Just North of Whoville (14 page)

I was starting to think Dr. Prince was onto something.

“
Why don’t you come over to my place? It’s just me and my friend Steve. There’s plenty of food.”

“
Oh, I wouldn’t want to break up Thanksgiving with your boyfriend.”

“
He’s just a friend. His family’s in Korea this week. So come over”

It didn’t take too much convincing.

“
Mom, I’m curious,” I said on the phone later that morning as she gave me tips on turkey preparation. “Why didn’t you and Dad ever want any pets?”

“
It’s not that we don’t like animals. But they’re a lot of work. And you have to be home for them all the time. Remember how your Aunt Rose was with those dogs of hers. She never went anywhere.”

I hesitated to say that they never really went anywhere, either. After all, I’d been in New York City for four years and they hadn’t come to visit me once.

“
When you and your brother were growing up, we talked about getting a dog. But then we remembered how you were when that hamster died. That was horrible. You built a shrine out there for that rodent. In the summer, we couldn’t even get the lawn mower too close to his grave or you’d start bawling again. You were just too emotional, honey. We didn’t want to go thru Cuddles again. All I’m saying is that I don’t want to be around you when that cat of yours dies.”

That was something I wouldn’t need to think about for a long time. Heidi would always be around. Well, not always. And she certainly wasn’t around now. Houseguests always sent her into hiding. But she was very healthy and would certainly live to be at least twenty-five or maybe even thirty. Possibly a contender for Oldest Cat Alive.

As I began work on the sweet potatoes, Steve came in the kitchen to help. Immediately realizing that he was no help at all, I began grilling him about Nate.

“
He just mentioned that he saw you here and that it was weird that you were seeing Alex, that’s all. Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. How’s the turkey?”

“
I don’t know,” I said as I opened the oven. “Does it look done?”

“
Isn’t it supposed to be brown on top?”

“
Maybe it just needs a few more minutes.”

An hour later we were still looking at a tan-colored turkey.

“
Do you have a meat thermometer?”

“
You’re lucky I have meat.”

“
Shouldn’t it start smelling like turkey in here? That’s how I know it’s done at my Mom’s house.”

This went on for another two hours. To pass the time, we played a board game.
Sorry
. That seemed to be appropriate.

By four o’clock, we were starving. I pulled out a 500 piece puzzle, which we half-heartedly began putting together. But the turkey still refused to turn that golden brown we’d all seen at Mom’s house.

By five o’clock, Steve had fallen asleep on the couch while Timmy read a two month-old fashion magazine. This was terrible. I was the worst hostess ever. No appetizers. Not even a bit of salad to stave off the famine. At one point, Steve opened his eyes, asked if the turkey was ready, I said “not yet” and he rolled over back to sleep.

Then Timmy fell asleep.

Okay, I’ll accept the award for Worst Hostess Ever, but in my acceptance speech, I’d like to thank my shitty guests. Who falls asleep on Thanksgiving before they eat?

“
Oh honey,” my Mom said on the phone while washing her Thanksgiving dishes, “It sounds like your oven’s broken.”

I took off the oven mitts and touched the pan with my bare hand. The oven said 350, but it was barely a hundred degrees in there.

An hour later when the pizza arrived, I woke them up.

“
What happened to the turkey?” Timmy asked as he wiped the sleep out of his eyes.

“
It’s a turkey pizza. With cranberry sauce,” I added as I opened the can.

As I opened the pizza box, suddenly Timmy let out a squeal and dashed to the TV to turn up the volume.

“
You’re kidding me,” I said as I looked at the television set. “They’re playing
How the Grinch Stole Christmas
on Thanksgiving? Isn’t it a little early for that?”

“
Don’t be a Grinch, Dorrie,” Steve laughed.

They were my guests, so I had to keep them happy. Lousy, sleeping, food-eating guests. As Boris Karloff’s creepy voice read about the happy Whos down in Whoville who just lovedy-loved Christmas and The Grinch who didn’t quite so much, Steve rubbed it in even more.

“
Oh my god, Dorrie---that’s you!”

“
That is not me! I’m not The Grinch!” I replied as The Grinch listed all the things he hated about Christmas. The bells and the noise and all the Whos singing.

“
Dorrie, that is totally you,” Steve started cracking up.

“
You do complain about Christmas a lot,” Timmy admitted reluctantly.

“
You don’t get it! Even The Whos don’t sing for two months!” I tried to explain as the song about what a mean one that Mr. Grinch started to play.

Was I really a Grinch? I wasn’t trying to ruin anyone’s Christmas. I had no plans to steal the trees and the presents and even the Roast Beast. Just then, as The Grinch tied a horn to the head of his little dog Max, I realized what was really going on.

10

“
I am not The Grinch. I’m that little dog Max!” I declared to Dr. Prince the following week. “That dog who has to do all the work and gets pushed around and has to drag a heavy sleigh up and down the side of Mount Crumpit. I’m trying to wag my tail, but I have to haul my wet towels and laundry up and down five flights of stairs. There’s no happy ending for me. Where’s my Roast Beast and a pat on the head?”

Dr. Prince just sighed and wrote some stuff down on her yellow legal pad.

