Oh, Heavens, Miss Havana

You all know I provide forthright answers to difficult questions, but did you know I am also the subject of two novels? The Substitute was the first, a hilarious romp through my brief life, death and stint in hell. Few are aware of the second, Oh, Heavens, Miss Havana! now being considered for publication by Solstice Publishing. In the second, I am in probation somewhere on the outskirts of heaven. Here is a brief sample of the humor, which I personally believe is funnier than hell!

I tear open the envelope, but the heavy paper cuts my finger with a vengeance. I shake my hand with a snap and nearly scream a profanity, but catch myself. I haven’t forgotten The Brazilian’s warning: “Yo’ got to clean up yo’ act, Miss Havana, we don’ talk like that here! If yo’ don’ follow the rules, yo’ be highly disappointed with the outcome.” I can’t imagine what he means—like, would they really send me back to my former home where my daughter is in charge? Frankly, I think they wouldn’t like that outcome. My daughter and I could do a considerable amount of damage, and that would be especially true if Lucifer joined in. I could organize quite a comeback, especially if I could pry Lucifer’s lazy ass off his straight-backed chair.

What’s this, an invitation? It looks like a carefully folded doily. Do people really send shit like this anymore? I scan the invite as a trickle of blood from my finger runs raggedly down the doily, until I get to the last line. “RSVP, Regrets Only”. What the fuck?

What in my home is that about? Sure I have regrets, doesn’t everyone? I regret the two pounds I gained after high school—never lost those bastards. Regret getting pregnant on prom night, too, but I’m not sure I regret the abortion that followed. If there’s a party, how much shit would I have to list before I get a pass to the food and liquor? Crap! Parties, who needs them! I place the doily back into the envelope and put it in my pocket next to my new watch. It’s probably against some obscure rule to litter here, especially with The Brazilian sitting—. Whoa, where is that bastard? Damn I hate that.

After some time enjoying the sun, I head back along the path. I’m delighted to see the long table has been cleared of food; I hope dinner will even be more spectacular than breakfast and make a mental note, “Drop some food for the old broad in the wheelchair.”

Back in the barracks I’m faced with the same vexing problem—which one is my bed? I should have counted the number from the door. I pick one arbitrarily in the approximate area where I’m sure mine is located and am about to settle down when I notice a small book on the pillow two beds farther from the door. I could be a sign. I casually meander to it, and am certain it’s for me when I read the title: “The Twelve Step Program”.

I sigh deeply, sit on the bed and scan the book. It’s not much to look at or read, but it makes a great bed marker. There’s not a soul in sight, even the unpleasant Mrs. McBrady is missing, so I pull the invitation from my pocket to look it over again before crumpling it and tossing it on the floor. Lying down with my feet on the scratchy woolen blanket doesn’t help. I’m still fuming that I must dredge up irrelevant regrets just to get a drink.

Before I can drift off, however, The Brazilian appears. My cheery guide always seems high on caffeine, and this time is no different. He picks up the invitation and smoothes it out between his hands. “Why, Miss Havana, yo’ needs to deal with yo’ invite. The party just won’t be the same without yo’. I mean, this year, yo’ be the guest of honor!”

I sit up and immediately smooth the blanket to avoiding responding, but must admit it’s been a long damn time since I’ve been the center of attention. “They will have liquor, won’t they?”

The Brazilian seems taken back, but by now I’m absolutely certain he’s just acting. There’s nothing I can do that should surprise him. After all, he has my file, not to mention that his efforts to train me have fallen flat. He responds anyway. “Oh, Miss Havana, there be much better than liquor there. Yo’ just need to come. Yo’ll see. Yo’ don’t need to list all those regrets, either. Everyone there already knows yo’ soul be burdened with them.”

Oh, shit. Just what I need, another full exposure encounter group. Don’t they ever do anything here just for the fun of it? I sign deeply. “Okay, okay, I’ll go, but only if you tell me why they call you The Brazilian.”

