We Interrupt This Blog . . .

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There may be an official ordinance about posting unfunny things on a humor blog, but I’ll accept a warning citation. Ironic short stories are my original genre of writing and several readers have encouraged me to share more widely here. Back to regularly scheduled chuckles soon! Thank you.

Going Up, Going Down, Going Thru, Going Under!

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Wow, I’m really going under tonight.

I’ve seen this hypnotist’s show before and figure I can trust him just fine to put me under. The only embarrassing part of the act was when he made the women on stage believe they were doing a striptease for their husbands. But even that I can handle, I reassure myself. Besides it might actually help Dennis see me in a new light. Lately he’s been restless, telling me I hold him back, I’m too safe, don’t take enough risks, and I’m not living life boldly enough. “Carpe Diem,” he’ll say as if mocking Robin William’s character in the movie, only I know he really means it. So in less than one hour, I will seize the day, and the night, and my husband’s respect.

All by announcing I am pregnant when it’s my turn in the spotlight.

“The rabbit died,” said that nasally nurse with the goofy sense of humor on the phone yesterday, and it had taken me a few seconds to reconcile her morbid, archaic expression with the fact that I finally had wondrous life growing inside of me after three years of fertility futility. No more temperature taking, ovulation kits, semen analysis, uterine biopsies, and standing on my head after lovemaking.

Dennis pays for our two tickets with a credit card that I strongly suspect will be declined. It’s the third one we’ve exceeded our limit on since he lost his job at the architectural firm. But I’m right behind him, expediently holding two twenty dollar bills so his red-face embarrassment will be short lived. That’s what a good wife does after all. But it’s dark by the box office and so I miss his grateful expression as we’re unexpectedly ushered into an elevator behind two perfectly proportioned blondes. The more platinum of the two drawls, “Going up,” while pushing a button with her fuchsia fingernail.

Both young women follow us into the theatre and meld their lithe bodies into chairs directly next to us. I notice the taller one lets her high-heeled encased ankle graze my husband’s pant leg as she deeply crosses her exposed thighs. But I turn my attention to the overhead banner that proclaims, “The Hip Hypnotist. Is it your turn to surrender?” And another sign to the right that advertises, “Enjoy yourself at our show… you ARE our show!” I squeeze my husband’s hand with affectionate anticipation knowing how pleased he’ll be to see me up on stage as a vivacious volunteer. And the grand finale when the hypnotist asks each participant to tell the audience something they would never guess, something shocking…well, I can’t think of a more fun and bold way to break the news of the baby. I only hope I won’t be too deeply hypnotized to appreciate Denny’s pride.

I’m immediately reassured when a slide show flashes on a big screen monitor explaining that being hypnotized is relaxing, enjoyable, and further elaborating that the subjects will be alert at all times to what is going on around them. And how it only serves to bring everyone into a deeper state of reflection where inhibitions will be tempered. This sounds like exactly what I need. Denny’s biggest complaint? I’m too uptight, too in control, and far too anxious. To have any fun.

I’m not expecting such a frenzied rush to the stage when the MC invites people up and I’m nearly trampled trying to grab a chair in the line-up. I’m relieved to see that I’m seated between two conservative, stuffy looking gentlemen so I feel very at home even though the lights are painfully bright. I glance back into the second row, my hand shielding my eyes as they strain to seek out my husband from the crowd. I am rewarded to see him nod appreciatively. “Just wait,” I say silently, “if you think this is good, you just wait.”

I gently flutter my eyelids closed as instructed and feel a certain warmth radiating from my toes on upward. I speculate if this is the heat the Hip Hypnotist suggests I’ll be feeling, or if I’m just flushing with embarrassment wondering if people think my hairstyle is dated. “Don’t analyze,” I chide myself, “Just go with the flow.” But what is that soft background music? It almost sounds like the instrumental part of The Doors, Light My Fire. I love playing Name That Tune.

All at once, Hip’s voice seems to come to me from everywhere and nowhere, soaking through my ears, dripping into my mind’s eye where it paints delicate pictures with watercolor words. “A river of thought,” he murmurs. “A stream of consciousness,” the voice drones, “a trickle of trivia…” Did we pay our water bill this month I wonder, and visualize the online automatic withdrawal system that I recently activated. But Hip’s gentle touch on my shoulder distracts me from this mundane image as he calmly states that each time he taps me, I will be filled with a deeper and deeper sense of tranquility. I crack one eyelid partway open, then quickly admonish myself in my former preschool teacher’s voice, “no peeking.” But now Hip is counting backwards from ten to one and when he’s done, we’re supposed to open our eyes and find that we’re in a fantasy field of flowers.

