YOU'LL BE SORRY!

Today’s column is all about family—you know—those people who put the “funk” into “dysfunctional’?

I don’t know what your family is like, but I was lucky to get through childhood without being eaten.  At Thanksgiving, my mother always had to stuff the turkey with Valium just to keep the bloodshed and gunplay to a minimum.

But now that I am an adult, I can look back on all that if not with a chuckle, at least an ironic smile.  I survived.  I succeeded.  I got my first novel published—and not self-published, either.  Somebody else thought my work good enough to pick it up and pay me royalties.

It is about this book that I write today.  Well, not the whole book, but more specifically, the dedication.

But let me give you a bit of background info, first.

In my family, I have one aunt who is a particular favorite of mine.  We are very much alike.  As a matter of fact, if my cousin wasn’t two years older than I, I would have been convinced that I had been switched at the hospital and handed off to my mother by mistake.  That’s how much alike my aunt and I are.   I should also mention that she is 92 years old.

Sooooooo, I decided to give her the highest honor and the best gift I could bestow, in my amazingly deluded opinion.  I would dedicate my first novel to her.  I labored over the dedication, striving to get the words right.  Here is what I came up with:  “To Mary Rasmussen—a treasure beyond measure.  Love you always, Mare.”

Pretty nice, right?  I thought so.  Of course, there are times when I think SpongeBob Squarepants is real, too, so I may not be the best judge.

Turns out, I wasn’t.

My aunt, apparently, was insulted.  My birthday and Christmas came and went with nary a word.  I haven’t heard from her since sending her the book and telling her to read the dedication.  And to answer your next question, no she hasn’t died since.  I called her house in Connecticut to see if she’d answer the phone, and she did.

I tried hard to figure out what she could have taken offense about.  Did she not cotton to the fact that I dedicated a dark fantasy novel to her instead of some sparkly, diabetes-inducing beach book?  Does she now regard me as the Spawn of Satan?  Is she afraid of me now because she had no idea that my thought processes worked this way?

Probably.

I keep receiving crosses in the mail.  Right around the holidays, a wolfsbane wreath was delivered to me.  I hung it on my door, and it had the added benefit of not only discouraging wolves, but Jehovah’s Witnesses, as well.  I suspect they recognized that whatever unholy entity that lived within was not making a secret of it anymore, and high-tailed it to find someone who was actually worth saving.

A gallon of Holy Water was next.  I drank it and now I glow in the dark—handy if you want to read during a blackout.

But the revolver loaded with silver bullets and an anonymous note suggesting that I “do the right thing” was really beyond the pale.  But I melted down the solid silver ammo and fashioned a nifty napkin holder, so it wasn’t a total loss.

It’s a good thing she’s in Connecticut and I am in Arizona or she’d probably show up on my street with a crowd of torch and a pitchfork wielding nonagenarians!  Can’t you just picture it, though?  The walkers and the wheelchairs scraping down the street, the colostomy bags flapping in the breeze, amid a sea of blue hair and baldness?  A priest, jaundiced from cirrhosis, clutching his side and hobbling down the street at the front of the crowd, swinging an incense burner, and passing out from the fumes?  The members of the crowd with Alzheimer’s, who have walked in the opposite direction and are now having their 40^th cup of coffee at Starbucks, because they can’t remember drinking the previous 39?

It’s all well and good for you to laugh, but I’m having freakin’ nightmares over this!  It’s like the attack of the LIVING zombies!  I wake up screaming in the night!  The mere sight of Metamucil results in a panic attack.  I break out into a cold sweat at the thought of Geritol.  And I can’t even begin to describe what Hugh Downs’ hospice commercials do to me.  I can’t listen to the song, “Old Man River” anymore, or shop at stores on Senior Days or when social security checks are delivered monthly.  My life is spinning out of my control… all over a dedication.

So my advice to you, dear readers, is to dedicate your books to your favorite charity.  Even if they are insulted, you’ll never know it, because they still want your money.

Currier & Ives, May You Rot in Hell! (PART TWO)

(You may want to read Part One of this post first, entitled, “Cursing Up the Christmas Tree” that I wrote for my good friend Nishi Serrano, as a guest blogger.   Part Two will be much funnier if you read Part One first.  Here’s the link:   http://www.nishiserrano.blogspot.com     

See you in a few minutes.  I’ll leave the porch light on.

Christmas time for me has always been a time of reflection—remembering those who are no longer with us, wishing we could forget those who still are.  I happened to be shuffling through some photos the other day and was reminded of the Christmas I am about to relate to you.  So grab some hot mulled cider and a plain doughnut, and join me on yet another sleigh ride through Yuletide Hell…

Last year, I decided to do a “themed” holiday.  It was to be “An Old Fashioned Christmas” in the Buckingham Household, right out of Currier & Ives.

