by Linda Keenan
Family’s A-Ha Moment: All Uniquely
Devastated by Oprah’s Departure
Suburgatory, USA—Each member of the Houlihan household, in their own unique way, is devastated by the departure of American talk show treasure, Oprah Winfrey.
These days, at 4:00 p.m. two-year-old “Little” Cathy Houlihan walks around the house, listlessly looking for Oprah, and banging the TV. “Black Mommy? Black Mommy? Where’s Black Mommy? When Black Mommy coming? Is she coming back?”
“I know it’s awful to watch, isn’t it?” said Cathy’s mom, “Big” Cathy Houlihan. “But at least Little Cathy has hope that Oprah’s coming back. I have to live with the knowledge that she’s not!”
Big Cathy explains Oprah’s impact on her life. “Oprah taught me everything I know about being a white lady! I mean, that didn’t come out right at all. She taught me what it meant to be a mom in America. A mom who lives in her own truth and has a sassy black friend to give her the kind of down-home Southern advice she needs. And sometimes that advice meant accepting things I wasn’t raised to approve of. I did what Oprah told me, and I’m a better person for it,” Cathy said.
“And thank God, I mean, thank Oprah for that,” said Houlihan’s now openly gay teenage son, George, who’s also in mourning for Winfrey.
“I might have killed myself had Oprah not made my mom believe that it was OK for me to be gay. FUCK those people who pick on Oprah. FUCK. THEM.”
His dad, Ian Houlihan, has his own reason for bemoaning Oprah’s farewell, but at this point it’s a secret. “I’m gay, too, and I was hoping she would do a few more of those shows on closeted gay husbands to, you know, help ease the blow to Big Cathy. “The Wrath of Cath,” we call it, it’s a scary scary thing. So, no hope for coming out anytime soon. Thank god for gay porn. I’d probably kill myself if it wasn’t for gay porn.”
Ian’s father, Walter, who lives with the family, is apparently the only straight male in the household, but the ladies he prefers are the black ladies. “I can’t believe my Ebony Goddess is gone.”
Did he have a problem with her weight? Walter was nonplussed. “In my day, youngster, women were a lot … roomier, like Oprah. Boy, I used to love watching her, imagining all the wonderful zestful steam baths I might have had with her, her dark black gorgeous flesh glistening with sweat… . that smile lighting up every afternoon with her wit and beauty… .”
Even the children’s live-in nanny is missing Winfrey. “Just to be clear,” said Elvira Martinez. “I don’t like the blacks. Even the rich blacks. Especially the rich blacks. But Oprah gave me one whole hour every day of peace and quiet without this whole house of babies needing something.”
SHOUT OUT
Act Like Grown-ups at the Drugstore
Eliot Dubin is a concerned pharmacist at the Bartlett Pharmacy on Cabot Street.
I had hoped I would not have to take to the public Shout Out forum to address certain behaviors we are witnessing at the Bartlett Pharmacy, but the health of our patrons and the dignity of our workers must take top priority.
First, calling in prescriptions you don’t pick up.
Now I know that Maria Osnos really can’t predict when her nervous collapse will occur and when it will ease. I know that Bill Sanford sometimes looks down at his painful toes and thinks, “Well, as the youngest person ever to have gout, maybe I should do something about both my lifestyle and this excruciating pain.” But then Maria’s nervous collapse goes away after a half-dozen glasses of wine, or Bill decides he just can’t rouse his fat ass out of the house to pick up his meds. But all of you should know that when our pharmacist rushes to fill orders that you never pick up, he is putting aside the needs of others. I can only assume that John Maron was able to get the erection he sought without the help of the medication that he ordered because he never picked it up. I give a hearty guy-to-guy mazel tov to that, but please, be considerate of our time as professionals.
Second, cutting ahead in line.
Melissa Henry, I understand your urgency in getting your medication last week. I know better than anyone, except perhaps a prostitute, that a vaginal yeast infection requiring prescription medication is quite “a situation” indeed. But to stride so aggressively to the counter that you knocked over Millie Wexler’s walker? It is true that Millie uses the pharmacy counter as a place to socialize now that those worthless piece of shit kids, Bob and Sheila, have decided to forget they have a mother and leave her to us. But that means Millie is practically a member of our family now, and no yeast infection, no matter how itchy, steamy, or smelly is worth disrespecting her. At Bartlett Pharmacy, we simply won’t tolerate it.
Third, yelling at us because your doctor didn’t refill the prescription.
When you are hopelessly addicted to painkillers, like Daniel Chelmsford, it is hard to keep your head about you. When things go wrong, you blame the wrong people. You need to remember, Daniel, that it is the doctor, not us, who has control over your stash. You want your meds? Knock over the store after hours like the rest of you criminal drug seekers, but don’t scream at me during my shift.
Fourth, spying on people’s medication.