Someone lowers the lights and fades the music and I’m horrified to realize I feel no different at all. I am exactly the same. Three, two, one. A panicky sensation grips my throat and I begin to sneeze in succession, four, five times, something I always do when I’m edgy. But nobody says, “bless you” and I realize everyone around me is probably too busy frolicking in their lovely imaginary meadows. And here I am, stuck — trapped inside the same old self-conscious, timid, awkward wallflower persona on this stage while Hip heads toward me with efficient strides, probably to test my level of hypnotization, if that’s even a word. To add to my mortification, the prim looking man seated on my left lowers his face with drowsy oblivion deeply into my lap. Obviously looking to graze in MY greener pastures.

Hip the Hypnotist seems entirely satisfied to raise my arm up and watch it droop down again, apparently checking the “floppy factor,” a true litmus test for hypnotists. He then nods approvingly, gesturing toward me and egging the audience into rapturous applause.

“One more thing,” Hip adds when the clapping dies down, “If at any time during our show, someone next to you in the first ten rows appears to have gone under, please raise your hand and one of our lovely assistants will escort them on stage to join our act. It happens more than you’d think!”

Still alarmed that I’m not under some spell or feeling any different at all, I think back to when I saw this show before. What’s next? What the hell is next? Oh, we stink, we really stink. That’s right. I can fake that. I quickly remember all the things I’ve pretended in my life. Pretended to be asleep when Dennis came to bed, pretended I liked his mother’s obnoxious perfume, and pretended I had my doctorate degree when I was around the snooty women at my husband’s X-mas party. I begin to hold my nose and fan the air, looking suspiciously at the man to my right as Hip insists our neighbor hasn’t showered in weeks. The audience barely chuckles and out of the corner of my eye I think I see Dennis yawn and glance sideways at Blondie next to him.

Next we’re given the choice to be jockeys or thoroughbreds in the Kentucky Derby and I have to make a quick decision which one would be less embarrassing. I’m self-conscious about my size so I decide to be a horse rather than a rider (don’t they have to weigh under 100 lbs?) but once again I’m humiliated beyond belief as Hip proposes that the horses have just done the unthinkable! All the jockeys hold their noses at our imaginary disgusting stench. What is up with this guy and his obsession with odors? But the audience seems to really enjoy this and so I play along, all the while planning my seductive striptease where I can more than likely redeem myself in front of Dennis before I broadcast that I’m the expectant mother of his first child.

It dawns on me that everyone else on stage seems to be genuinely hypnotized as they prance freely around and I can’t believe I’m the only one held prisoner by my inhibitions and hang-ups.

“What’s your name and where ya from?” Hip closes in on me with his microphone and I try to make my eyes appear dreamy and awestruck, the way I imagine they should look in a trance.

“Sharon Henderson from California,” I recite zombie-like.

“That’s a strange racehorse name,” Hip persists.

F*ck I think, I’m blowing it. I quickly add, “otherwise known as Lucky Lady from Laughlin,” I toss my hair like a Clydesdale mane, but decide that actual neighing noises might be too over-the-top. And that’s when I notice Hip’s eyes narrow at me just a bit before he moves on.

Next we’re skiing in the Alps, only we’re doing it barefoot. Easy. Just shiver uncontrollably. After that, we’re at the beach and one of us, (thankfully not me) has a hole in a prominent spot in their bathing suit. Another cinch. I fake a shocked expression while the crowd bursts into bawdy howls. But now I feel my whole body tighten because it occurs to me that after this, it will be time for all us females to become x-rated exotic dancers. I scope out my competition and that’s when true despair sets in. I didn’t realize there were so many beautiful young girls up here. Is that one even legal, I wonder, knowing that alcohol has been served all night long. I can only hope that afterwards, Dennis will be so ecstatic over my pregnancy announcement that he’ll make generous allowances for a clumsy, horselike, foul-smelling stripper reject. I let myself glance at him momentarily, but he seems to be staring down motionless at his shoes.

