Perhaps I seem familiar to you. I used to do a little blogging around here, back in olden times.
A week ago, anyway.
I know I’ve neglected you all shamefully, but couldn’t help it, I had some pressing matters to attend to.
For instance, after I crashed from my candy corn high, I realized my house was on the fast-track to a featured spot on a Very Special Episode of “Hoarders” unless I broke out the cleaning supplies. So there was that.
Also there was/is the on-going cat situation. Every night they do an encore performance of the feline Cirque du Soleil in the hallway outside the bedroom where we are attempting to sleep. The husband, rather than speak sternly to the kittens, is encouraging them by building the world’s most complicated cat condo/scratching post/cabana/trapeze/summer home/carpeted Tower of Babel. Pretty soon it will be tall enough for them to see the face of God. (Their sense of entitlement is epic now that both kittens have Facebook pages. The Apocalypse is on its way.)
Mostly, though, I have been very busy composing scathing letters in my head to my new nemesis. Sometimes the letters are extra hurtful, because, people, that is just how I roll now. The beast has been unleashed.
I know. At first, I, too, was taken off-guard when my arch enemy appeared, because I thought only other people have nemesii. Nemesises. Enemies. Not Vic, the Aunt Bea of Blogland, driver of the Partridge Family bus, and yes I know I’m mixing my TV Land references, but it can’t be helped.
And yet, there she was.
Maybe by now it has crossed your mind to wonder what a Nemesis of Vic would look like.
Well, as it happens, my nemesis looks exactly like if they made a Bernadette Peters action figure, only she would be made with an inferior mold so the eyes are extra little and beady, and poorly painted, giving her a slightly cross-eyed stare like Jessica Simpson, and also she would have black hair. The lips would look like she had just sucked the head off a sparrow. That part’s pretty true to life.
My nemesis’s name, of course, is not Bernadette, and I’d use Betty’s name but that would be indiscreet, so we’ll just call her, oh, Fernadette.
Let me explain.
Last weekend I auditioned for "A Christmas Carol". I just do it for fun, and to escape my “Hoarders” house, and yet every time I audition for a production, I’m surrounded by divas, of both genders, all of them overly animated and self-conscious, and all “best friends” with the director. This is annoying to normal people.
Also, everyone has been the lead in Wicked or West Side Story, and has stapled expensive head shots to their lengthy resume. Once the resumes have been relinquished, large groups of auditioning actors are herded into the room, where two or three people at a time perform randomly- assigned dramatic readings for the director and everyone else.
My audition went well enough, I thought. I was especially proud of my reinterpretation of the Ghost of Christmas Past as a disaffected goth teenager, resentful of the time that Scrooge is taking away from her Marilyn Manson sing-a-long time.
So, anyway, after the audition this woman lterally chased me out of the building, tailing me to the car park, huffing and puffing on her four -inch heels.
It was Fernadette.
And then a conversation occurred:
Fernadette: "Hey! Hey you! “ Stops to brush curls from forehead with wrist. She is winded. “I heard your reading today."
Me: "Umm hmm. I heard your audition too." Quizzical Vic eyebrow.
Fernadette: "Sooo…… What part are you hoping for? Are you auditioning for the Ghost of Christmas Past?
Me: “Uh…maybe? Whatever they decide, I guess. I liked doing the physical comedy last time, so a character part would be fun too.” I turn to unlock my car door. When I turn back, Fernadette is still standing there, expectantly.
Me: “ Oh. Um….so….what about you? Ghost of Christmas Past?”
Fernadette: Smirks. “Oh, yes, of course I am!” (a trill of laughter escapes her pursed action figure lips)
“You know..(thoughtful tooth tap with the end of an acrylic nail)…..I know what you mean about the parts you like.”
Me: “You do?” (longing look at inviting car interior)
Fernadette: “ I always used to enjoy doing character parts too." (Significant Pause) "I used to be overweight then. (Long hand flourish up her body) Now that I'm so thin, I just can't do those parts anymore.” (Sad pout) “The directors only want to give me the pretty girl parts now. You're so lucky.”
Oh no, she didn’t.
Fernadette: “Oh, I have to run!! Good luck!”And then she was gone, a blur of hair and claws, up the stairs to the next level, leaving me winded from the sucker punch.
So now it’s on. I pretty desperately want the director (who’s in my mafia on Facebook, btw. We’re pretty close) to add a sexy new neighbor for Scrooge. And then he would give me the part, and I would be so gracious to little poisonous Fernadette and not even laugh when she does her bit as a street beggar. Who is covered in boils.
Stage make-up, of course. It would be too much to ask for real boils.