Chocolate Scare!

   The writer's conference that I've referenced in earlier posts spoiled me with an inexplicably gorgeous venue along the cliffs of Big Sur; hot mineral baths, in which I could luxuriate under the sun and stars; newly renovated, cozy, heated lodging with plush beds and a bathroom shared with only a few others; incredibly entertaining and informative workshops; and divine food. 
   There were locally harvested fruits and vegetables, homemade breads offered alongside a multitude of fresh berry spreads; raspberry-lemon iced tea; approximately sixteen flavors of soothing herbal and caffeinated teas; coffee, organic honey, fresh lemon, and much more.
   All of the staff and fellow attendees had been exceptionally nice thus far.
   "Excuse me, do you have hot chocolate?" I asked one of the kitchen staff, on my first morning there. 
   "No!" the man grunted, then abruptly turned away.
   Say what? Rude-ass! No chocolate? Am I being punked? How will I survive?  
   Somehow, I did. I suppose the Paradisial setting eased my five-day withdrawal.

    While driving home, my head started to flop slowly sideways, and I labored to keep my eyes open. So I decided to stay at a hotel. It was July 4th, and I didn't want to be in crazed traffic anyway.
   The young, cute hotel clerk said, "There's a party here too. Just for you! You can see fireworks from there." He pointed towards the outdoor patio to my right.
   A decent hotel room? A party? For me? Young, cute hotel clerk? View of fireworks? This place has it all!
   Incidentally, the party and fireworks were just alright. I was happy to watch a few bursts of color in the sky, dance a bit amongst college kids, and turn in early.
   The next morning, I was pleased with a variety of appealing breakfast options: corn puffs, corn pops, and frosted flakes; bacon; sausage; scrambled eggs; fresh apples and bananas; do-it-yourself waffles; yogurt; coffee, and Lipton tea.     
   "Excuse me, do you have hot chocolate?" I asked a hotel assistant, as she re-filled the milk dispenser. The woman looked at me, eyebrows slightly raised, as if curious as to why I'd ask. I admired her almond colored pupils, long curled black lashes, and generally compassionate demeanor. "No," she said. "No hot chocolate."
   No hot chocolate? Has the cocoa plant gone extinct? Is there a chocolate famine? Did I miss an important memo? Must I redefine my entire existence?
   
   Thankfully, I found chunks of sweet, dark goodness upon my return.

  oops, wrong photo. Here we go.

Have a sweet new week!

Interview with Joan Rivers: IWSG

   It's time again for Alex J Cavanaugh's extraordinary support group for insecure writers, the IWSG. The first Wednesday of each month, scholarly writers express their insecurities and lend each other support. I, a lesser person, mock someone famous as a means of boosting my self-esteem. I'm hopeful this tactic makes you feel better about yourselves too.
   Today's guest should truly help in that regard. She's a comedic icon who first stole the spotlight on Johnny Carson's Late Night show in 1965. This woman's had her own talk show, published 12 best-selling books, and has gone under the knife for plastic surgery more times than Bruce Jenner and the cast of Jersey Shore. Ladies and gentlemen, let's welcome Joan Rivers!
      Oops, wrong photo. Sorry.

      Come on out here, Joan!
black = Robyn / blue = Joan

Oh Lord, can we get the alien back?
Joan walks out, oblivious to Robyn's comment. She's slightly hunched over and barely recognizable as a human. The audience, all plastic surgeons, toss business cards at her. Joan cackles and grabs cards that are flung her way, then stuffs them into the bra that secures her silicone chest.
Robyn gestures towards a plastic chair. Joan eyes Robyn as she takes a seat. Damn! What the f*k? You're shorter than I am. She cackles. And your boobs are starting to sag too honey. Can we talk? I've got seven hundred or so surgeons to hook you up with. She fondles her fake breasts. Cackle. Cackle.


Robyn takes a seat and mouths f*n b*tch, as Joan pulls business cards from her cleavage. So Joan, you wrote a book called "I Hate Everyone, Especially Me."
Um Hmm, Um Hmm. Yeah, I hate you too. I used to like you. I have no idea why. Now I find you over-the-top offensive, mean-spirited - an ugly person through and through.  You dedicated this book to, and I quote, "OJ Simpson, who deserves another chance. Maybe the lippy ex-wife had it coming." That's a horrific, hateful, misogynistic statement.


Honey, clearly you need to get laid. Robyn gives Joan the (middle) finger. Joan doesn't notice. Her eyelids aren't functioning properly due to all the Botox. I tell you, I do too. It's been so long, I forgot who has the shlong and who has the vagina. Cackle. Cackle. 

You wrote another horrible but best-selling book called "Men are stupid…and they like big boobs". Here's a quote from that one, "The truth is inner beauty might get you a promotion, or, for that matter, a raise, but inner beauty won’t get you a husband, or a lover." Uh Hmm, Uh hmm.

You reveal a lot by this, Joan. You're suggesting every woman's goal is to get a husband or get laid.  Well, moving on, you're also suggesting that you know about beauty. Because what? You're beautiful, Joan? Robyn cackles hysterically. And you imply that all men are superficial. Can we talk, Joan? Sure we can talk sweetie, but you're starting to get on my nerves. Get real. If you want sex, you gotta look good.  

Robyn raises her voice. No, you get real, 81 year old piece of sh-- plastic! If anyone does you, it's only because you have a vagina and no standards. Nor does he, she, or it. And humanly people, Joan, make connections based on things besides boob or nose size. And you're ugly. Really really ugly, inside and out. Now get the hell off my stage!

Joan looks at the camera as she prepares to exit the studio. She really needs to get laid!

Robyn leaves in search of a big, hot, dark, tall sundae and we cut to a commercial about the risks of eyelid surgery for people with no natural skin.

Swanson's TV Dinners and Expansive Brownies

Here's a bit from my novel, Woman on the Verge of Paradise. Give me six months to finish it. Fingers crossed I'll be done sooner.

  

   “Don’t stand too close to the microwave when you’re using it, kids.” Dad instructed. “It might cause brain damage. Essentially, we don’t know. It’s a new invention, and not enough research has been done.”

Image

   While Dad talked in four-syllable words like “essentially,” I didn’t care if I got brain damage.  Rather, I’d pull a black vinyl kitchen chair over to the microwave, toss in a Swanson’s TV dinner, and spy through the microwave door of the Amana Radar Range, gawking at how the once small brownie expanded rapidly to ten or fifteen times its original size. “What a deal!” I’d boast, when it was done. “Look,” I’d show my siblings. “I get this huuuge brownie!”

   They weren’t impressed. “Gross! Those things taste gnarly,” Dawn sneered. 

   She was right. It was usually burnt and did taste gnarly. I suppose I’ve always focused more on quantity, not quality of chocolate.

Do you remember when the microwave was invented? Did/do you nuke TV dinners and watch the brownies expand into the rest of the meal and off of the plate? Which meal was/is your favorite? This was mine. I wouldn't touch that stuff now. Except the brownie.
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May August and the new week treat you kindly!