A sudden prod on my shoulder and I’m introduced to the audience as “Cherry Jubilee,” direct from Paris. I recognize the bump and grind music from some old Broadway production. Great, he has to go and make me a French girl, I lament. I flounce around on an elevated platform twirling my sweater, then sashay stage left because I know Dennis sits off to the right. Hips. Swivel your hips and get your ass into it, I encourage myself and now I’m swirling and swaying pretty good for someone who’s seven weeks along. But the audience starts to taunt, “Take it off Cherry, take it all off!” and I know Dennis would want to see me loose and carefree so I fling the plaid sweater at some man in the front row and start to undo the top part of my silk blouse. I’m indebted to Hip for stopping me mid-button, but not at all grateful for what he spits out next.

“Why, you big ham you! You’re not really under at all, are you? Thought you could fool us fools? But let’s give Sharon a big hand anyhow for her participation thus far,” he says and gives me a hard thrust toward my seat as people hesitatingly clap. As I stare in disbelief wondering what about my dancing could’ve given me away, I hear Hip continue enthusiastically, “But it looks like someone in our audience is highly suggestive and has gone completely under. Let’s bring him up here, shall we? Audience?” Everyone thunders away and I notice Buxomy Blondie next to Dennis wildly waving her hands and pointing fingers at my lethargic husband who appears drunk and perfectly content to be accompanied up the steps of the stage by a stunning red-haired assistant.

It could be my imagination but it almost seems like both the blondes stick their feet out in the aisle to trip me as I try to squeeze by and return to my seat with some semblance of dignity. “Going Thru!” I whisper to them.

All eyes are now on the intriguing newcomer in the spotlight, and I watch as my husband, (now seated in the exact chair I just previously sat in) gregariously introduces himself as ‘Dennis the Menace.’ Hip snaps his fingers and in response, Denny instantly slumps forward in a genuine daze.

I look at my watch and realize the show is nearly at its conclusion except for the ending stunt where everyone makes a single outrageous confession. I’m sad not to be able to blurt out my amazing baby news, but I still feel a few eyes on me so I chortle along with the rest of the crowd as one girl proclaims her bisexuality. Another man dressed in Walmart garb surprises people by declaring he’s a multi-millionaire. One of the younger girls admits being hot for Hip the Hypnotist and everyone shouts, “Go for it!”

Dennis greedily snatches the mic out of turn and leans closely in, characteristically clearing his throat before he talks. I almost think Blondie next to me blows him a coy little kiss, but maybe she’s only swatting at a gnat.

My husband hesitates one suspenseful moment before speaking…

“I don’t love my wife Sharon anymore. I’m having an affair and I’m leaving her.” His burning voice seems to come to me from everywhere and nowhere all at once, singeing my ears as the words blaze into my mind’s eye; an explosive inferno of divorce papers, wedding albums, and abortions ignite together as blonde looks of pity smolder in my direction.

Wow, I’m really going under tonight.

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Planning An Affair? (Carrying on with someone else when you’re married!)

photo-439Does anyone PLAN an affair? Not a black tie affair with music, food and dancing! This is for my followers who are okay with reading something different from me.  Back soon with some Valentine’s humor.

SO YOU WANT TO HAVE AN AFFAIR . . . 

You want to have an affair. You haven’t even been married long. Wait a sec, are you married or just roommates? You check and yep, your marriage license is in your nightstand drawer. The wedding video that cost $800 is covered with dust. No question — you’ve made a lifelong commitment.

But your current nights certainly give a good impression of being roomies. There’s even a posted schedule of whose turn it is to take out garbage and shop for groceries. Truth be told, you’ve been contemplating the idea of an affair for a long time and not because you’re having a mid-life crisis, envisioning a red sports car in your future.

No, this isn’t about low self-esteem. Quite the opposite. You deserve more. You deserve someone who understands, connects, responds — and “gets” you on a deep level.

You’ve been testing the waters lately, making more intense eye contact with attractive strangers. When they hold your gaze, you’ve felt that elusive thrill from your past. But your thoughts never go beyond this. Until today.

Today a pop-up window appeared for Ashley Madison. Their slogan — “Monogamy is monotony!” Clever. Maybe that’s a sign? Visions of hang-up phone calls, excuses to get milk (when it’s not even your turn!) and seedy motel rooms run through your head. You visit the website and there are many photographs. These people do not look underhanded, sleazy or desperate. They look like…you.