As a survivor of that same Christmas, I’m here to tell you that it was more like something out of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.  Picture Norman Rockwell beating up a small child, and you’ve got the idea.

To start with, I managed to wheedle the entire neighborhood into participating in a carol sing throughout the town.  I secured participants by promising them that I wouldn’t give them any of my Christmas cookies that year.

At any rate, at the appointed hour on December 23, we all assembled.  That crew of singers made the cast of M*A*S*H look positively normal.  I had the route all planned, and so led the way on the half-mile stroll to the first house to be the beneficiary of our jolly vocalizations.

I should mention here that though I have received death threats form most of the great chefs in the country, I actually can sing.  Our first number was “O Little Town of Bethlehem” into which I launched, con brio, expecting everyone else to jump in.

Nobody did.

I got as far as “Oh little town of …” and stopped/

“Well, come on!  Sing!” I cried.

“I can’t sing worth a damn, Carson,” old Corduroy Jenkins said.

This sentiment was echoed by most of the crowd, except for the ones at the back who, by this time, were so gassed on the bottle of bourbon that Alvin had brought along to keep warm that they were ready to sing anything, as long as it was “Little Brown Jug.”

Being the thorough planner that I am, I had forgotten to mention that at least a passing interest in singing would be necessary for our little adventure.

So, after five notes, that bit of Christmas magic was abandoned and everybody went home.  However, even a setback like this left me with my shining visions of Rogers & Hammerstein dancing in my head undimmed.  I trudged home to help decorate the tree.  The “perfect” tree.

After I cleaned up the wood chips, put away the chain saw, and disposed of the now useless tree stand, my children were headed for the basement to get the ornaments and lights when…

“Oh, no!  No lights.  No ornaments.  This year we’re having real candles on the tree.  We’ll decorate it with strings of popcorn and cranberries. This is going to be an old fashioned Christmas!” I cried.

My husband, Stij, growled something about an Old Fashioned sounding pretty good to him right about then—but they humored me.

I had purchased a thousand tiny white candles with their accompanying tree fixtures.  The tree, being two and a half feet tall, only accommodated about 75 candles; which was fortunate since, by the time we lit them all, the first ones were still burning…for a minute or two.

We went through the whole thousand in the first 90 minutes, which ended with a hasty call to the fire department.

Luckily, all that happened was that the tree burned to a crisp, the wall was scorched, Stij’s eyebrows were singed off, and I finally got that sunken living room I had always wanted.

After the firemen left, following a stern warning to my husband about keeping the matches locked up, my son asked, “Where’s Tango?”

Tango is the cat—a Burmese stray who adopted us five years ago.

“The last time I saw her she was sleeping under the Christmas tree, and …OH NO!”

Resembling and outtake from a Keystone Kops short, we scoured the house in complete panic.  We finally found her hiding under the stairs…or what we thought was her.  I was hard to tell under a two-pound layer of built up candle wax.  She looked more like a miniature, extremely pissed off Jabba the Hutt.

The typical wax removal regimen involves pouring boiling water over the coated object—obviously not an option in this case, unless one finds the prospect of holiday evisceration appealing.

Stij took one look at poor little Tango, then turned to me and said, “Well, Carson, we can stick a wick in her and drape her over what’s left of the tree in what’s left of our house, if you want.”

Before I could reply, I got THE LOOK, and kept my mouth shut.  It was the first smart thing I’d done all season.

Upon assessing the damage, I was really surprised he didn’t just skip THE LOOK and go straight for THE REMINGTON.

Instead, he left the room and came back with a pair of hair clippers.

Our family Christmas photo from last year, rather than framed and on the mantle, resides in a dusty album filled with photos of the relatives no one likes.  This is completely understandable.  This piece of Christmas nostalgia depicts two frightened children; a glowering father with no eyebrows; a charred, undecorated Christmas stick; a mother bound to a smoldering chair with strings of popcorn, cranberries, and boughs of holly, and gagged with a book of Christmas carols; and a now vicious bald cat.

Fa la la la la, la la la la.

NEWS NEWS NEWS

Dear Friends,

I'm delighted to tell you all that my debut novella, HOME, is now available on Amazon.com!
If any of you are inclined to help out a poor, starving writer and purchase a copy, and would like it signed, contact me at carsonbuckingham@yahoo.com and let me know.  I'll give you my address and you can send me a stamped, self-addressed envelope and I will send you back a really nifty bookplate that I have signed, or written whatever you want on, and you can stick it onto the inside cover.  I designed the bookplates, and they are pretty cool.

I'm so excited, I just may piddle myself!

Hugs all around,
Carson

I'M STILL IN THERAPY OVER THIS!

I’M STILL IN THERAPY OVER THIS!

I’m here to tell you that, as far as domestic abilities go, I’m on the scale somewhere between tap water and road kill.

