Stuck on Band-Aid

We've flown from Miami to Atlanta and back and we're waiting for the plane to take us to Nashville when I look down and spot a hole in my pantyhose. I rummage in my suitcase, but no nail polish for repair work.

Well crap.

I glare at the ruined hose (no I don't have a spare) and get an idea. I'll use the sticky strip of a Band-Aid, tuck it in the hole and tape the raw edges of nylon together. Oh yeah, great idea.

I duck in the ladies, but I can't tear the Band-Aid apart with my hands, so I use my teeth.

Did I mention veneers?

Yep, four fake covers, front and center, so ex-hubby wouldn't call me Fang.

Did it work?

Not exactly, but I don't miss the gap, the canines or ex-hubby, only it's been twenty years and I've forgotten those damn things have a life span. I clamp the end of the Band-Aid between my teeth and yank.

There's a sharp crack and something clatters into the sink. My eyes shoot to the mirror.

"THIT."

"Are you alright?" Asks a mother as she cups her hands over her daughter's ears.

"Fine." I give her a weak smile and glance back at my image. 

"THIT."

"Are you sure you're alright?" She scoots closer to the door.

"Thowy." I flap my arms and stare at the wreckage. The gap is back, but now it's bracketed by the remains of the veneers. 

"THIT."

After the mother flees the restroom, I slink back to the gate with my hand cupped over my mouth. "I don't think I can go."

"Why?" Ask my co-workers. 

I give the crew a sick smile, they start to laugh and I slap my hand back over my mouth. It's too much. I join the laughter, dig out my cell phone and call crew schedule.

"What?" Say's John, annoyed because we only call with problems.

"I just bwoke my two fwont teeth." I launch into the story and he starts to chuckle. "Tho," I ask, "do you have a fwight attendant who can finith my twip?"

"Just a sec." 

I roll my eyes and check my watch. We're due to board in five minutes.

"This is Claire, so why can't you fly your trip?"

Another scheduler? I sigh and start again. "I bwoke my fwont teeth." 

Claire chokes out a laugh and John comes back on the line. "Okay, I don't have anyone at the airport, but I'll take you off the trip and call someone else in."

Crap, that'll take hours. "No, I'll fwy to Nathville. Can you wemove me when we get back to Miami?"

"Sure," he says, delighted the flight will go on time, "how bout I deadhead you home on a earlier flight?"

"Uh," there's nothing wrong with my math skills and an eight hour layover is brutal, "naw, I'll wook back to Miami."

"Deal, I'll have a replacement finish the trip, have a nice flight."

We board the flight and I'm working first class, so instead of a verbal greeting, I nod and bob my head. Passengers aren't stupid, they've watched our laughing antics behind the gate and they know something's up.

Well I don't want to be rude so after we level off, I stomp into the cabin and hold the serving tray like a fan to cover my mouth. "I bwoke my fwont teeth. Make me waugh and you go to coach."

Grins break out and eyes twinkle. Have I told you before that passengers are wicked? Yep, downright evil and 3B, you know who you are and Karma's coming to get you.

Points of View

My Internal life as a writer has been a constant battle with the small whispering voice (well, sometimes it shouts) that tells me I can't do it. This time, the voice taunts me, you will fall flat on your face.
                                                                  ~Dani Shapiro



   "Writing?" Asks Rob drying his hands.

   "Something like that." Annoyed, I close the laptop on a losing game of spider. "Dammit Rob, don't leave wet paper towels hanging from the roll."

   He ignores me. "So, how's the book?"

   My plot sucks, so I shrug. 

   "That good huh?"

   "Just mow the lawn," I snap, "and quit feeding bunnies on the lanai."

   "Oh good," says Rob, his head in the fridge, "you bought carrots." He disappears out the back door and before I can launch twitter, he's back. "Have you posted anything new on the blog?"

   I shake my head. 

   "So, let me see," he taps his lip, "you've taken a break from the blog to write a book, but instead, you check e-mail and play solitaire." His eyes twinkle. "Better not quit your day job."

   "Stop," My fingers splay into the international stop sign, "talking to me."

   He laughs. "Want to go for a bike ride?"

   Movement catches our attention as baby bunny sneaks onto the lanai, gives a cautious glance to either side and then launches into a series of leaps and pirouettes. When he stops at the sliding glass door to peek inside we hold our breath.

   "Yeah," I sigh as bunny wanders off, "I'd love to."

   "Good, get your shoes and I'll get the bikes." He stops with one hand on the garage door. "Don't worry, you're smart, you'll figure it out."


Fall flat on your face, but find someone to pat your back  ~ Kelly

   
   

   

   

   

   

Politics and Pantaloons

"I don't have any clothes." I wail and collapse onto the bright red sofa.

Mom, hands on hips, cocks her head and gives me the stink eye. "Really?" She waits a beat as my siblings, sensing a row, stop what they're doing to watch. "What about the new cordurory pants?"

She can't be serious. I cannot show up at school in bright burgundy, wide wale pants or any of that other gold and orange crap she insisted I have for the school year. Slouching lower, I glare back and heave a sigh. "I hate them."

"Is that so?"

I nod, and hold my breath until she leaves the room. My sisters return to their game. Five minutes later, Mom marches back and drops a load of clothes on the table. Still angry, I ignore her.

"So," she says in a voice that promises retribution, "who wants this shirt?"

My head snaps up. "That's mine." Outraged, I leap to my feet and make a grab for my favorite t-shirt.

She snatches it out of reach. "Not so fast," she tosses the shirt to Jinxso, who is dancing in delight. "According to you," her grin is feral, "your clothing is unacceptable."

My lip curls down as I stare in disbelief. Beamer smirks and Brat paws through my belongings. MINE. I want to howl. Turning on my heel, I run from the room, slam my bedroom door and fling myself across the bed. I sob.

They laugh, and it takes two weeks to reclaim my clothes from the laundry.

Insecure, Who Me?

"What flipping snow?" I shake my manuscript papers at Rob. "I did not write about flipping snow."


Rob chews on a fingernail and shrugs. "So the critique isn't so hot?"


I shrug. "The heroine is a wimp and too stupid to live." Course I knew that, but I did not mention snow.


"Well," says Rob, "good thing you didn't quit your day job.


I give him the stinkeye and stomp to the fridge. "Want ice cream?"


"No thanks," he says without dragging his eyes from the TV, "go right ahead."


The muscle below my left eye ticks as I cram the spoon into the last carton of Cherry Garcia. I need a new career, I need another carton of ice cream, I need a new ...


"What?" Rob widens his eyes.


I sigh and set down the carton. "When you say, 'go right ahead', what I hear is, 'go right ahead you fat pig.'"


Laughing, he pulls me into a hug I do not want. I jab him with the spoon. He oinks and I can't help it, I start to laugh. Maybe I need to read that critique again.




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