Now this one I really am the go-to expert on. Of course you’re spying on what other people are picking up, Jessie Borden. It’s completely natural to sit there and use your iPhone to Google the name on the bottle Greg Silver is holding, only to discover that he is picking up medication to block his unstoppable cravings for alcohol. It’s human nature! But it is the divine right of pharmacists to know this information and no one else. And we don’t even need to Google the stuff, it’s all right in our noggins! We dream in medication names!
I hope this clears up some of the poor conduct we’ve been seeing at Bartlett. We’re all grown-ups here. Let’s start acting like it.
Child Convinced Being Disabled Rocks
Suburgatory USA—An area child is convinced being disabled “rocks,” despite his mother’s best efforts to explain the struggles that disabled people face.
“Why can’t we park right in front of Starbucks, Mommy?” said five-year-old Mikey Purcell.
“Because that’s only for people who have disabilities—who can’t use their legs, let’s say, as well as we can. It’s so they can use the store just like we can,” said his mother, Sandy Purcell.
“Hmmmm. That sounds pretty good,” Mikey said as he and his mother entered the Starbucks and asked to use the bathroom. The barista told them the regular one was occupied, so he gave them the key for the handicapped restroom. Mikey had never seen one. “Mommy, this bathroom’s huge! And so clean. It smells like, like, rainbows and miracles and fruit punch.” Sandy began telling him this was because the handicapped restrooms aren’t used as much as regular ones.
As Mikey thought about this, he said, “I wish I was disabled.”
“No, honey, you don’t. Disabled people are people just like you and me, and they matter a lot, just like you and me, but life can be pretty hard for them. It’s no walk in the park.”
“I know that. You just told me they can’t use their legs,” said Mikey. The boy and his mom returned to the car and made their way to the Edgewood Elementary School.
“What I’m trying to tell you, sweetie, is that it’s not an easy life. If you were stuck in a wheelchair, you could never walk to school with your friends,” said Sandy. “But I never do that now,” Mikey pointed out. “We go to Starbucks, get your iced chai latte, you play with your phone, and then we ride to school. Hey, if I was disabled could I ride that super cool bus with all those ramps and buttons that go ‘zzzhoooop’? The floors move up and down! Those kids are so lucky. Being disabled rocks!”
Sandy Purcell grew somewhat exasperated. “I don’t think you’re getting it, dear. It’s not a cool thing. It’s not like being Justin Bieber. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being different and we all have struggles, but it’s not something to wish for. You might not be able to talk, like we’re doing right now … ”
He thought
about that. “So you could sit criss-cross applesauce on the carpet and not say anything when Miss Barrett says something to you and that would be fine… .”
His mother added he might need to be fed, like he was still a baby. “Great!” said the boy.
Purcell finally exploded. “Michael, be happy you’re not disabled! I don’t want to make it sound awful but sometimes people can’t have regular lives at all, like getting married or wiping their own bottoms!”
Mikey went over to his mother right before lining up to go inside for school. He cupped her face in his hands. “But Mommy, you know I’m marrying you and you already love me so much AND you still help me wipe my bottom sometimes when I can’t reach.”
“So,” he said quietly to himself, “how do I get disabled? Would it hurt?”
Vegetarian Mom Vexed
by Son’s Meat-Lust
Suburgatory, USA—A vegetarian mother is vexed by her son’s newfound passion for meat and his complete lack of empathy for the animals that, as she puts it, “suffered horribly and died so you can eat a disgusting chicken leg.”
Liz Stakun blames a friend of hers who, without her permission, provided her son Max with a fried chicken leg, which he was eating as Stakun arrived at her friend’s home to pick up her child from a playdate. “OK—Anne has been undermining me since college. First she horned in on my major, then surprise, surprise, she rushed my sorority. So passive aggressive.”
“Hey Anne! Hugs!” Stakun stiffly embraced her friend and tried to hide her horror, as she saw her son tearing into the chicken leg with abandon. “Um, Anne, you know I’ve been a vegetarian. Since 1994. After the U2 concert where you blacked out. Remember?” said Liz, trying to contain her irritation. “Oh, Liz! Of course I know you’re a vegetarian but I never in a million years thought you’d impose your beliefs on a growing boy! And look how much he loves it. How can that be so wrong?”
Indeed, Max was enjoying it so much that Liz had trouble getting his attention away from the greasy chicken leg, which he was examining in a methodical way that he sees on his favorite forensic crime program, Bones.
Liz: Max, do you remember the nice mommy chicken we saw at Landsakes Farm, the one who loved her chicks sooooo much, like Mommy loves you?
Max: Oh yeah, they were sooooo cute, Mommy. What a good mommy that hen was.
Liz: Yes, but honey, I just want you to understand that what you saw at the farm and what you are eating on this plate are one and the same.
Max: But Mommy, they’re dead now and they’re delicious!
And with that Max returned to dismembering the leg, telling his mother, “Mom, this is the best part; you need to try it.” He pulled the chicken meat off the bone. “You’re gonna die when you taste this, the skin’s the best!” he said as he pulled the skin away from the meat. Liz sighed and shot Anne a perturbed look but said nothing more. “Max, we’ll talk about this more at home. By the way, I realize we found a pair of bunnies in the backyard.”