The reason for this is that I was forced to take Home Economics in high school.  The cooking class was filled, so I got stuck in the sewing class, with all the other kids who had been sewing since birth and were only taking the class, in my opinion, to show off.

Our first assignment was to go out and buy both patterns and material for our projects.  I decided that I would show those smug little bitches, and I bought an elaborate pattern for a dress that was styled after, I think, an Elizabethan coronation gown.  It was just gorgeous, and I had decided that it would be just perfect to wear to the Prom.  With that in mind, I spent most of my college money on a bolt of rich, sea green silk, not to mention all the brocade and beadwork that would be attached later.

I showed up for class the next day all excited about my project.  The other girls stared with open jealousy at my pile of silk, until the teacher, Miss Guano, walked in and we got started.

“Well, Carson,” she said with undisguised admiration, “that’s certainly an ambitious project.  I’m sure it will be absolutely lovely when you’ve finished it.”

“Thanks.  I’m planning on wearing it to the Prom.”

“How wonderful!”

Now, understand, I had never even sat at a sewing machine before in my life, much less actually used one.  Miss Guano had me practice with a couple of remnants until I felt confident about my ability to sew a straight line.  I’m nothing if not a fast learner, and in ten minutes, I felt ready.  But first, I had to pin the flimsy paper pattern to my silk, then cut out the pieces of my dress.

No problem.  I finished just as the bell rang.  The next day, I’d start to sew it together.

I could hardly sleep that night for all the visions I had of myself, dressed like Cinderella at the ball, dancing with my current handsome prince.  Well, okay, he had a few zits…well, more than a few…but he was a nice person and he got all my jokes, so the pizza face was easier to forgive.

Anyhow, the next day, I took my appointed seat behind a sewing machine in the Home Ec. Room and began sewing.  I sewed like a fiend every day for a month.

At last, it was done, and it looked even better than I expected it would.

Then I tried it on.

It was a nightmare come true.

To start with, the right sleeve was longer than the left sleeve.  However, I found that if I dropped my left arm two inches and raised my right shoulder about three inches, the sleeves were perfect.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t all that was wrong with it.

The left side of the dress was longer than the right side.  It looked as if the left side had been sewn to fit Geena Davis and the right side tailored for Dr. Ruth.  But I found that if I leaned right about six inches, both sides balanced.

Then there was the problem with the front and the back.  Front too long, back too short.  Leaning backward five inches solved that problem.

That just left the neckline.  It was low cut on one side and straight cut on the other.  Not to worry.  If I just pulled down a little on the straight part and held it there with my elbow, it was just fine.

Ah, I was a positive vision…with my right shoulder raised five inches higher than my left, listing to port six inches, while bent backward five inches and clutching the bottom of my neckline with my elbow.

I was ready for that Prom, by God!

We swept in on the night of the dance, and were greeted by a receiving line of faculty chaperones.  While walking onto the dance floor, I overheard two of the teachers say:

        “Isn’t it too bad about that poor girl’s deformity?”

        “Yes,” said the other, “but doesn’t her dress fit beautifully?”

DEPRESSING MOVIES

DEPRESSING MOVIES

This week, I’m going to discuss the movies that depress me and the reasons behind such depression.

SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE:  This movie depressed me because I know that no matter what I do, I will never be as cute and perky as Meg Ryan.

MOBY DICK:  This turned out to be about whales rather than the  weird sexual disorder that I was looking forward to.  Very depressing.

MARS ATTACKS:  This depressed me because, by the time the picture was over, everybody was dead.

MYSTERY MEN:  This depressed me because by the time the picture was over, everybody wasn’t dead.

DOGMA:  The only remotely interesting characters were mute.  Ten minutes into the movie, I found myself wishing I were deaf.

The TWILIGHT movies:  This was the cinematic reunion of the graduates from the Hulk Hogan School of Acting.

Kenneth Branagh’s HAMLET:  In a move that defies rational explanation, Jack Lemmon was cast as Marcellus—because, when I think Shakespeare, oh yeah, I think Jack Lemmon.  If only Branagh had cast Walter Matthau as Ophelia, we could have had “The Odds Bodkins Couple.”

A BAD DAY AT BLACK ROCK:  It depresses me to think that Lee Marvin, Walter Brennan, and Ernest Borgnine were ugly when they were young, too…and that that was the best they were ever going to look.

ALL THE BATMAN FILMS:  I’m depressed that they haven’t yet asked me to play Batman.  They’ve had nearly everyone else in that role.

THAT STUPID MOVIE ABOUT ALIENS THAT STARRED CHARLIE SHEEN:  It depressed me to think that Hollywood, even for a moment, could think that Charlie Sheen would be believable as an astrophysicist, when I have my doubts that he can even spell the word.  However, I must admit that he is the very embodiment of the first syllable…

GOODFELLAS:  I find it difficult to be entertained by gunplay and bloodshed that occurs outside my immediate family.

