipe that proud wet smile off your face buddy! I almost died!
I tell all this to Alysha, hairdresser and makeup artist supreme, as she paints my face ready for the cameras. She nods and says, “Is that so? Really? I never imagined!” She doesn’t care. I tell her that it’s going to rain later and for the rest of the week. She cares about that. It’s fine. This isn’t my golden egg, my ticket to the big desk, but I do feel more powerful. Air pockets. Bubbles. Who knew? Strangely, I’m turned on.
Herbert walks into the dressing room with my tea in his hand. “You’re on in five, babe.”
I take my tea with a pretty little smile. “Herbie, darling, cancel my meeting and tell Nick I have time.”
“Wha-Wham!” He says teasingly. “Don’t die.” He says with a wink.
Photo1: http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3085/3099126593_5764a30be6.jpg
Photo2: http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3487/4069616710_b570ee2dbb.jpg
Photo3: http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3531/3713498991_10ea702e06.jpg
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