Robyn Pops the Question to Oscar Pizza Delivery Guy: IWSG

    

It's thanks to Alex J. Cavanaugh that we bring you the IWSG on the first Wednesday of the month. Insecurities are revealed, support is offered, and - in my case - weirdness abounds. If you haven't joined us, please do. You won't regret it. All that's required is an insecurity or two hundred.
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  dialogue:  Edgar / Robyn

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,
Did you watch the Oscar Awards? Today's guest had the most stellar performance of the night. He's Edgar Martisyan, the pizza delivery guy who helped feed the audience at the Awards Show! Come on out here, Edgar. Edgar struts out, dressed as he did on Oscar night with a stack of pizzas. Brad Pitt jumps up, as he did on Oscar night, takes the stack from Edgar, and helps distribute pizzas to our audience. Angelina scoffs and drags their 25 kids out of the studio.

Robyn notices that Meryl Streep grabs two pieces, handing one slice to her husband. Robyn turns to Edgar. What, the guy can't stand up and get his own pizza? Edgar shrugs his shoulders and holds a polite smile.  Robyn motions to a small red-velvet loveseat. She sits down and pats the meager space beside her thigh. Have a seat. Robyn flings her hair back. 

Edgar blushes, awkwardly. It's okay, I'm used to standing.

Robyn crosses her legs and pumps her chest out. Standing position is good too. Edgar, I don't see a wedding ring. Edgar doesn't respond.

I hear you like Julia Roberts, and she and I are the same age. And I heard you mention having lived in Moscow. What a coincidence! I've, I've, I've heard of Moscow.

Edgar looks at his watch, flustered. You performed with such coolness and confidence, and you didn't expect to be watched by the world. Did you? Edgar shakes his head. No. It was a total surprise. 

I think you're a fine example for writers, you know the writers you were supposedly going to deliver pizzas to. But writers didn't get any. It went to the filthy rich celebrities. As if they can't afford pizza or Sicily. Robyn clears her throat. Sorry, I digressed. You know, I'm naive like you. We should heat it up together, if you know what I mean. Robyn winks and bats her lashes.

Edgar fidgets, clearly uncomfortable.

Don't worry honey. I don't bite...Unless you want me to. She winks again, then slowly unbuttons the top button of her maroon silk shirt. Sometimes we perform our best when we don't know what we're getting into. I had no idea how many years it would take to write a novel and how many trees would be sacrificed. I just jumped into it. I'm glad I was naive like you, babe, because I might not be doing it if I knew how hard - Robyn blushes and giggles - excuse the expression, it would be.

Edgar nods and in a matter-of-fact tone says, Yes, I was calm because I had no idea what was going on. Robyn eyes him, head to toes. I like that about you.

Edgar's clearly had enough. He nods and gives a courtesy wave to the audience. Then he turns to Robyn, preparing to impart a curt goodbye.

Wait, don't leave, babe. Edgar politely stands still and listens to Robyn.  

I bet you deliver hot and fast sometimes, and slow and sizzling other times. She fingers her neckline. I like mine stringy, with lots of spice and hearty sausage. She chews on her lower lip. Actually, sweetie, I brought you on the show to ask you something. Will you marry me? 

Edgar appears terrified and runs off the stage. Robyn shrugs her shoulders. Brad Pitt hands her the last slice of pizza and a $700 tip for Edgar. Thanks, dude! Brad nods. Robyn rushes off the stage, chasing Edgar and failing to properly end today's show.

Pat Hatt and Charlie's Scribes

*completely unsolicited

   I never imagined I'd be made into a character in someone's book. But Pat Hatt did just that. Rockin Robin is the second from the left above, in Tune at High Noon. Isn't she cute?
   Be one of Pat Hatt's thousands of followers, and you might just find yourself in the pages of his books. You probably already know that Pat Hatt spins rhymes 24/7. He's published almost 30 rhyming children's books, and the illustrations are great too. Tune at High Noon is my personal favorite. It was a gleeful surprise to learn that I'm dancing in Tune with Miss Cloud, Stretchy Waffle, and Cactus Adam. A much belated thank you, Pat Hatt, our modern day Dr. Seuss!  

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*also unsolicited...

     Have you heard of Charlie's Scribes? What an amazing trio, played by Mark Koopmans, Elizabeth Seckman, and Tammy Theriault. This threesome fulfills a blogger's most pressing need. (Well, perhaps a blogger's second most pressing need. Or third, factoring in chocolate.) Anyway, we all have times when we're on vacation/staycation, or experiencing blogger's block, or  combatting health issues, or can't blog for one reason or another. Charlie's Scribes fills the gap. They travel from blog to blog, bravely offering hilariously silly and fun-filled entertainment when bloggers are MIA. 

Taken from their site:

Charlie’s Scribes are the chocolate to your sweet tooth. We are the filler to the soon-to-be cavity. And best of all, we are the wig to Mark's shiny lovable head.

(If you don’t need us now – that’s okay. Feel free to print this page and pin it to your fridge next to those other emergency contact numbers.)