THE BLOB:  Put glasses on it, and you have my ex-husband.  If that isn’t depressing, I don’t know what is.

BARTON FINK:  I find it really depressing that John Turturro, with his huge acting range of exactly one facial expression that I like to call “tentative dementia” received an Oscar nomination, and John Goodman, who did an astounding acting job in this film, got squat.

THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER and GROSSE POINT BLANK:  It profoundly depresses me that I’m too old for John Cusack and too young for Sean Connery.  It also depresses me that my age doesn’t make a damned bit of difference, because it’s not as if either one of them will be dropping by for coffee tomorrow…or ever.

BEING JOHN MALKOVICH:  It’s depressing, and also deeply disturbing that Hollywood was unable to set its sites any higher than a portal into an actor.  Is this really the best we can aspire to?  What about “Being Ben Franklin” or “Being Mark Twain”?  Those two are more interesting dead than Malkovich is alive, anyway.

THELMA & LOUISE:  I find nothing more depressing than when stupidity is portrayed as “cool.”

GEORGE WASHINGTON SLEPT HERE:   It is a source of ultimate depression that I’ll never get to meet Jack Benny.

IF IT’S TUESDAY, IT MUST BE BELGIUM:  True this is a much older film, but it depresses me because, in my house, if it’s Tuesday, it must be laundry.

FRED'S DEAD

I can’t imagine anything worse than having to deliver a eulogy, but recently, it happened to me.  Now, I hate funerals, and will do nearly anything to get out of going to one.  Unfortunately, this family was under the mistaken impression that I was a close friend of the deceased, and what do you say when a teary-eyed daughter drops in and practically begs you to say a few words?  I am not strong enough of heart or honest enough in spirit to refuse such a request based on the fact that I detested the bastard with every fiber of my being.  So, wimp that I am, I reluctantly agreed.

After she left, I set about, pen in hand and a clean ream of white bond at my elbow, to write something that accentuated the meager good points about this fellow.  I wracked my brain.  Hours passed.  Ashtrays grew full.  Wastebaskets overflowed with hundreds of false starts.

The funeral was the next afternoon and, at 2:00 AM, I still had nothing.  Finally, I just gave up, decided to wing it, and went to bed.

The day of the funeral was, well, funereal.  They sky was dark enough to make even an atheist believe in the Apocalypse.  Inside the funeral parlor, the organ music rose and fell like a queasy stomach as I made my way to the lectern, still having no idea what to say.

I gazed out at a sea of puddly eyes, cleared my throat, and began.                                                                        

“We are here today to bid farewell to Fred – a man who was a darned good driver.  He never drank when he was behind the wheel, and the fact that he only had one arm had nothing to do with it.

“I think the most impressive thing about Fred was how great he looked in sunglasses and those stylish tropical print Bermuda shorts he used to wear.  You have to be a special person to wear shorts like that with knee socks, wing tips, and an “I’m with Stupid” sweatshirt.  Not everyone can pull off that look, but on Fred, it was perfection.

“You could always depend on Fred for a good word – and every now and then, a complete sentence.  He went out of his way to help little children, and, to this day, I think the charges filed by their parents were trumped up.

“And that suspicious disappearance of pets in his neighborhood had absolutely nothing to do with his taxidermy hobby – I’m positive of that.  Anyone who says otherwise is a liar!  The white slavery ring was pure nonsense, too.  Fred never discriminated on the basis of color.  If you could do the job, you were OK with Fred.

“Fred was constantly getting blamed for things he had nothing to do with, and I am outraged that he had to deal with that all his life.  The fact that Fred bought a new Rolls Royce the day after the bank was robbed was pure coincidence.  If one is thrifty, one can certainly save enough for a car like that on a janitor’s salary.  And I heard that he won that trip to Switzerland.  The public is too quick to judge these things, and law enforcement too quick to make arrests.

 “And let’s not forget all the community service that Fred has performed.  True, it was part of the sentencing, but community service is community service, and should be recognized and applauded.

“But now, Fred has laid his burden down.  His troubles are over, as are those of the entire town.  Fred’s death has not been in vain.  People can now remove the bars from their windows.  Merchants can holster their handguns.  Children can play outside again.  And all because we are here today.  The entire community owes Fred a great debt of gratitude.

“Thank you.”

NEWS NEWS NEWS

Hi everyone!  A small interruption to announce that yours truly has just been published in MUNATY COOKING--an online pub originating from Dubai.  My, my. The world isn't so big anymore, is it?  At any rate, if you're looking for a double dose of Buckingham this week, the article contains a column--humorous-- about my mother being a lousy cook, and is much like my blog column, OH, THE HORROR...  So drop and and have a laugh, if you have a spare moment or two.  Oh, and there's a great recipe at the end of the article you may want to try! 

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog below this announcement.