“Awesome!” said Max, as he wiped the chicken grease off his face. “Are they dead, too?”
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Mother Discovers Russian
Au Pair Is Richer than She Is
Suburgatory, USA—An area mom has discovered, much to her chagrin, that her Russian au pair is far wealthier than her in Russia.
“Actually, what’s worse is that she’s not just richer than me in crappy, depressing Russia. She’s richer than me here, too!” said thirty-nine-year-old Jen Barofsky.
Barofsky says she chose the eighteen-year-old au pair mostly because of her English skills and her unattractiveness. “Oh please, I’m not stupid. ‘eighteen-year-old Russian au pair’? I don’t need my husband sitting back and watching a hot Russian teen romping around here. So yeah, I picked the frumpy one who’d probably be a workhorse and eager to please.”
But when Galina Popov first arrived, she spoke little, though her English was near flawless. Popov barely acknowledged the children she was supposed to care for. And she walked around slowly, making small “snorts,” as she surveyed the 5,000-square-foot home and the property.
“I mean, at first I just thought it was a Russian thing. They’re not exactly the most uplifting people, you know? Maybe that’s why they hated us Jews—we’re loud and proud, I like to say. Life’s not one long pity party, Russia!” said Barofsky. Her husband Jeff started calling Popov the “Crabby Cossack.”
When Popov’s attitude failed to improve, Barofsky considered that maybe the girl actually was an anti-Semite. But in fact it was not anti-Semitism at all. “One day Galina left her Facebook page open, and holy fucking shit. That girl and her life make me look like trailer trash. Who knew there even were rich people in Russia?”
Barofsky got to see just what Popov left behind in her native country. “There were pictures of her houses. Houses, plural. I counted at least three. There were hundreds of nightlife shots of her all over the place dancing and drinking, and there were all these dressing-room pictures of her visits to some really swank mall. Still pretty ugly but definitely not frumpy. Nothing like her au pair video at all.”
Barofsky decided to ask Popov about it.
Galina: Well, yes, you do live quite modestly compared to me.
Jen: But why didn’t you tell me?
Galina: I was supposed to tell you that you are far less fortunate than I am?
Jen: No, I mean, of course, it’s OK that you are blessed with a lot of money. I’m just curious as to why you chose to become an au pair.
Galina: Chose this? [Snort] No. I’m more suited for [French resort area] Cap Ferrat. But my father is a … ran into trouble with an ally of an oligarch, and he thought it best for me to leave my country for a while.
Jen: What’s an oligarch?
Galina: The smartest, fastest people in Russia who were in the right place at the right time when Communism fell.
Jen: Oh. Is that why you left all your fancy clothes at home and didn’t wear them in your au pair video? You’re in hiding or something?
Galina: No, my mom told me to do that after we looked you up on Facebook and saw your … house. She told me an American woman wouldn’t want an au pair who looked richer than her, or looked like she might try to steal her husband.
Jen: [Nervous laugh] Hahaha! Now that’s just silly.
&nb
sp; Galina: Well, my mother is grateful you took me and I know she would want me to ask you if you would benefit from some of our … what do you call it in English … hand-me-downs? We have so many.
Jen: Uh, no. Nyet. Thank you.
So did Barofsky keep Popov? “What, and have my dead Bubby rise from the grave and pelt me with boiling matzoh balls? She’d be mad enough that I had the Crabby Cossack living with me, but a rich one? It’s a shande.”
Dr. Drama
“When life hands you a problem, let’s make it more interesting!”
Dear Dr. Drama:
We are having a battle in town over whether or not to remove a house close to mine on Shelton Street, to make room for a new Wal-Mart. Many of my neighbors are thrilled that they’re going to get rid of that house, because a Level 3 sex offender lives there. Now, I’m no fan of sex offenders, but as a person of conscience I would rather have him in town than Wal-Mart, which I believe does things far worse to our community—collectively—than any one man. I have told no one this, just you, and I look forward to getting some of your sage advice.
—Wal-Not in Suburgatory
Dear Wal-Not:
Sooooooo you would rather have a neighbor who has, say, ass-raped a child than a store that offers rock-bottom prices? Because low prices are bad for the poor? Have you ever been to a Wal-Mart? No? That’s because you’re not poor!
I know your type, Wal-Not. You just have to have your special mom-and-pop bullshit coffee and ironic old-time-y hardware store that’s highway robbery, because you can afford it, and you think Wal-Mart is the Evil Empire. Well, here’s my advice for you, since you’ve told no one but Dr. Drama about your troubled “conscience.” Start walking around telling people your views. And send the medical bills to the ass-raper.
Kid’s Book Used to Explain:
Don’t Cockblock Your Gay Uncle
Suburgatory, USA—A gay uncle is using the heartwarming book Uncle Bobby’s Wedding to urge his overly attached niece to stop “cockblocking him” in his search for love and passion.