Scary Debra
by
Debra Anastasia
I think ghosts have given up on me. Scary things too. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve seen a fair number of horrifying things. I shop in Wal-Mart on Saturdays. I think I may be too stupid to scare.
Okay, I’m actually here today because I have a crush on Jessica. Isn’t she adorable? I picture her walking around in real life but as her AV. The voluptuous cartoon on her header up there? I picture her walking into Starbucks all animated like Roger Rabbit in our boring world.
Anyway, none of that’s scary. And I’m here to talk about scary. What are you afraid of? Spiders, vampires? Ghosts? I’m here to give you a new bone-chilling fear.
Me.
That’s right. This blonde-headed, minivan-driving nimrod is the scariest thing to hit the planet. I’m a freaking nightmare. The fact that anyone ever lets me interact with the world is a statement to how little we control in this life.
I know what you’re thinking, she’s not scarier than a zombie. Oh yes, yes I am. Here’s a good example of how I torture unsuspecting people:
Our porch is being built by a nice, sweet builder guy. Well, yesterday I cranked a few windows open and proceeded to sift through our nonsense. (Long story longer: Our house was demolished by a huge oak one year ago, we’re moving into the rebuild now. Hence I‘m sifting through things that were salvaged by other people from my buckling old house, this includes years worth of paperwork I had ignored.) I came upon my colonoscopy results from about ten years ago. To joke with my long-suffering husband I called out, “Hey! Do you wanna see the inside of my colon?”
He looked at me with his handsome face and his gaze slide just over my right shoulder. His eyes grew wide and he shook his head.
I get a sinking feeling. That’s right, I shouted this with my builder guy standing just behind me with the window open. Actually, he was physically closer to me than the man I was trying to torment.
What do you say to fix that? I mean, really? I slid down in my chair into a puddle on the floor. I still blush thinking about it.
Scary. Right?
If that was the only story I had we could all have a nice chuckle and move on. But no, that’s one of hundreds. I’ve plodded through this life with no sense and no filter for over 38 years. I’ve procreated. Now granted, the son takes after the husband (lucky you) but the daughter? She’s a carbon copy. Actually she might be worse. So proud of those kids.
Anyway, back to scary. If seeing the inside of my colon doesn’t give you night terrors, I’ve got more where that came from. A few years back a poor, unfortunate soul sat next to me at a soccer game. She decided to make small talk. With me. You can already tell how this encounter was circling the drain, right?
The lady began telling me about a fancy restaurant she used to work in. She went on and on claiming it was super fancy, leave-the-kids-home-and-get-dressed-up kind of fancy. I nodded and tried to make some noise out of my mouth to show that I was paying attention.
I said,"So it’s real Ritsy Titsy?"
My brain had stalled. I couldn’t believe I’d just made up a word like “Titsy” and tried to pass it off in an adult conversation. So of course this has sent me into a fit of inappropriate giggles that --to my horror—became an all-out crying laughter, while slapping my knees and fart heckling. I could hardly breathe at my own embarrassment. For Pete's sakes. It's bad enough I’d said it. No need for the spectacle of me dissolving in to hysterics.
The poor lady just waited me out with a polite smile.
I’m not sure what’s worse, that I say the wrong thing at the wrong time or that I find my own embarrassment so damn funny.
How about we end today with this bone chiller:
I was cashing a check at the bank. Well, we have two banks. One’s not fancy. One is fancy. I was at the ritzy titsy one. It has high, luxurious ceilings. The tellers are separated from the customers by a thick, bulletproof plastic. Well, I’m assuming it’s bullet proof. It has air holes for the tellers. So this combination of things always makes me talk louder. I can’t help it. I feel that the barrier between us can only be over come by my outdoor voice.
It was a crowded line, full of rushing holiday shoppers who were ready to lubricate their wallets with some cash. I stepped up to the teller that was waiting for me. She smiled. And then she started chit-chatting about the holidays.
She was what I call a soft-to-softer talker. Well, she’s the first one I’ve met, but if I meet another, that’s what I’ll call them.
She started out soft volume speaking, and when she would get to the real point of her sentence her volume would drop off.
Until she was, as much as I can tell, just moving her lips.
