Le Snack Shoppe du Surreal is located on the Lower Level next to Housewares. It was during last week's breakfast battle over those grocery coupons with house guest Norman, that the ringtone of The Wedding March began playing on my cell.
That's the ringtone for Nicely Nice Guy: you'll remember, he and Woodsy rode off into the Wisconsin sunset after a week in Palm Springs, leaving yours truly here at the altar of imagination , with Woodsy referring to me as 'devious'. The last person who called me that and got away with it was my high school boyfriend back in 1980. Woodsy reminds me of in all the same hopeless ways.
That was March. I've been on my best behavior and haven't really talked much to Woodsy since seeing him so very happy with Nicely. That hasn't stopped both of them from emailing, texting or calling me, of course. Ah, the life of a Hollywood writer.
Eager to escape my breakfast companion, I excused myself and take the call on the restaurant patio. As has been the case the last dozen times I've tried talking to Woodsy alone, I get both of them. It's so sticky sweet it almost has me turned off of 'happy ever after'. I can just see them snuggled up in a four poster bed in a log cabin, Woodsy wearing the pajama bottoms and Nicely the pajama top. (Read into that what you wish). Meanwhile, I'm decked out in a blue oxford shirt, argyle sweater vest lime green shorts and Birkenstock sandals. I feel like a lesbian.
These Merry but not Married Men both talked at the same time and so fast I could guess what they had on their Wheaties. Clearly they were into driving me crazy, because quicker than you could say Lac du Flambeau: the dynamic duo invite me to come for a visit on their turf...at their expense. (Remember, threesomes backfire when I'm one of the trio.)
And the thought of sex with both of them at the same time makes celibacy look awfully good.
More dumb than devious at this moment, and having had a sojourn to Sacramento scrapped, and my Finnish friend falling foul with the flu and pushing his trip towards Fall, I would have taken a trip to Rancho Cucamonga if it were offered.
The love birds weren't kidding, so I stated I'd like a field trip: out to the summer home of theater legends Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, a historic landmark called Ten Chimneys.
"I've never been, " says Nicely, who's sounding a bit too nice for Old Devious here.
Woodsy says, "Great! You two can go together. I'll have to work."
I ponder the possibility of hiding Nicely's body in one of those ten chimneys. But why bump him off? Then he becomes a saint and I go to the electric chair. A better idea would be stuffing Woodsy's woolly ass in the nearest deep freeze and chaining it ala Barnabas Collins coffin for the next 200 years. He's no doubt relishing the idea of me coming back to visit.
Two years ago, we had a lovely time, even if he did get it in his head that I was walking around Lake Michigan announcing I was moving there. Had he given his blessing, I would have. Ten Chimneys had a job opening that fit perfectly with my skills, but I wasn't about to move there without Woodsy wanting me. And he didn't so I declined pursuing the job.
Breakfast was being delivered to my table, so I said a hasty goodbye and ended the call with the Doublemint Twins. The rest of the week I was busy and then things got even busier so the proposal remains on the table.
Isn't there some good soul who'd fly me somewhere other then the Midwest, so I can decline without sounding spiteful, bitter or bratty? I'm a delightful guest, really. Because, the thought of seeing Woodsy so in love in his hometown with someone else is a reality I don't want to experience up close. After all, two short years ago it was my movie and I was the co-star.
That's the ringtone for Nicely Nice Guy: you'll remember, he and Woodsy rode off into the Wisconsin sunset after a week in Palm Springs, leaving yours truly here at the altar of imagination , with Woodsy referring to me as 'devious'. The last person who called me that and got away with it was my high school boyfriend back in 1980. Woodsy reminds me of in all the same hopeless ways.
That was March. I've been on my best behavior and haven't really talked much to Woodsy since seeing him so very happy with Nicely. That hasn't stopped both of them from emailing, texting or calling me, of course. Ah, the life of a Hollywood writer.
Eager to escape my breakfast companion, I excused myself and take the call on the restaurant patio. As has been the case the last dozen times I've tried talking to Woodsy alone, I get both of them. It's so sticky sweet it almost has me turned off of 'happy ever after'. I can just see them snuggled up in a four poster bed in a log cabin, Woodsy wearing the pajama bottoms and Nicely the pajama top. (Read into that what you wish). Meanwhile, I'm decked out in a blue oxford shirt, argyle sweater vest lime green shorts and Birkenstock sandals. I feel like a lesbian.
These Merry but not Married Men both talked at the same time and so fast I could guess what they had on their Wheaties. Clearly they were into driving me crazy, because quicker than you could say Lac du Flambeau: the dynamic duo invite me to come for a visit on their turf...at their expense. (Remember, threesomes backfire when I'm one of the trio.)
And the thought of sex with both of them at the same time makes celibacy look awfully good.
More dumb than devious at this moment, and having had a sojourn to Sacramento scrapped, and my Finnish friend falling foul with the flu and pushing his trip towards Fall, I would have taken a trip to Rancho Cucamonga if it were offered.
The love birds weren't kidding, so I stated I'd like a field trip: out to the summer home of theater legends Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, a historic landmark called Ten Chimneys.
"I've never been, " says Nicely, who's sounding a bit too nice for Old Devious here.
Woodsy says, "Great! You two can go together. I'll have to work."
I ponder the possibility of hiding Nicely's body in one of those ten chimneys. But why bump him off? Then he becomes a saint and I go to the electric chair. A better idea would be stuffing Woodsy's woolly ass in the nearest deep freeze and chaining it ala Barnabas Collins coffin for the next 200 years. He's no doubt relishing the idea of me coming back to visit.
Two years ago, we had a lovely time, even if he did get it in his head that I was walking around Lake Michigan announcing I was moving there. Had he given his blessing, I would have. Ten Chimneys had a job opening that fit perfectly with my skills, but I wasn't about to move there without Woodsy wanting me. And he didn't so I declined pursuing the job.
Breakfast was being delivered to my table, so I said a hasty goodbye and ended the call with the Doublemint Twins. The rest of the week I was busy and then things got even busier so the proposal remains on the table.
Isn't there some good soul who'd fly me somewhere other then the Midwest, so I can decline without sounding spiteful, bitter or bratty? I'm a delightful guest, really. Because, the thought of seeing Woodsy so in love in his hometown with someone else is a reality I don't want to experience up close. After all, two short years ago it was my movie and I was the co-star.
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