Kitt's Corner - Just Like Pussy Pasta

Sometimes Kitt throws herself at the wall just to see if she'll stick.

My Favorite Word is "Cup"

When I was married, my husband and I used to watch Inside the Actors Studio, talk show hosted by writer and actor, James Lipton. Lipton interviewed A-list actors, directors, and other high-profile theatre and film types. The show had a segment in which Lipton asked the guest a list of 10 questions. One of the questions Lipton always asked: “What is your favorite word?” 

Illustration by Teece Aronin

For some reason, every time Lipton asked the question, the word that leapt to my mind was “cup.” Yup, “cup.”

Lipton’s glitterati usually said things like “freedom,” “heroism,” “gratitude,” and “grace.” I always said, “Cup.”

            

When I confided this naively to my husband, the cupboard door slammed loudly on any chance I’d ever have to keep that information on the downlow. Even now, long after our divorce, he often brings it up and laughs as though there’s something weird about it.

But “cup” sounds good, and it feels good just to say it. “Cup.”

There is something immensely gratifying in the sound of the “hard C” used to say “cup.” Sometimes the hard C comes out sounding somewhat soft, but sometimes (and this I love) it is as crisp a sound as a knife tapping on pewter. I don’t know why that is; it just is.

            

Cups are little girls’ tea parties, a queen's high teas, and coffee-scented mornings in a cabin. There is the Stanley Cup, there are peanut butter cups, and there are loving cups, and what sweeter notion is there than cups that love?

            

Cups are round, little vessels filled with something warm. They are colorful, fragile, yet paradoxically durable. They are a ride at Disneyland. They are my abandoned childhood and the old age I secretly, sort of, almost look forward to. There are cupcakes, buttercups, and teacup poodles. Cups have their fingers in so many things, but mugs don't; they just can’t pull it off.

            

There are other even more left-of-center words that might appeal to someone whose favorite word is "cup," "cumquat," for instance, but even though it starts with a hard C sound, the word "cumquat" does nothing for me. There’s something mysterious and dangerous about the word “barista,” yet even though baristas work with cups every day, that word could never be my favorite. Canoodling is a hard C word I kind of like, but it can’t hold a candle to "cup."

            

So, that’s it. My favorite word is “cup.” Like my ex-husband, you probably think it’s weird. But I won't let that get me down, because there's also "in my cups," which is where I'm headed now. 

Hope's Corner - Hope Dishes the Dirt

             

This is a rather blurry picture (because it was an action shot) of my dog, Hope dishing the dirt about her stay at a doggie resort (a.k.a. a kennel). 

She made "backbiting" comments about some of the WITCHES (not her word) that she met that weekend. 

You know, for a dog, Hope can be pretty catty.

Short Comedians

My ex-husband is a stand-up comic who for years milked our kids for all the free material he could get. Actually, being a writer, I did, too so I’m not pointing any fingers. Now the kids are teeenagers and suddenly they aren’t that funny anymore. Any parent of adolescents knows what I mean. But the ages of three to ten were the golden age of kiddie comedy in my household, and it was great while it lasted.

            When my son, Jon was three, he was sick and I left him in the car with my mother while I ran into the store for his prescription.

            “Grandma,” he announced from his little car seat in the back, “I’m gonna throw up.”

            “Just a minute, Jon; I’m coming,” my mother said, fumbling to unfasten her seat belt and find something for him to vomit into. Due to my fortuitous failure to clean the car, she was able to get her hands on a fast-food paper bag. “I’ll be right there,” she said.

            Scrambling out of the car, despite her bad knee and reliance on a cane, she threw open Jon's door and thrust herself in just in time to hear him say, "But not today."

            Jon was the kind of kid who would chatter happily to anyone who would listen - and often to those who hadn't planned to. One day, when he was about four-years-old, a friend of my husband's stopped by. And even though Jon had never seen him before, he linked his arm through Larry’s, guided him to the love seat and cuddled up against him. Within seconds, Larry couldn’t get a word in edgewise as Jon explained the intricate plotline of a Teletubbies video he was watching.

            “. . . and the yellow one is La-La. La-La almost always has an orange ball with her. The purple one is Tinky-Winky and Tinky-Winky has a big purse. The red one is Po, and Po . . .”

            After at least five minutes of this, Larry glanced at me and made a brief comment, prompting this gentle reprimand from Jon, “Excuse me, Larry, but if you’re going to keep talking like that, you’re not going to be able to hear this.”

            By the time our daughter, Sydney was three, she had perfected a dry, low-key delivery that takes some comics years to develop. And when she was three-and-a-half, her father and I were sitting at the desk of a carpet salesman who was writing up our purchase. Sydney started fiddling with the man’s calculator. When I told her to put it back, she put me in my place by quietly but arrogantly dismissing me: “Talk to the man, Mommy.”

            Flash forward to Jon age five and Sydney age seven. I was driving somewhere with the two of them in the backseat. Not surprisingly, Jon started complaining about his sister.

            “Mom, I’m never going to believe Sydney again. She always tells me these really great things she’s going to do for me and then she never does them. She just lies to me, so I’m never going to believe her ever again.”

            Sydney executed a masterfully elongated silence before saying in a very sly tone, “Hey Jon, I’ve been workin’ on that rocket ship for ya.”

            “Oh really?” Jon called out in a delighted little yelp, all excited and ready to jump on board.

            When I recounted this anecdote to the kids the other day, Jon said, “I hate you for lying to me about that rocket, Sydney.”

And Sydney said, “It’s still in the attic.” She was even lying to him about the attic since we don’t have one.

Anyway, even though they rarely cough up charming and quotable nuggets these days, the kids are still the cheapest source of material my ex and I have – at least until they get wise to us, unionize and demand compensation. If that happens, I’ll hire a couple of four-year-olds. Like elephants, they work for peanuts - except for the ones who are allergic, and they work for cookies.