Find them here!

I have fond memories of Charlie's Angels. Like every girl back then, I wanted Farrah Fawcette's hair. I also wanted Jacklyn Smith's sex-appeal, and Kate Jackson's smarts. In this case, I'll take Elizabeth Seckman's smarts, Tammy Theriault's sex-appeal, and Mark Koopman's...wait, let's try again. I'd be thrilled to have Elizabeth's sex-appeal, Tammy's smarts, and...Never mind. Sorry, Mark. I wouldn't have written that if you weren't the most good-natured bald Hawaiian I know.

From their recent visit to Michelle Wallace's blog: "Hey Tammy, pick up. It’s Mark and Liz; we’re at Michelle’s concert waiting for you.   Listen, something weird is going on. Liz picked me up in a cab from a place called Bates Motel; I have a new tattoo of an elephant on my right shoulder and a pounding headache that reminds me of Ireland. You need to hurry and get up here mas rapido. After the next number, Michelle will announce her blogfest winner."

I was so amused by their antics, it took a while before I realized my name marked the end of the post. Woohoo! I'm thrilled and humbled to have won Michelle's Ubuntu blog hop for my poem, Mere Chance.  I'm also grateful to the scribes for navigating elephant dung in stilettos and/or flip flops, despite a terrible hang over spurred by raucous partying at the Bates Hotel the night before - in order to make the grand announcement. If that's not dedication, I don't know what is.

How could we not love all the heartfelt zaniness found in blogland? I do.

Thank you, Michelle and the Scribes!

Have a great weekend, everyone.                          

Biker Impotence: Woman on the Verge of Paradise

I consistently have bad luck with two things: (1) cameras and (2) men. Regarding the former, I buy cheap cameras that don't tend to last more than a few months before the lens won't open, or I can't snap a photo, or something else has gone wrong like it slips out of my hands and lands on a concrete surface. I don't want to purchase a good camera, because I can't afford one, especially given I'd likely break it too...This is all to say that I won't be doing Sundays in My City for while. My camera stopped working.

Regarding (2), I have no explanation. But I invite you to read excerpts from the novel I'm drafting, Woman on the Verge of Paradise. I post these randomly, with no rhyme or reason, except that I think they'll entertain. If you're offended by, say, erectile dysfunction or curse words, please move on and visit my other posts. This one's not for you. Thank you. Otherwise, I'm curious as to whether any of your friends have experienced anything like this, or if it's just my bad luck with men...
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...His plush, king-sized bed seemed a glamorous place for my first post-Justin liaison. But as he pressed his body against mine, moving up and down, lowering his hand to do some work down there, he sighed.

   "Sorry," Tony said. "Let me keep trying."

   Shit. Just my luck. Guy can't get it up!

   I was hot, wet and, though impatient, pretended not to be. "It's all right, really." Damnit!

   "It's not you. I really want you, Robyn."

   Why would I think that your failure to get it up would be a shortcoming on my part? It's not my penis. "I know. It's okay. We can try again tomorrow."

   Despite frustrations, we fell asleep shortly thereafter.

--

   "I know what it was!" Tony's exclamation awoke me from a sound sleep.

   "Huh?" I opened my eyes and saw that he was smiling. "What is it?"

   "I know why it didn't work. I went on a ten mile bike ride yesterday morning. I remember hearing on the radio that bicyclists sometimes have problems getting an erection."

   "Oh, okay. That's good, honey." I closed my eyes, prepared to go back to sleep. Then, I popped up, eyes wide opened. "Tony--"

   "Yeah?"

   "Will you stop riding your bike, please?"

   "Definitely."
    _____
As a public service announcement, if any of your "friends" have experienced biker impotence, Dr. Anthony Komaroff of Harvard Medical School states:
"If you feel tingling or numbness in your penis, stop riding for a week or two. These are warning signs that your biking could lead to erectile problems."

Ubuntu Bloghop, Mere Chance

"Dare to reach out your hand into the darkness,
to pull another hand into the light." -Amrit Desai
"In Africa, there is a concept known as UBUNTU – the profound sense that we are human only through the humanity of others; that if we are to accomplish anything in this world, it will in equal measure be due to the work and achievement of others." – Nelson Mandela.

In celebration of her 3rd blogoversary, blogland's beloved Michelle Wallace is hosting this Ubuntu Bloghop from February 18-21. During this time, we're invited to post something that captures the spirit of ubuntu--a beautiful concept. I've written a poem.

Mere Chance

I stride into your eyes and see

I could be you. 

You could be me.

Divided lives that crave the same:

Love, respect, a valued name.

Bereft of excess, 

our needs so few:

Awaking safe 

with breath anew.

Both good souls, 

two lots to bear.

Would life make sense, 

a fate we'd share.

Yet I bathe myself 

in waste replete

As you stave demons 

on the street.

Your time, 
a fight

 and mine, 
a dance.

Mere chance contrasts 

each circumstance.

Your hurdles, vast

Your earnest, true

How easily

I could be you.