He cocks his head and shakes his finger slowly. “Oh, that’s been eatin’ at yo’ for some time, ain’t it. Okay, since it’s nearly Christmas, I’ll tell yo’, like a early Christmas gift, but the secret gots to stay just between the two of us.”

He pauses, probably waiting for my agreement. I scoot to the edge of the bed, look him directly in the eyes and respond flatly, “Fine.”

“Okay, then. Yo’ knows me to be a fastidious fellow, a true meterosexual, so it shouldn’t surprise you that I got my name because I always waxed my privates when I existed below. My bottom was always smooth as a baby’s!”

He radiates pride as I slap my forehead. TMI! The image disgusts me. “Oh, crap, sorry I asked.”

He grins. “Sometimes it’s best to not know all the details, Miss Havana. Like dis here party. Yo’ just needs to come, open yo’self up to it, and not fret about the details. Yo’ needs to trust me. I is yo’ guide. I do yo’ no harm.”

What bullshit. It turned out to be an intervention! And they didn’t have booze. Is anything ever what it seems?

Yours in Spirit,

Miss Havana

Neglected Husband

Dear Miss Havana: My wife of twenty-five years is totally disinterested in me, but anxious to get to work every day. That isn’t natural. She makes time for her work friends, but never for me. I fear she might be having an affair. Should I have her followed during her lunch hour? Sincerely, Insecure.

Dear Insecure: As Erma Bombeck once said, ‘I haven’t trusted polls since I read that 62% of women had affairs during their lunch hour. I’ve never met a woman in my life who would give up lunch for sex.’ That’s probably the case with your wife, too. You don’t own her, but you can court her. Take her to dinner. Take her to a movie. Take her on a cruise. Leave the kids at home. When you hike your leg to claim ownership, you are pissing away your only chance of actually making your marriage work. Lose the ego. She probably just needs a little attention. If she likes men, they will be attracted to her and give her all the attention she craves, especially if you don’t. Try playing that game yourself, but don’t take too long. The good things that come to those who wait might be the things left by those who got there first. Best of luck. Miss Havana.

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road

Dear Miss Havana: Why did the chicken cross the road? Thank you, Cluck.

Dear Cluck: I suspect you have very nice legs...and fine breasts as well, but that aside, the answer depends on your point of view:

SARAH PALIN: The chicken crossed the road because gosh-darn it, he's a maverick!

BARACK OBAMA: The chicken crossed the road because it was time for change! The chicken wanted change!

JOHN MC CAIN: My friends, that chicken crossed the road because he recognized the need to engage in cooperation and dialogue with all the chickens on the other side of the road.

HILLARY CLINTON: When I was First Lady, I personally helped that little chicken to cross the road. This experience makes me uniquely qualified to ensure right from Day One that every chicken in this country gets the chance it deserves to cross the road. But then, this really isn't about me.

GEORGE W. BUSH: We don't really care why the chicken crossed the road. We just want to know if the chicken is on our side of the road, or not. The chicken is either against us, or for us. There is no middle ground here.

DICK CHENEY: Where's my gun?

COLIN POWELL: Now to the left of the screen, you can clearly see the satellite image of the chicken crossing the road.

BILL CLINTON: I did not cross the road with that chicken.

AL GORE: I invented the chicken.

JOHN KERRY: Although I voted to let the chicken cross the road, I am now against it! It was the wrong road to cross, and I was misled about the chicken's intentions. I am not for it now, and will remain against it.

AL SHARPTON: Why are all the chickens white? We need some red chickens.

DR. PHIL: The problem we have here is that this chicken won't realize that he must first deal with the problem on this side of the road before it goes after the problem on the other side of the road. What we need to do is help him realize how stupid he's acting by not taking on his current problems before adding new problems.

OPRAH: Well, I understand that the chicken is having problems, which is why he wants to cross this road so bad. So instead of having the chicken learn from his mistakes and take falls, which is a part of life, I'm going to give this chicken a NEW CAR so that he can just drive across the road and not live his life like the rest of the chickens.

