owl

I recently went to see the new Total Recall with my bestest boys, Gregory, Jackie, and Mario, at the GORGEOUS ArcLight Theatre in Hollywood. Before it started, while they were all off claiming seats, throwing shade, and draining main veins, I got in line for treats. When it was my turn to order, I found myself standing across the concession counter from a handsome young guy who looked about 25 and was, as per all the people working there, wearing a badge around his neck proclaiming his favorite movie: Blade Runner. He asked what I would like, and I told him that if he didn’t have a godless, well-endowed sailor for me back there, I would like a large popcorn. He chuckled and then asked, “Would you like butter on that?” — at which I smiled, looked him right in the eye, and said:

“Son. I want you to take a really good look at my fatass. Do I look like a woman who turns down butter to you, motherfucker?”

Torn from his ordinary Orville Redenbacher-dispensing reality, he stared blankly across the counter at me for a moment, clearly not wanting to offend and yet having no idea how to respond…and then just BURST INTO RAGING PEALS OF BELLY LAUGHTER. He said, “Uh, ma’am…you are not just hilarious, you’re stunning. And you are NOT fat.”

“First of all, let me thank you for the lovely compliment,” I said, “I am quite a piece of ass for an old broad, aren’t I? And second of all, though I do appreciate your gallant attempt at denying the chubby, radiant reality standing before you — because that is what thoughtfully-raised young men are taught to do in this culture — allow me to let you in on a little secret: Don’t assume that I am not extraordinarily fond of my fat — because I am. It is as much a part of who and what I am as this”, I told him, tapping my index finger against my temple.

And, then, flashing him yet another dazzling smile, I grabbed my large popcorn with the butter, and added, “And, for the record, I would MUCH rather be called “fat” than “ma’am.” Now, why don’t you come up and see me sometime? I think you’d really like my owl.”

I blew him a kiss — which he smiled and caught — and then turned with a flourish of my black dress to go join my waiting boys.

About muffybolding

Muffy Bolding is a mother/writer/actor/knitter/feminist/withered debutante who likes the smell of asparagus pee, and remains obsessed with the bathroom hygiene of her three children -- despite the fact that they are 23, 19, and 16. She is blissfully married to a cute Jewish boy who looks like Willie Wonka, but remains tragically in love with the dead poet, Ted Hughes. She has the mouth of a Teamster, and her patron saint is Rocco (pestilence relief.) Ms. Bolding lives in Southern California, where she enjoys typing words, making movies, and plucking the rings from the fingers of the dead. She was the co-creator and Editor-in-Chief of the award winning satire zine, Fresno Lampoon, and in between writing screenplays, carnival barking, and savagely threatening her trio of darling larvae with a wooden spoon, she currently publishes the zine, "Withered Debutante." More of her work can also be found in the anthology, "Mamaphonic: Balancing Motherhood and Other Creative Acts", the compilation zine, "Mamaphiles III: Coming Home", as well as in The Cortland Review and hipmama.com. She is currently writing and producing for film and television, and working on a book of essays entitled, "Inside A Chinese Dragon." She has slept around, but not nearly as much as she would have liked.
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One Response to owl

  1. Matt Grigsby says:

    GOOD LORD, marry me already!

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