“
You don’t get it,” I wasn’t about to be deterred by yellow paper. “You’re one of the Whos. But I have to live just north of there. It’s not prime real estate, but it’s the best I can do right now. And you saw the parade…and my oven…and turkey pizza… I’m trying. You saw me trying,” I trickled out.

“
Wow,” she said in reply. “You’ve got some shitty luck.”

I was surprised she was finally on my side. So much so that I found myself taking the opposing viewpoint.

“
But…don’t you think…that sometimes people make their own luck?”

“
Not in this case,” she said with certainty. “You got some bad juju going on. I saw you trying. I mean, like on National fucking TV trying.”

“
I was. I was trying,” I said breathlessly.

“
Maybe you’re cursed.”

“
Don’t think I haven’t wondered about that,” I laughed.

But she looked serious.

“
Did you piss somebody off? Like a voodoo priestess or…oooo! You know what? Maybe it’s Santeria?”

“
I…don’t think so,” I tried not to insult her. “I don’t believe in any of those things.”

“
Oh, you don’t have to believe, mami. It just happens. No, you are definitely cursed.”

“
I… I really don’t think so,” I tried to bring her back to earth. “You know, it was probably just bad luck, that’s all.”

“
What happened to you, I would not wish on a dog. Do you have a priest? One who does exorcisms?”

“
No. But I don’t think it’s as serious as all that. Just a bad week, that’s all.”

“
Bad week? That was like the week of Passover. Wait a minute---lamb’s blood. My brother-in-law is a butcher. Yeah, yeah, I’ll give him a call,” she said as she reached for her cell phone.

“
I don’t think I need lamb’s blood,” I tried to stop her from dialing. “I’m sure next week will be better.”

She put down her phone and just stared at me for a moment.

“
Then why did you make me listen to that shit for forty-five minutes?”

“
I….I don’t…I just…” I started to stammer, “you asked me about my week, so…I just…”

And then I trailed off into a sigh.

“
Dorrie, you come in here every week like you’re fucking dying. I’m sitting here, a highly trained psychiatrist, and I’m listening to a fifteen minute story about a piece of turkey. Ay dios mio, I will stick the fucking needle in your ass myself if you say the word ‘meat thermometer’ again.”

“
I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do therapy.”

“
Look---let me put this into perspective for you. One of my patients is on a suicide watch. One actually IS dying. Two are going thru divorces. Three alcoholics. A heroin addict. And a guy who thinks he’s Ted Nugent. And you come in here whining because you were in a parade?”

“
I figured I’d be in and out in a couple of sessions. All fixed.”

“
But you’re not broken, mama. Let me explain how this works. I can steer you in the right direction; but only you can solve your problems.”

“
What IS my problem? Am I depressed? Should I be on medication?”

“
You haven’t complained of any of the usual symptoms of depression. I think you’re just afraid.”

“
Of what?”

“
Everything. But mostly, of being happy.”

“
Who doesn’t want to be happy?”

“
Happiness isn’t just the absence of problems; it’s a state of being. That dog we talked about----the one at the pound wagging his tail. Is he happy or sad?”

“
He seems happy. I mean, he’s at the pound, but he’s happy.”

“
How do you know he’s happy?”

“
Because he’s wagging his tail.”

“
Exactly. A dog doesn’t fake being happy. He just is. And he has way less control over his life than you do. You think it sucks that your oven broke down? A dog can’t even control what you put in his dish or when you let him outside to take a shit. But he’s happy.”

“
He also has a smaller brain,” I tried to sneak in.

“
You’re missing the point!” she practically screamed at me. “Stop trying to control everything in your life, and then getting disappointed when you don’t get what you want. The universe is constantly handing you good stuff and you’re pushing it away because it’s not exactly what you wanted. Turkey pizza? Damn! That’s funny! You could have had fun with that. But no, you sat there bitching because it wasn’t turkey. If you say to a dog, ‘You wanna go for a ride?’ and you open a car door---that dog will jump right in. He don’t know where he’s going. It could be to the vet or it could be to the park. He don’t care. He just wants to go for a ride. Let life take you for a ride, Dorrie.”

“
Well….okay. I guess can do that.”

“
That ain’t good enough. Let’s try it right now,” she said as she stood up and began patting her calves and smiling as she dog-called me, “Come on, girl! Wanna go for a ride? Come on! Let’s go for a ride!”

“
Okay!” I let myself sound silly and replied, “Let’s go!”

But I made sure to take a second glance at that diploma as I walked out the door.

The next day at work, Jamie called me into her office.

“
How would you like to be an agent?”

I knew it was a car door opening, but this one sounded like The Godfather asking me to “go for a little ride”.

“
We’re thinking about expanding. Models AND actors. Twice the money. Surely you have actor friends who would want to sign with an agency?”

She said the word “agency” as if she were handing me a prank can and asking if I wanted some “peanut brittle”.

“
Well,” I tried to at least look inside the car, “I’d have to think about it. I don’t know how comfortable I’d be with being their friend and their agent. It’s just really important to me to be professional…”

“
Dorrie, what’s your back-up plan? I mean, I know you want to be a writer…”

“
Director.”

“
But what if that doesn’t work out? What are you going to do? Go to trade school and become a refrigerator repairman? You’re too young to retire and too old for porn.”

“
Porn is not in my game plan…”

“
Do you even have a game plan?”