I can’t read lips. Let’s be honest, most of us are amazed I can read at all. So I did what any blonde would do --I overcompensated. I also tried to emulate the behavior I wanted her to copy. Hence me cheerleading scream answers.
Me: “YES, I’M GOING SHOPPING!!!”
Soft talk teller: ”Are you going to Target? ”
Me: ”YES!”
Soft talker: ”I got mumble mumble for $5.00 at Target mumble mumble.”
Now, I love Target. I love a good sale there. As a matter a fact, I watch the Christmas markdowns like a highly skilled guerilla surveillance team member.
So I don’t care what she got for $5.00. If it was on sale, I wanted it.
Now, maybe I can blame my exhaustion. Or my own inability to be social through a wall of plastic but I said in my loudest voice;
Me: ”MAYBE I’LL POOP IN THERE LATER!!”
Oh my dog. Did I just scream, “poop?” The Bank was as silent as a smoke detector without batteries that might have gotten disemboweled by an angry mother witnessing her kids heading to the dinning room table after it went off.
I realize I can’t fix my faux pas without making it worse.
I had to just leave the poop out there. I’d just told a complete stranger and a line full of people in a really loud voice where I *might * be planning on having a bowel movement in the future instead of what I had intended. (Me: “Maybe I'll POP in there later!")
So what do I do? Do I pretend like it wasn’t said? (Which I’m sure was soft talker's dire wish!)
Oh no, that would be too simple. I start to laugh. I start cry-laughing at my own self. I laugh all the way out of the bank. Like an idiot.
So, I think in this month of scary, zombie babies hanging from swings in people’s yards (Holy crap! What’s up with those horror movie quality decorations in the strip malls?) we need to remember that I, Debra Anastasia, am the scariest thing ever. Well, except for spiders, hands (they look like spiders), mannequins (they have hands that look like spiders), and not having your foot under the blankets at night.
Boo!
Author Bio: Debra Anastasia is busy, just like every other mom. There’s dinner, the dogs, the kids, and their homework. The laundry pile turns into a big, heaping monster. When the clothes finally make it into the washer, it gets unbalanced and puts on an elaborate show before it cuts out. This crazy job that never ends is her first love and her crowning achievement.
Her writing started a decent handful of years ago when along with the dogs, cat, kids, and husband, the voices of characters started whispering stories in Debra’s ear. Insomnia was the gateway for the plots that wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t let go. In the shower, a twist would take hold and–dripping and frenzied–she’d find somewhere, anywhere to write it down.
Debra grew up in New York and got a bachelor’s degree in political science at SUNY New Paltz. At the start of her marriage, she moved to southern Maryland with her husband. She still doesn’t trust crabs and all their legs, though everyone else in her family thinks they’re delicious. Her favorite hobbies include knitting, painting furniture and wall murals, and slapping clowns.
Bittersweet Seraphim, the sequel to her debut novel, Crushed Seraphim will be released Nov. 20th, 2012 and she’s currently working on Return to Poughkeepsie, the sequel to Poughkeepsie. You can visit her website at DebraAnastasia.com and find her on twitter @Debra_Anastasia.
Crushed Seraphim by Debra Anastasia
Published: Omnific Publishing (May 27th, 2011)
Reading Level: 17+
Paperback: 194 pages
How does a foul-mouthed angel end up as the last hope for all of Heaven and Earth?
When Seraph Emma is maimed and tossed from Heaven by a rogue angel who's taken charge, she fears she'll never be allowed to return. Tasked with the impossible job of showing the self-loathing (and not even human!) Jason his worth, Emma is sure she's doomed to fail.
Meanwhile, having wormed his way into Heaven, the corrupt Everett has trapped God in Hell and has designs on unleashing evil everywhere. Fortunately, if there's one thing Emma can't do (in addition to minding her language), it's give up. Determined to save Jason and get back to Heaven-even if it means going to Hell-Emma's plan is simple yet impossible: trick the Devil to save God.
What she doesn't count on is the devotion and, well, humanity she finds in Jason; the spirit, hidden compassion, and raw sex appeal within the Devil; and the vulnerability of her own heart. With the help of two unlikely allies, she'll wage the battle for Heaven. But will Emma be sidetracked by a new sort of heaven along the way?
What's truly more dangerous?
Falling from Heaven, or falling in love?
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