They talk of voids. “Mistakes, regrets and soul-searching” are other buzzwords. Everyone’s profile states they don’t want to change their current marital situation. They don’t want to hurt their lifelong partner or upset the family’s applecart. They just want to supplement their life. And above all, they want discretion.

You are attracted to several of the profiles, but there’s no way to contact them (even to innocently chat) without making a profile of your own. You could easily do this. You have that private email account. And amazingly enough, you have a nice photograph of just you. You wouldn’t even have to crop out someone else’s arm around you. You decide to do it. It’s just a couple hundred words describing your likes and dislikes, no big deal.

You’re careful to phrase things so people understand you haven’t done this before. You’re not a player. You’re just curious about what’s “out there.” When you’re done, you preview it and feel confident you’ll get lots of views and responses. You hesitate just for a moment before you click “Publish” but then do it very matter-of-factly. After all, you want to have an affair. Don’t you?

Later, your spouse is particularly upsetting which justifies your actions. Not listening to anything you say, but instead thinking up the next clever remark to interject while you’re still speaking. You’re tired of being talked over and around, so when you finally go to bed, you’re grateful there’s no talking at all. Carefully staying on your side of the bed, you don’t brush skin. Even accidental cuddling would elicit guilt.

You can’t sleep. Your new online mailbox is all you think about. In the den, the monitor glows eerily and after remembering your password, you’re rewarded (and flattered!) to find 6 new emails. Several of them try to be funny. They try too hard. One goes on and on, obviously totally self-absorbed. Who does that remind you of? One talks about extreme guilt, which you don’t want to be reminded of. Two of them gush over your photo and tell you they’d sleep with you tomorrow.

But really if this was just about sex, you could find that anywhere. After all, you’re attractive. Hell, there’d be zero risk of getting caught if it was just the physical release you were after. You can do that for yourself. And God knows, lately you have. A lot.

No, you’re trying to find that missing connection. You hate the term ‘soulmate’ but admit it fits here. The chemistry must be there, yes, but you’re seeking more. You write back to all six individuals. You ask questions. What brought them here? What are they looking for? What’s wrong with their marriages? You don’t ask anything you wouldn’t answer yourself.

You tell everyone to write back and confess something surprising, even shocking. You spend the next twenty minutes deleting emails, emptying recycle bins, erasing history as your other half sleeps in the next room. This is kind of daring, kind of thrilling and definitely an adventure into the unknown.

The next morning you can’t look your spouse in the eye, but interestingly, there’s no notice taken of that. Everything proceeds as usual and you’re off to work. In your office lobby, you look around and wonder how many people are having secret affairs? From the number of hits on that website, you’d venture 1 in 3 people do this.

Could it be her? Maybe him? Oh! You bet it’s those two over by the ATM machine. Maybe that one is even one of your actual responders… after all, the photo was faraway and blurry. You feel giddy. Your day flies by. You don’t dare check email from work because you’ve heard employers have ways of tracking these things. So you race home to log on and… Jackpot!

Nine new responses and four from the first batch have already written back. As per your request for surprising tidbits, there are some real shockers revealed. Someone is a physician who regularly sleeps with patients. Someone else is happily married and just looking to add a threesome to their routine and someone else has a gambling problem and just lost the house. Interesting how that one original respondent who was so cocky and self-assured hasn’t sent a photograph or admitted anything astonishing. All the rest are okay, but it’s those voids in that particular email that’s most intriguing. You ignore the others and pursue the individual who represents a challenge.

Two weeks pass and you’re wild with desire by the mystery profile. The witty flirtations have been like nothing you’ve experienced, well at least not since you first got married. This person truly “gets” you, which blows your mind because you’re so complicated. Sometimes you don’t even “get” yourself! And after all this time, you haven’t even seen a photograph, but this doesn’t matter because you’re officially obsessed. You can’t believe your spouse hasn’t noticed changes.

Computer time increases three-fold. You’re simultaneously jumpy, edgy, and euphoric. You’ve shopped for the perfect meeting outfit. There’s talk of an out-of-the-way place for cocktails but both people know that’s just a formality. Until you seduce one another physically, mirroring what’s already occurred emotionally online.

