I slide open an eyelid, and sure enough, there is my Inner Comedienne, perched upon the lid of a trunk, leaning her elbow against a stack of shoe boxes five pairs high. She has paid special attention to her makeup today. I make a mental note to confront her later about my missing Bobbi Brown eye pencil, which she has obviously used to line her eyes. And her lips.
“So,” she says, “you’re finally up. It’s about time.” My IC takes a dainty sip of coffee from a wildly oversized mug that reads, ‘THERE IS A 50% CHANCE THIS IS VODKA’
The thought of vodka at 8:15 a.m. is not as funny as perhaps it is meant to be, but I don’t mention this to my IC. She tends to get a little cranky if anyone makes mention of her penchant for either coffee or vodka. “Frankly, ‘up’ is rather a generous term,” I mumble, burying my face into the deep warmth of my silk filled bed pillow. “Barely awake is more like it. And keep your voice down, would you? HH is still asleep. Or at least he’s pretending to be…”
My words are met with a muffled imprecation from HH’s side of the bed, followed by my silk pillow being snatched from under my head and used as makeshift earmuffs. For the record, it is a thorougly clean imprecation consisting of well more than four letters, but I am pretty annoyed at losing my best pillow.
My Inner Comedienne is thoroughly unimpressed. “Hmph. You’re no fun anymore, you know that?”
“Whatever.” Hey, at a pre-coffee 8:15, I feel pretty lucky to have been able to string this much conversation together.
Nevertheless, it is time to roll out and face the day. There are chickens to feed, chicks to be let loose in the garden to dig up my rose bushes, and bunnies that will surely die of neglect if I don’t remove them from their hutch and let them play in the rare spot of sunshine this day has provided. And then there are the pheasants as well. And the wild rabbits who are becoming less wild by the day…
“No, seriously,” continues my IC, leaping off the trunk and tiptoeing to the door, a feat made all the more impressive by the logistics of her oversized, candy apple shoes. IC, for all her shortcomings, is properly graceful, in spite of her clownish costume and outlandish footwear. “You’re turning into a regular Mother Earth these days.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I say, pulling on my bathrobe and lumbering down the stairs. “I’ve always loved animals. You know that.”
“Ugh. They’re disgusting. Dirty…stinky…”
“Well, maybe a little bit. Sometimes.”
She gives a snort. “Great. NOW we’re becoming a hoarder.”
“Hey, I have precisely TWO, count them, TWO rabbits. Well, one might be pregnant, but -”
Her rainbow wig bobs up and down as she nods. “Mm-hm. Hoarder.”
I decide it is not a good time to mention that my chicken count currently stands at twenty, our male pheasant has attracted a harem of at least seven hens, and we have no less than three wild rabbits who have taken up residence in our garden. Oh yes. And then there are the rats… but I don’t feed them. At least not intentionally.
There is the slightest possibility my IC may have a point.
Inner Comedienne skips to the kitchen and flips on the light while I busy myself assembling my first cup of Joe and putting on the skillet for HH’s breakfast. “Just think how awful our breakfast would be if it wasn’t for the chickens? Nothing beats free range!”
I turn to find her rollerskating in a figure-eight around the kitchen while juggling a half dozen eggs. “Well, you know how much I love eggs!”
“Give me those!”
Coming to a graceful halt, my IC dutifully hands over the eggs and the hops up onto the kitchen counter, swinging her rollerskates against the cupboard doors like a naughty child. She is sulking now. “I, for one am sick of all these animals,” she says. “They’re everywhere. EV-E-RY-WHERE! In our garden… on our blog…”
“Aww, come on,” I say, adding a pat of butter to the hot pan, “people love hearing about my bunnies and chickens!”
“That’s just plain lazy,” she says. “Anybody can talk about cute little animals or take pictures of… FLOWERS!” She flips her squirty lapel flower in disgust. “When’s the last time you wrote anything funny, anyway? What are all our fans going to do without us making them laugh?”
I snort in derision at the term “fans,” but I cannot disagree. I crack two eggs into the hot butter and pop some bread into the toaster. “I don’t know,” I say. “There is plenty out there to laugh at. I’m just a speck in the comedy galaxy. You know that.”
She stops swinging her rollerskates and fixes me with what passes for a glare, though I find it hard to take anyone seriously who is wearing a gigantic foam nose. “Well, YOU may be a speck,” she concedes. “But I…am…a… STAR!”
There is scarcely time to scoff at her lunacy, since at that precise moment, one of the eggs explodes in the hot butter, sending bits of hot, wet and only partially cooked egg white flying in all directions. There is egg on the stove, egg on the backsplash, and, more to the point, a glob of egg that finds its way down the parted neck of my bathrobe and leaves a pair of blisters on areas of my skin that seldom see the light of day outside of a mammography lab. I am jumping about like a madwoman, pulling at my robe until the offending bit of clingy egg white falls, still steaming, to the rug beneath my slippered feet.
Somehow, I cannot help but blame my Inner Comedienne for this explosion. She has used some kind of Carrie telepathy to make her point, like the fact I am decidedly unfunny these days needed proving. And blisters in one’s decoletage are, I must admit, about the unfunniest things that have happened to me in years.
Her point made, my IC dusts off her gloved hands and skates out of the kitchen, leaving me, as usual, to clear up the mess she has made.
- feature photo: shutterstock
- bunny hoarder: animalplanet.com
- mushroom cloud: bianoti.com
- vodka cup: themetapicture.com
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