Kushner, Ellen Los Mejores Relatos de Fantasia II
JANE ELLEN HARRISON ANCIENT ART AND RITUAL
White Ellen G. Nauki Z GĂłry BĹogosĹawienia
James_Ellen_Na_przekor_milosci
Ellen Klages Time Gypsy
Christie, Agata Hercule Poirot 21 Morphium
SZ145. Milburne Melanie śÂlub z milonerem
Her Russian Protector 4 Nikolai
Napęd z bezszczotkowym silnikiem prądu stałego
Beaton M.C. Hamish Macbeth 01 Hamish Macbethi śÂmierć plotkary
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change but a shirt or a lamp? That's not right. We'd be standing in line with him
while he counted, "$34.50, $34.55, $34.60, $34.65. There you go, Pahdnah."
Every Saturday and Sunday of my youth was spent looking at real estate that we
couldn't afford. Not that these houses were mansions, which actually could have
been fun. No, we looked at normal two-bedroom homes in regular middle class
neighborhoods just out of our price range. That didn't stop my dad from looking at
the same house over and over and over again. As a kid, I didn't really realize how
completely insane this was. I was frustrated, though, because it was very exciting
to think we could own our very own house. Every weekend when we would go back
to look at it, I would imagine what it would be like to live there. Never mind that
we were two children, grown, and these were two-bedroom houses.
There was always the same discussion at every house; "Well, your brother could
sleep in the breakfast nook. Yes, a bed could fit in there. Or in the closet or
garage." It would always end the same way. The house would be sold eventually
and we would move on to the next one. I'm sure the real estate agents hated us.
We must've been famous in the city of New Orleans for being "the family that
looked every weekend for months at the same houses but wouldn't even make an
offer." Actually, that seems unlikely because it takes so long to say; I doubt people
would take the time to repeat it enough to make us famous. We were probably
slightly well known.
We never owned a new car but we looked at quite a few. I remember being at a
car dealership one time; I must have been around eleven years old. I was sitting in
the passenger seat of a luxury sedan, flipping the vanity mirror up and down on
the visor and wishing my dad's moped had a vanity mirror. Or even a passenger
seat.
I looked over to see my father standing in the salesman's office, a sight I had
never seen in all the time we'd spent wandering around every auto showroom in
town. I looked around the big, beautiful new-car-smelling car that I was sitting in
and dreamed of pulling up in front of my school in it, with everyone watching, even
the substitute teachers. All the kids would ask me if they could have a ride; I'd say
yes; and they'd hoist me onto their shoulders and parade me around the tetherball
courts.
Right at the best part of this fantasy, the part where I was being awarded a
lifetime supply of cafeteria Tater Tots, my father leaned into the car and said,
"Let's get going, Bellhead." He called me that every once in a while when I was a
child. I think it was his idea of a funny nickname, but it just made me think my
head was really big. What did I know? I can't see my head the way an objective
observer can. It took me years of therapy to realize that if my head could fit into a
standard-size hat, it couldn't be much bigger than anyone else's. Thank God for
that new school of psychology that developed hat therapy or I would've been
convinced I was a bigheaded freak for the rest of my life.
Anyway, I asked my father what kind of car we were getting and if it could please
be orange because that was the color car that I figured would make me most
popular at school. He looked at me with a sweet, salty expression and said, "Oh,
no, honey, I wasn't in there buying a car. The salesman and I just got to talking
about how it's impossible to find a decent house in this city."
My disappointment must have gotten the better of me because I burst into tears.
Come to think of it, I know it got the better of me because there was an unspoken
ban on expressing emotion in our family, so I wouldn't have cried unless it was an
absolute emergency. My father turned away until I was finished, then handed me
one of his handkerchiefs with the little nose embroidered in the corner.
"Don't cry, Ellen. Someday you can write about this in your memoirs."
I looked up at my father, listening to the faint jingle of change in his pockets and
seeing the love and kindness in his eyes and said, "You can't tell me what to do!
You're not the boss of me!" Come to think of it, I was probably thirteen at the
time. A wave of frustration had crested inside me and on that wave was the tiny,
brave surfer of self-expression. I found myself "hanging ten" in a way I never
dreamed I could before. I realized I liked that feeling.
Yes, thinking back, that outburst has come to symbolize for me the end of my
childhood. After that, all my dad ever got from me was door slamming, curfew
breaking, and the occasional eye roll, until I turned eighteen and left home to
make it big on my own. I immediately gained thirty pounds just to prove I could,
and for my efforts, my dad sent me a congratulatory Bundt cake with the words,
"Keep it up, Darlene!" written in chocolate icing on top. I laughed and laughed,
then I read the card he had so preciously tucked away in the empty center of the
cake. It said,
Ellen,
Be sure to have your laughs after you finish eating Bundt cake. It's thicker
than you'd expect and can be dangerous if not eaten with caution, just like
life.
Love,
Dad
the serious chapter
As a comedian, I've learned that people expect me to be funny all the time.
That is a lot of pressure, as you can imagine. I'm not the kind of person who is
"on" all the time and I don't really like being around those types of personalities.
It's draining to have to be their audience. I am funny but that doesn't mean I'm
always funny. I'm also sad and mad and shy and serious. This is a chapter in which
I can just be serious.
For some readers, it will be a chapter they skip over. "Why should we read a
chapter that isn't funny," they might say. "I bought this book to laugh. I want to
laugh at everything. What is this nonsense? I want my money back!" Well, calm
down. I'll write one extra chapter, a bonus chapter, for those of you who feel
ripped off. For others the less demanding this will be a welcome change of pace.
I've heard people say, "Why must everything be a joke with Ellen? Can't we learn a
little bit about her as a person? Must she always be funny?" This chapter is for
those people.
I hope that I've given you what you needed. I hope you feel complete in some
way. I, myself, am bored.
the controversial chapter
After that last chapter, I find it necessary to give you something controversial.
After all controversy sells. Or is it "sex sells"? Well, in my next book maybe I'll do a
sex chapter too. But for now, let me be controversial. That is what I'm supposed to
be. I don't want to let anybody down. So here goes.
I hate puppies and kittens. That's right, you heard me. I think they're stupid and
ugly. And I won't pet them or play with them, even if someone puts them on my
lap. I find them repulsive and vile. Also, I abhor ice cream and I'm not even
lactose intolerant. I just refuse to acknowledge its significance in society. I also
despise all things that are soft: Cotton? Yuck! Fleece? Peeuuee!
Oh, and children's laughter is a turnoff to me. Children in general are creeps, the
color yellow is stupid, and I hate all green things, especially trees. Shrubs are [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