Today’s email is especially adorable and funny. An agreement has been made that when you meet, the long awaited photograph will finally be placed in your hand! Kinda ironic because when that happens, you won’t need a photograph. The email also promises you’ll be told what quality about you was initially the most attractive. How fun!

You write back that you can’t wait for this to happen. You delete that because it makes you sound needy. Instead you casually write back “perhaps our paths will cross one day, when we’re least expecting it.” You add that you’ll anticipate a photograph and the compliment when that time comes.

You log off the computer with a yearning sigh. You walk from the den into the next room where you literally bump into your spouse. As you look up into wistful eyes, a photograph is gently slipped into your hand. Your spouse softly whispers, “Hello. It was actually your honesty that originally attracted me the most.”

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/carry/

How Do You Think “Dear Abby” Got Started???

photo-390Since I began this humor blog back in January of this year (as a New Year’s resolution) I have sometimes been mistaken for an advice columnist.  Don’t ask me how that could happen because I might just tell you.  Anyhow, I have decided that every so often I will run a post containing “The Best Of” questions submitted to me.  Are you ready?  Of course you are!

DEAR LITTLE MISS MENOPAUSE…

 

Dear LMM~

I have this nosy neighbor (think Mrs. Kravitz on Bewitched) who is the only one who offers to help feed our cats and water the plants for free when my boyfriend and I travel.  The problem is sometimes when we return from a trip,  I can tell she has gone through my things.  The last time we went out of town on a cruise I decided to teach this little Snoop a lesson.   I planted a photo of me with her husband (in bed together) prominently inside my medicine cabinet.  The next thing I knew, her spouse had moved out and she won’t speak to me anymore.  I feel horribly guilty.  And our cats get awfully hungry.  How can I let her know it was just an innocent practical joke of sorts, without her blaming me for the demise of her marriage?  I’ve since hidden the offending photo inside my copy of Gone With the Wind.

A Gentle Reader

Which actress did you like best playing Mrs. Kravitz?

Which actress did you like best playing Mrs. Kravitz?

 

 

Dear Gentle Reader (as opposed to a Rough Reader?)

Schedule an immediate trip to Hawaii.  Write an entry in your secret diary confessing that you knew it was the wrong thing to do but you couldn’t resist teaching your helpful neighbor a lesson about privacy and boundaries.  Then describe how you rigged your medicine cabinet, signing off with, “Gosh, I sure hope she’ll forgive me one day.”  Good luck!

Little Miss Menopause

ps.  How did you happen to have a photo of you and her husband in bed together?

 

Dear LMM~

You’re the same age as my wife so maybe you can help.  She says I don’t express my love for her.  I am a busy man with a full time law career and many hobbies like volunteering with troubled youth, yoga and wild game hunting.  I’ve stopped for roses on my way home but she claims flowers just wither and die.  I’ve resorted to other nice gestures too, like complimenting her dress.  But she says, “If you like my clothes so much, maybe you should marry Yves St. Laurent!   She has a lot of time on her hands to worry that we’ve fallen out of love.  Help!

Venus or Mars (I forget which one men are?)

 

Dear Venus or Mars (throw that Planet book away already!)

You’re in luck!  Little Miss Menopause just started supplementing her writing income with what she calls, “The High Tech, Save Your Neck by writing one Small Check” Romance Package.  For one low monthly fee of $59.95 your wife will receive 50 texts a day saying things like, “I like that dress you had on this morning, but I’d rather see it on the floor!”  or  “Roses are red, violets are blue, flowers may wither and die, but not my affection for you!”  But wait, that’s not all.  She will get 10 emails a day containing mushy gushy poetry, old fashioned love letters, sexual innuendo crossword puzzles, custom word searches with all her favorite things, plus intriguing “treasure hunts” that send her all over the internet looking for her complicated clues.   Eight times a day, a new post will show up on her Facebook with photos of exotic locations with “I’d like to whisk you off to this place” messages.  She will be so busy keeping up with all “your” attention that she won’t have any time to nag you ever again.   How does that sound?  You just need to provide me with her email, Facebook name, cell phone, favorite color, her interests/hobbies and her astrological sign.

Little Miss Menopause

Men: Do some woman find this to be symbolic of your relationship together?

Men: Do some woman find this to be symbolic of your relationship together?

