I love the way people live in commercials on television between 6:30 and 8 pm EDT. While I’m trying to eat dinner and write, they are all dying of toe fungus and insomnia and jiggy legs, constipation and diarrhea. I have these conditions, too, but they don’t seem to require medications that will, as side effects, cause me to have jiggy legs, insomnia, constipation and diarrhea. I think I just have small to average cases while the commercial people have terminal cases. Their conditions are LARGER THAN LIFE. There is this really cute guy in one commercial who has an unknown condition- they never tell me from what he suffers. They just advise me to ask my doctor if, I too, suffer from this condition and need a prescription for Abruptobleva.
Me: Can I talk with Dr. Smith, please? (I’m so average that my doctor really is named Dr. Smith.)
Phone person: Can I ask what this is regarding?
Me: I’m not certain. I may have a condition. I’m supposed to ask my doctor.
Phone person: Well, what are the symptoms?
Me: I’m not certain. But I’m wondering if I should be on Abruptobleva.
Phone person: Why don’t you leave your number and I’ll have Dr. Smith’s nurse’s assistant phone you when she’s free.
Right. The infamous 3 degrees of separation from your primary care physician that is the curse of the average Jane. There will be an ice rink in Hell when I can get my free sample of Abruptobleva let alone find out what’s wrong with me.
Actually, I have a vague idea. It’s my diet. While I was watching a commercial where these three girlfriends discussed what they had for dinner, I realized mine was-uh- beyond commercial worthy.
Girlfriend #1: I had a pint of caramel fudge ice cream.
Girlfriend #2: I had a left over slice of pizza and four stale Girl scout cookies.
And finally, girlfriend #3: I had chicken Parmesan with broccoli sauteed in Marsala wine extract with slivered almonds and pasta de giorno.
Me? I had a dinner that left me feeling like Kitty Dukakis in her finest hour. Bob Evans instant mashed potatoes (past date) mixed with egg and fried into a soggy mess of potato pancake. A side order of Italian sausage from Pizza House. Cranberry juice with Johnny Walker Red Label and Cap-10 lemon-lime.
Do you see what’s happening around here because everybody is too busy writing fiction to go out to the grocery store? Rich is in his downstairs office on Chapter 23, eating his Reuben sandwich from Pizza House. Left unchecked and without vodka, I’m reduced to this.