My Big Fan
Are you sitting down? You may wish to prepare for the shock my news may bring. Ready? This weekend, I discovered I have a fan! (Other than my Mom.)
Let's back up, shall we? (Beep, beep, beep!) (That's my backup indicator.)
Last week I was talking to our friend, Karen, who lives a few houses down. We’ve known each other since the Pliocene Era when Cupcake provided day-home care for her baby granddaughter, while our kids were still carpet varmints.
Now, thirty years later, we’re still friends; a tribute to Karen's tolerance and lack of judgment. Therefore, when she invited me over to meet a friend as a favour, I agreed. Karen claimed her pal enjoyed The Pipestone Flyer and was "crazy about your column" and "dying to meet you."
I figured anyone dying to meet me must be some kind of crazy. However, having been writing humour going on twenty years, with little feedback, I was tickled pink (with some mottled redness) at the thought.
‘A humour groupie!' I marveled. My mind leapt at the prospect! Unfortunately, so did Cupcake's. "You have a fan?" She said half in bemusement and half femininely suspicious. "That's nice, dear. She knows you are married, right?"
"I have kept our relationship well hidden from the readers, I’ll admit," I responded cheekily.
"Honestly, Karen's friend wants to meet you, too," I lied. "Come on, this will be fun. After all, how often do you get to hang out with a celebrity?"
"Celebrityhood requires more than two fans," Cupcake remarked wryly. "I’ve always been your fan and with Karen's friend, that’s just two people who will admit their fandom. This doesn’t make you a Kardashian, not even by Calmar standards."
"Hey!" I shot back. "I am certain my fans number in the tens of.... well the tens, anyway. Either way. I’m meeting my fan and you can join or not."
"Are you kidding?" Cupcake giggled. "I wouldn't miss this for a year's supply of Lucy’s cabbage rolls."
My stomach was an agitator washer on maximum as we knocked on Karen's door. She greeted us warmly and directed us to her living-room where my fan was waiting. Karen's spot on one of her twin recliners was readily apparent. Cupcake immediately sprinted over to claim the other. This forced me to the couch mere centimeters from my fan who, for privacy reasons, I will refer to as "Ms. X", rather than her real name which is Wanda. Oops!
Anyway, Wanda stood to shake my hand when Karen introduced us.
"Enchante!" I bowed slightly, as our hands met.
"Geshundheit!" she responded heartily refusing to release my hand. "It’s great to meet you two! I’m so excited!"
I looked over at Cupcake with slight alarm. I could tell by her smirk she was killing herself with laughter inside; a considerable improvement over her killing me.
I regained my hand when we sat and she immediately began to talk. And talk.
She spoke so steadily, I wondered if she had a blowhole on top of her head; like a whale or dolphin, to breathe through. All the while she gushed and enthused about me and my writing, her hands kept touching me! It wasn’t suggestive touching of course, just patting my arm or leg. Still, I’m not sure if I was more uncomfortable from what she was saying as doing. I feared what was going through Cupcake's head and wondered if something would be going through mine as a result. Her expression betrayed no anger or alarm, however, and I was terribly relieved. If she felt discomfort at the situation, she hid it well (as if she’d bother hiding it.)
"I'm sorry if I seem familiar," Wanda said suddenly, interrupting herself; probably sensing my panic. "I’m a very tactile person and feel I’ve known you two for ages, like we’re old friends. This must be so weird for you. You must think I'm some kind of freak!"
"Well, I..." I began.
"I know airport security thought I was a freak after they found an electronic sparking rubber eyeball in my purse, when Karen and I went to Vancouver," she continued unabated. "But I swear I’m no freak but so very excited, although not like "I want to have sex with you" excited or anything because I am sure my husband would not approve of that, besides Cupcake is sitting right here so obviously nothing could be further from my mind, and I am not at all that type of woman and besides, I need to talk to you about a theory I have that I want to tell you about so you can relay it to your readers and bring peace and happiness to each and every one of them."
In an impressive flood of speaking without a single pause for punctuation, not even so much as a comma, she laid out her theory on life which I thought she called, "Eunice".
"Eunice?" I responded having learned to keep my conversation to just single words and grunts of affirmation.
"No, not Eunice" she laughed hysterically grabbing my knee. "You-ness! The state of being you! It is the most wonderful state anyone can be in and means you are fulfilling the you-ness that is inside of you. You know?”
“Uh, gee I… er… um…” I returned wittily.
“Anyway, I see your wife is getting ready to go,” she went on. “It was so nice to meet you! You are both such wonderful conversationalists! We should do this again!”
“We’d love to,” grinned Cupcake with her ‘private joke’ look.
“Are you crazy?” I asked when we’d left. “I’m not sure but she might be, even if you’re not.”
“She’s not crazy,” scoffed Cupcake. “You’d be the same if you met Dave Barry. You’d be just as manic.”
“I’m no Dave Barry,” I snorted.
“No, you’re not Dave,” she snickered. “You’re Eunice.”
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