 

Dear LMM~

You’re the same age as me so maybe you can help.  My husband is falling out of love with me.  I have noticed all the signs.  Once in a while he brings home a few wilted daisies or says he likes my dress.  You seem so alive and vivacious.  How do you keep the passion in your long term relationships?  Sorry I write to you so often about this topic but it’s very important to me.

Withering in Wisteria Lane

 

Dear Withering in the Fictional Street from that Television Show,

You’re in luck!  Little Miss Menopause has just started to supplement her writing income with what she calls the “Having a Fake Affair will give your Marriage a Prayer, I Swear!”  Romance Package.  For one low monthly fee of $59.95, a “pretend handsome suitor” will send you interesting text messages, elaborate emails your husband could never think of, (no matter what his Yoga position!) plus little Facebook messages (that will have all your girlfriends green with envy) depicting the places he’ll take you to.  All you have to do is act a bit secretive and give vague answers as to where you’ve been all day.  Your husband will become insanely jealous and suddenly lavish you with so much attention you won’t have time to write to me anymore.  How does that sound? You just need to provide me with your email, Facebook name, cell phone, your favorite color, your interests/hobbies and the location that your husband keeps his gun.

Little Miss Menopause

 

Dear LMM~

I live next door to this incredibly kind woman.  She’s always giving good advice, she even offers to care for our pets when we travel out of the goodness of her heart.   I used to have this little crush on Mrs. Kravitz from Bewitched and she actually reminds me of her.  She’s a married woman but I noticed her husband suddenly left.  I’ve been thinking of getting out of a relationship with the woman I’m living with before we tie the knot because (and I know this may sound trivial)  she won’t stop playing practical jokes around the house.  I never know what I might come across.  But I could never hurt such a faithful woman after ten years.  What would you suggest?

Fixated With Pet-Sitter and Tired of Sitting on Whoopee Cushions

 

Dear Fixated,

Bewitched reruns play often and that seems like a great compromise.  But you might want to read “Gone With the Wind” for an exciting change of pace.

Little Miss Menopause

Page 69 is especially revealing!

Page 69 is especially revealing!

 

Dear LMM~

I have a hard time believing that the letters you get asking for advice are legit?  C’mon, aren’t you making all these questions up when you run out of topics to post about?  Including this question?  It would be kind of weird if you were really just talking to yourself here.

Skeptical

 

Dear Skeptical,

Every good writer knows that staying within a reasonable word count is important and readers tend to get bored and lose interest  after 1,000 words.  I am sorry that your important question came right at this juncture.  Goodbye.  Note to self:  Buy shredded lettuce and cheese for tacos tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Skip the movie, “Her.” And forget about “Him” too. I’ve got something much better!

photo-214“HER,” the 2014 movie, was up for the Best Picture of the year during this past Oscar’s Awards.  “A man falls in love with the operating system on his computer” – –  An Academy Award winning premise, if I’ve ever heard one.  In fact, I was thinking I would write Part II,  but then decided that Hollywood can keep its futuristic, gimicky sequel starring whatever latest/greatest high-tech invention comes out next.  Prequels ARE where it’s at, Baby!  That’s right – –  I am writing the Prequel to HER.  Before there were computers, cell phones, ipads and Tivo.  I’m calling my movie, “THEM!”

Because why should YOU be monogamous with an inanimate object?

Any good screenplay starts off with great characters and some riveting plot points . . . so here we go!

PLOT

An ignored, unappreciated wife and mother, (Doris) finds the gratification she needs in her male household appliances.

CAST

The Dishwasher – an automatic, erotic, steamy sort of fellow with a very dry sense of humor. Our housewife is immediately smitten by the strength of his (stainless steel!) hard exterior and his commitment to energy saving efficiency.  His hidden Touchpad Controls only add to his mystery, not to mention he’s completely silent when he gets turned on. An added bonus – – he once told Doris that dishpan hands can be very sexy.  “You’re soaking in it~Palmolive” . . .  Mmmm, she could really come clean with him!

The Toaster Oven – – This space-saving appliance is far more convectional than that conventional, crusty old oven. Surely a relationship with him would heat-up consistently and evenly, plus he’d always remember her personal setting preferences. This could be the best thing since sliced bread.  Besides Doris knows which side her toast gets buttered on!

