Interview with Dr. Phil, back for IWSG!

Hi, Friends,
I stopped doing the IWSG/Insecure Writer's Support Group long ago. But I missed the group and my alternatively factual interviews. Alex is so kind, I'm not sure he ever dropped me from the list. So all things considered, I brought back a biggie. He's 6'4". He's Dr. Phil. And he's here for an interview.

Robyn: Come on out here, Doc! 

Dr. Phil hands his rifle to wife Robin and walks to center stage. "How ya all doin'? I said 'How ya all doin'?"

Robyn: Why do you always repeat yourself, Philanderer? 

Dr. Phil: Look, I don't know what you're talkin about, little one. I said, 'I don't know what you're talkin about down there!'

Robyn: Excuse me, dude. You're not a real doctor. You gave up your license years ago. A questionable license it was, too. You'd hired a client to work as an employee. Hm. The station kept you on as "entertainment" while you pretend to do therapy. Unethical much? And you cheated on your first wife. And you steal quotes from others and pretend they're yours. Yet you don't have an insecure nerve in your body. How do you do it, Philayofish?

Dr. Phil: Look, it's time to get real about your life. I said 'It's time to get real about your life!' If you don't have confidence in yourself, nobody else will. I said --

Robyn: I heard you! I quoted you in my book too. I mean, you're not all bad, but you are an annoying egomaniac, Philosophical b.s.er.

Dr. Phil: Let me tell you, I've conducted an extensive study. It took years of research and the most highly trained professionals. We determined your needs. Our crew looked long and hard --

Robyn starts to salivate at the thought of her needs finally being met in a long, hard way.

Dr. Phil continues: We found the perfect intensive neuro so so psycho facility for middle aged sex starved women of abnormally short stature who are ravenously addicted to - shall we say? - treats.

Robyn's beaming. Oh yes, Phillycheesesteak. We shall say treats! Woohoo! Robyn partakes in fist pumping and frenetic dance moves.

Dr. Phil: Look, just go! I said 'Just go!' Dr. Phil signals two very big security guards to escort a hyperactive Robyn off the stage.

Robyn: Thank you, Philharmonic! Thank you! You're the best! I said 'You're the best!'
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On a different and very sad note, in my eight years of blogging, I've spoken to half a dozen blog friends by phone. One of them is Melissa Bradley. Melissa and I shared men bashing stories and other nonsense, and she'd make me laugh hysterically. When I spoke to her approx. two weeks ago, and she was in hospice, Melly told me: "You know what they served me for dinner the other night? Bratwurst! YOU DON'T SERVE BRATWURST UNLESS YOU DO IT RIGHT. And that means NOT WITH KETCHUP PACKETS!" How could I not laugh heartily? Melissa called me her bloggy sister. She was a feisty, saucy, hilarious, creative, heartfelt and very loving woman who fought a grueling battle with unfaltering gusto and optimism. Ultimately, cancer put an end to that fight this past Sunday.  Among Melissa's final words to me were "I'll pray for you." That speaks to her selfless character. 

I love you, bloggy sis. Your memory is forever a blessing. Thank you for all your gifts to literature, your loved ones, and the world. Rest in Peace, dear heart.
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Take gentle care, my friends.
I love you and life is precious. 
Keep a smile. Better yet, laugh heartily. And repeat. And then some more.

Valentine's Erotica! and Love for Melissa

For so many reasons, I hate Valentine's Day. Even though I currently have a sweet beau, my V-Day venom broils over. For one, the world would be much better off if self-worth was the standard, versus dependence on some prince/princess to bring happiness, status, red roses, and crappy non-fair trade chocolate packaged in huge heart-shaped containers making it appear as though you'll be set through menopause--when, upon opening it, you need a microscope to decipher a few lousy shards of cocoa...I'll quit now. 

Buy your chocolate before prices sky-rocket, or wait for the after-V. Day sales.

I love you, my dear sillies, and I hope you liked this poem.

Much love to my sister-bloggy friend, Melissa Bradley. Her heart's huge; her sassy wit, remarkable; and Melissa writes the hottest erotica I've ever read. Please send healing thoughts her way. If it's your practice, prayers are requested. She's dealing with beastly news. We love you, Melly. We're cheering you on. You got this!

Take care of you, every one of you.

The Big C Hop for our Dear Melissa Bradley!

My dear friend, Melissa Bradley, wrote this:  
My hugest thanks to Michael Di Gesu, who organized this. You are an amazing friend and I wouldn't know what to do without you.
   As many of you know, I am currently locked in battle with the Big C...Cancer. Today I am celebrating the fight with my wonderful fellow bloggers on this Big C Cancer Blog hop. We are telling stories of the humor found in dealing with this disease. Humor helps a lot in this battle, it is a very effective weapon in keeping one's spirits up and at the ready.
    Money is also an important part of the fight, so these entries you read are all going to be published in an anthology to help me in my fight. Whatever I do not use of the proceeds will be donated to Gilda's Club Chicago, a very important place for women fighting this terrible disease.
    Thanks for reading. You can find all the incredible, wonderful participants here.

I'm sharing a snippet from Chapter 5 of Woman on the Verge of Paradise: Young Teachers and True Love. Here's the start of my story of Brianne, a four year old I was matched with when, during Freshman year at UCLA, I volunteered at the UCLA Medical Center. (The entire segment is too long for a blogpost, but I'll introduce you to Brianne.)

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     I entered quietly, slipping by an empty bed to my left. Beyond it, a small girl popped her head up. She flashed a smile so glowingly it seemed Brianne hadn’t seen another human in months.

    “Hi Brianne. I’m Robyn.”
    “Hi,” she blurted, scooting into a sitting position.
    Brianne’s eyes struck me – the same deep blue as Mom’s, and with beautiful long, dark lashes. Otherwise, she lacked color. Brianne bore only a bit of peach fuzz on her head; her body, pale and depleted; and her heartbeat, dependent upon an IV stuck into her right hand.
    “It’s great to meet you sweetie,” I smiled. “How are you?”
    She pasted a half-smile-half-frown on her face. “So-so,” Brianne replied, adult-like. “Can we play?” Her mood lifted.
    “Sure! What would you like to play?”
    Brianne’s shoulders shot up and down, her mood shifting to sad again. “Do you know how much more I have to be in here?”
    “Oh, sweetie, I wish I knew. I’m sorry, but” —I switched to a low-pitched, manly voice, “I’m Doctor Seuss-opotamus,” I said. “Now let’s see, Miss Brianne.” I pulled my glass frames up and rested the lenses on my head. “Wait a minute. Miss Brianne?” I turned around and pretended to be looking out the window.
    “Where’d you go? I can’t see you.” I turned around and stuck my hand into my front pants pocket, as if to peer into my pocket for her. “Brianne? Where are you?”
    “I’m right here!” She laughed heartily.
    “Oh,” I said, setting my glasses back in place. “Oh, there you are! You must have been tricking me! Now, let’s see.” She giggled, a faint snort mixed in.
    I got close to Brianne, as if to perform an inspection. “It looks like you have two arms and, yep, looks like you’ve got two feet too! And there’s a pretty face on your neck.” She chortled again.
    “So I promise you, Miss Brianne, you are going to be alright. It might take a long time, much longer than we want it to. Those cancer cells are meanie booger monsters, aren’t they?”
    She nodded in affirmation, still giggling.
    “Well we’re gonna get rid of all of those meanie booger monsters. So can I give you a shot with magic medicine in it?”