Don't Sleep With A Bubba: Unless Your Eggs Are In Wheelchairs. Susan Reinhardt
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you tried therapy?”
“I’m 40-some-odd years old, Doctor. Don’t you think I’ve been in therapy before? Listen, I’ve got to go on about sixty radio shows in one month because publishers don’t have the money to put unknown authors up in fancy hotels but once or twice or pay for national tours. I have to talk live on the air. I have to drive and deliver funny speeches even when I have PMS and Mama wants to come along. You don’t understand. She hoops and yells and bangs on the dashboard, thinking my every vehicular move is going to end in death.”
He raised his brows and clicked on his computer. I liked it better when docs didn’t have computers. I knew what he was typing: neurotic woman in need of behavioral therapy .
“What are you wanting?” he asked, smirking.
“Drugs,” I said. “Nerve pills. I have a…well…a heart condition. Just ask the Rotarians. I once passed out and—”
“Heart condition, you say?”
Click, click, clickety-clack. I’m sure he typed in, Woman is probably wanting Percocet and making all this book shit up. Maybe she’s going to cook up some meth in her doublewide. Note to self: do a police background check.
“Have you tried any of the antidepressants?” he asked.
“All of them.”
Peck, peck, tappety-tap. Woman is candidate for thirty to ninety days in the ward.
“Look, I wanted to be a writer so I wouldn’t have to face the public. In my job, you just sit down, eat a bunch of junk food and type. You don’t have to be witty or answer fastballs those morning hosts hurl. You wouldn’t believe what happened on this one show that goes to 450 stations across the country.”
He attempted a strained grin and squirted antibacterial foam on his hands. I guess he thought I might not only be crazy but infected with tetanus, too.
“I’m on the air, and it’s like, 4 AM Eastern time, and this woman gets on with me and starts talking about…about…Please, Dr. Popper (yes, his real name, poor man), I need some medicine. I’m having palpitations. I can’t do this. You don’t understand. I passed out once talking to the Lions or Rotarians, I forget which, maybe both, and had to lie down like a dead bug.”
Tap, tap, tappety-tap. Refer woman to mental health facility ASAP.
He quit typing and faced me with eyes the color of nails. “What happened on the radio?”
I decided to go ahead and tell him so I could get medicine in case of future shocks that could cause a gal’s heart to go into a series of preventricular contractions Oprah says could very well be caused from hormones and perimenopause. You gotta believe Oprah.
“Well, I had all my notes spread out on the bed. See, you can do most radio interviews in your pajamas and have bad breath and no one knows, which is great. You don’t even have to brush your hair or teeth. But this woman, she…she…Well, she decided to ask what I thought about the latest in plastic surgery.”
“And why’s that so bad?”
“She was referring to the beautification of one’s…you know…”
“No, I don’t know.”
“The…well…you see…umm. Privates. I couldn’t do a thing on the show after she said that but hack like a cat with a fur ball. Please, help me.”
“What kind of beautification of the privates?” he asked.
Damn Dr. Popper, the Perv.
I decided to shock him. “Anus bleaching. Labia reductions. Possum perfecting. That type thing.”
A genuine, though faint smile was forming across his face as he typed in a prescription and told me to come back when May was over. I’m sure by then, he’ll have a commitment order for a mandatory stay at the Haven for Mentally Exhausted and Completely Insane Working Moms.
Once I got to Richmond, I began enjoying a few perks of being in a five-star hotel, such things as being called Mrs. Reinhardt as if I was someone special and a driver to cart my fat ass around any time I wanted, plus luxurious sheets with a 5,000 thread count when mine at home were 250 polyester Wamsutta specials.
The woman who’d interviewed me for an online magazine, Libby McNamee, was a doll and fetched me for the signing at Fountain Bookstore in historic downtown Richmond. First, we went to eat Mexican and I was happy I had brought all those Altoids. I went to the restroom and forgot to squat over the toilet but sat smack down on the lid, right into a lake full of piss.
My legs and thighs dripped with someone else’s pee-pee and there wasn’t a single sheet of toilet tissue in the joint. I started shaking and shimmying like Shakira, that pop star, and had no choice but to hoist up my fine slacks and hope for the best.
By the time we got to the bookstore, I was sweating, and remembered I’d forgotten to put on deodorant. And then the most unmistakable stench rose up I’d ever smelled: tee-tee. Old lady, old man, nursing home, wet baby-diaper PISS. I smelled like the forgotten bedpan. To top it off, my armpits reeked like a basketball player’s after two overtimes and my breath was like an old garbage can’s. Where was my perfume? Where were the breath mints? Help. Help! I dug and dug in my purse since I suffer from PDD—Purse Digging Disorder—of which there is no known cure.
I had, in my panic to speak in a town where I knew no one but an old boyfriend who had dumped me in college, forgotten Rule Number One in How to Climb the Bestseller Ladder: The Secret Is Grooming and Hygiene. I looked around the little bookstore bathroom in search of anything that would make me smell more human and less roadkillish.
In a box in the corner was a spray bottle of Glade and on the counter a can of Lysol. I pulled down my damp pants and undies and sprayed my ass with the stuff, all but yelping the burning was so intense. For good measure, I grabbed the Lysol and used it as deodorant. As for my oniony breath, I squirted Dial antibacterial soap on my tongue and had a flashback to being 6 years old and Mama catching me saying, “Shit, shit, shit” while putting on a pair of socks, then getting out the soap to teach me a lesson.
When it came my time to speak, this first-ever book tour talk in front of a live audience, complete with a radio crew from Public Radio South recording it for stations all over Dixie, I was ready. It didn’t matter that people were coughing and wrinkling their noses, plenty of them sneezing and wondering why the room smelled like a nursing home disguised in every spray available.
Poor sweet Libby. After the reading and speech, she told me how swell I did.
“People really seemed to respond,” she said. “They were on the edges of their seats sniffing all around like dogs.”
“It’s my Glade and Lysol perfume,” I said. “Would you happen to have a piece of gum? I swallowed some orange Dial and—”
The owner of the bookstore, a sweet woman, came toward me with a gift bag. Inside was a bottle of K-Y Warming Liquid. Jeez. Not only do I smell like a nursing home, she must think my va-gee-gee is as dry as an 80-year-old woman’s.
It was the new “warming” kind, too. What a doll. Whew. Glad that one was over. I just wonder why they never aired my talk on the radio, but I think I have a good idea.
Atlanta and the Dumpster
N ext big stop: Atlanta, Georgia, with my mama, Lord have mercy. This was where I’d attended college and was booted from my sorority for being so danged wild and nonconforming. I knew all those Tri-Delts would come to my alumni signing to see how fat and ugly I’d gotten while they’d whittled off the college and postpartum fat with Atkins, lipo, tummy tucks paid for by their doctor, banker, tycoon husbands.
Sugar pies, I was right. There they were. Skinny, rich and adorable Atlanta women and I was in a chunky stage with lots of hanging arm fat.
It all started because my last book gig ran up a big ticket, so the