The Crock Pot – – So deliciously slow and steady – –  love could really simmer into a frenzied, bubbling boil with someone like this.  And he accomplishes so much while she sleeps or goes to the office.  My god, who could ever find another man like this?!  And his 2 qts are just as effective as other 8 qts, proving to Doris once and for all that size truly does not matter.  The only thing that’s kinda worrisome is how he once stewed in his own juices when she ignored him for a few nights.  Can he get over that and move on? She could always utilize his temperature probe to ask these probing questions later.  And if he can’t?  Well, Doris thinks that’s just a crock of… Sh#t!

See Doris' Purse.  But where's Doris?  Could be in (with) the bathtub?!!

See Doris’ Purse. But where’s Doris? Could she be in (with) the bathtub?!!

The Microwave – – A lover to turn Doris Inside-Out!  Such an explosive and fiery personality, but she must try to remember his pet-peeve about aluminum foil.  Talk about sparks flying!  And the things they share in common; oh my, it’s endless – – popcorn, pizza, baked potatoes; never eating frozen dinners alone again!  Yes, he knows every single one of her hot buttons and never hesitates to push them.

The Blender – – Ah, what a smooth-talking, masterful, machine man. But get him agitated, and he’ll cut you like a knife. There’s just no mincing words about the complexity of this guy’s features.  He makes quick work of their relationship, getting to the heart of the matter, (especially with artichokes) but he never truly peels the layers of her psyche slowly (like an onion) in that gentle way she craves.  Besides he so often mixes her up, crushing her hopes, and reducing her to an emotional puree – – she already knows she must let go of her whipping fantasies with him.

The vacuum cleaner – What can you say?  Theirs is a push/pull type of relationship.  As a lover, he totally sucks.  And she can’t stand what he does to her bare, hardwood floors. Yet Doris is completely drawn in by his proud, upright posture and some of his maneuvers in the bedroom just can’t be beat.  Oh dear, “beat” makes her yearn for that Blender again.  But just look at the shape of this guy’s can-ister!

The Freezer – – He’s completely off limits.  He once had the nerve to call her, “Frigid.”

The Ceiling Fan – –  A spinning, dizzying type of love.  Doris thinks he’s the best thing for occasional hot flashes.  But like the freezer, he sometimes chills her to the bone.  A cooling off period is probably best for both.

The Clock Radio – – Once upon a time, they made time stand still together.  Such a good time, tuning his stations, cranking up the volume of their love.  Time was of the essence and time flew when they were having fun. But suddenly time stopped.  And then time passed her by.  Because there’s no time like the present.  He no longer plays their song either; just jolts her awake in the mornings with his loud vibrational snores.  What a buzz kill.   Doris actually wants to kill time. But time would tell.  And then she would have too much time on her hands.  Could they save time by having a baby together?  Would that be in the Nick of time?  Could he be Father Time?  Maybe. Because everyone knows Time heals all wounds.

 The Hussy!
The Hussy!

THE PLOT THICKENS!

A very lovely, black baby grand piano comes into the home, showcasing her musical talents. No piano legs on this broad.  She seems to hold the key (all 88 of them!) to harmony for the entire house. Doris is insanely jealous because whenever she plays “Just Whistle while you work,” all the other appliances seem to hum along just fine without her.

That’s when Doris makes a very efficient decision. She quickly writes all the males in the house a note with the mechanical pencil she’d grown fond of.  The men find their “Dear John” letters sitting on the toilet.  The fireplace instantly goes up in smoke over his old flame’s absence, while the Smoke Detector is alarmed at the speed of her departure.  The Coffee Maker thinks it could be grounds for divorce. But it had to happen.  Even the Front Door knows this is an open and shut case, though he still feels a bit unhinged as she slams past him.

THE CLIMAX  

Doris drives off with her husband’s best Car.  He was her back-up plan all along because she knows he’ll steer her toward happiness, while revving both their motors.  They are both so driven towards success, that one big brake is all it takes to make the new movie, “THEM” a Mega Hit (and run).  Just ask Doris, she auto know!

FOOTNOTES:  No Kitchen equipment or devices will be harmed during rehearsals, as the director is a member of the “Appliance Compliance Alliance.”  Please also note that filming for this movie broke down when the Production Studio forgot to pay their Gas and Electric bills, thus necessitating all the actors to go on strike, except for the Piano.  We promise this movie will be repaired  coming soon – – so Look for it in a theater or drive-in near you!