I am Prom

I have no time to blog this week.

No.  Time.

Why, you may ask?

Because I am busy, man!

And my tailbone hurts. It feels like an unpleasant prickly creature is building a nest on the base of my coccyx, and I’m not sending the Weiner in there to scare it out. (Note to self: do not offend innocent blog readers with random references to The Weens, especially in conjunction with any body parts below the navel.) I don’t know why it hurts, but it feels like a bruise except I haven’t fallen down. And no one has kicked me. While I was awake, at least. And although I have had four children, and that area of my body has exceeded its weight restriction several times over, the birthing years are really too long ago to account for random coccyx discomfort. (I’m also apparently not allowed to blame my spawn for my chocolate addiction, but they started it!)

I should go to the doctor but I am deathly afraid of doctors putting massive fingers in places massive fingers should never go, so I think I will just pretend that my tailbone is fine, and whatever is growing there can quietly live a life of leisure, napping and throwing peanut shells on the floor, safe from the probing intrusions of Garry’s fingers.

Garry is my doctor. He delivered my last baby, nineteen years ago, and I love him because he also tied my tubes two months later. With his bare hands and fishing line.

“Tie those fuckers off!” I demanded, dripping with preschoolers and various bodily excretions. “Save me from myself!”

Garry is a saint, but he is also a talker and has a habit of discussing Minor Hockey and his chauvinistic views of girls playing it, while an ice cold speculum is doing what it’s evil creators determined as its destiny. I fear for what conversational milestones we might reach while he… No! My coccyx will have to wait because, as I said…I am busy!

It’s exam week.

Today, in an epic five hour marathon of evaluative fervor, I marked thirty exams. Maybe that’s why my ass hurts.  Most of them were awesome, and I loved writing curly swirly 80’s and 85’s in my grade book. But I also read that it is terrible to “listen to roomers, because once roomers start you won’t know what’s true and what isn’t.”  Apparently spreading  roomers is also a heinous act. One pictures various roommates draped like laundry over the living room furniture, begging their friends to stop the spreading of themselves.

Also, it is very important to be an individual because “sometimes people act like lemons, just following each other over the cliff.”

One pictures a mass suicide of citrus.

Anyway, it took me all day, so I’m too busy to blog.

And it’s Prom. I’m in charge.

I am Prom.

In our school, Prom is the definitive celebration of all things High School, and the Culminating Community Cultural event of the season. The entire town comes out to see the decorations. We have a theme. We transform the gym and the foyer into a mystical, magical, artistic haven of musical interpretive dance.

They’ve asked me to stop dancing. Which I will do this year, because of my coccyx.

This year’s theme is “Footprints in the Sand”. We are making a beach in the foyer.

So, I have no time. I have to paint a sunset, build an eight foot sandcastle out of paper, create beach stones and seashells and Piping Plovers, arrange lighting and music and driftwood and dead seals and tables and tickets and a lighthouse and water and … no time.

Except to say this:

Whoever invented the coccyx was in league with the bastard who invented the speculum, and I ain’t having nothin’ to do with either of ‘em. I’m gonna pretend I don’t even have a coccyx. Take that, Garry of the massive fingers!

At least ‘til after Prom. Then we’ll talk.

(I was kidding about the dead seals. My pursuit of authentic beachyness does have limits.)

(And who the hell decided that “coccyx” was cool name? Some asshole with big fingers, no doubt.)

Check out my new novel: That Thing That Happened, available for both kobo and kindle.

Finalist in WFNS Atlantic Writing Competition

Grub Street Endorsed

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