ANDERSON COOPER, CNN: We have reason to believe there is a chicken, but we have not yet been allowed to have access to the other side of the road.

NANCY GRACE: That chicken crossed the road because he's guilty! You can see it in his eyes and the way he walks.

PAT BUCHANAN: To steal the job of a decent, hardworking American.

MARTHA STEWART: No one called me to warn me which way that chicken was going. I had a standing order at the Farmer's Market to sell my eggs when the price dropped to a certain level. No little bird gave me any insider information.

DR SEUSS: Did the chicken cross the road? Did he cross it with a toad? Yes, the chicken crossed the road, but why it crossed I've not been told.

ERNEST HEMINGWAY: To die in the rain, alone.

JERRY FALWELL: Because the chicken was gay! Can't you people see the plain truth? That's why they call it the 'other side.' Yes, my friends, that chicken is gay. And if you eat that chicken, you will become gay too. I say we boycott all chickens until we sort out this abomination that the Liberal media whitewashes with seemingly harmless phrases like 'the other side.' That chicken should not be crossing the road. It's as plain and as simple as that.

GRANDPA: In my day we didn't ask why the chicken crossed the road. Somebody told us the chicken crossed the road, and that was good enough.

BARBARA WALTERS: Isn't that interesting? In a few moments, we will be listening to the chicken tell, for the first time, the heart warming story of how it experienced a serious case of molting, and went on to accomplish it's lifelong dream of crossing the road.

ARISTOTLE: It is the nature of chickens to cross the road.

JOHN LENNON: Imagine all the chickens in the world crossing roads together, in peace.

BILL GATES: I have just released eChicken2011, which will not only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance your checkbook. Internet Explorer is an integral part of eChicken2011. This new platform is much more stable and will never reboot.

ALBERT EINSTEIN: Did the chicken really cross the road, or did the road move beneath the chicken?

COLONEL SANDERS: Did I miss one?

Sincerely, Miss Havana

Miss Havana Interview at Reaper's Door

Reaper's Door (RD): Welcome to our Reaper’s Door interview, Miss Havana. Would you like to say a few words of introduction before the serious questions begin?

Miss Havana (MH): Why thank you. It’s an honor for you to have me here, I’m sure. I see your topic for today is “Character Flaws”. As a substitute teacher at Readmond High near Chicago, I would like to begin by stating categorically I don’t have any. BTW, do I call you “Reaper” or “Door”?

RD: (Ignores inane question). No flaws? So you consider yourself naturally gifted?

MH: Oh, yes. I’m a natural blond.

RD: Can you tell us a little about the courses you teach?

MH: I think it’s vitally important to keep the students’ attention, so I ensure everything about me is fastidious. I keep my firm 34-26-36 figure fit and dress in immaculate form-fitting clothes. When I present my lessons, you can be sure every eye is on me, especially the boys. Oh, by the way, those numbers are from the bottom up.

RD: Er…ah…I hadn’t noticed. What subjects do you teach?

MH: Oh, I can handle anything, but they don’t let me teach boys PE.

RD: I can see the wisdom in that. Do you have any discipline problems with the students?

MH: When I first started, the students could be unruly at times, but I found a solution. Here, see. Once I began using this puppy, the problems ended.

RD: Uh, this is a blog, Miss Havana, no one can see your impressive paddle. Where on earth did you get that giant anyway?

MH: Oh, you do get personal, don’t you? Let’s just say the Phi Delta boys were more than happy to offer it to me after I tutored them one night.

RD: Oh, so you tutor at night? Aren’t the students tired then, and less receptive to learning?

MH: Oh, no. They were all quite perky.

RD: Let’s get to the meat of this interview. What can you tell me about character flaws?

MH: Well, I can tell you what I’ve observed. Character flaws are like hemorrhoids, you really can’t tell people have them until you get to know them better. I mean, have you ever met a stranger who introduced himself by telling you he had hemorrhoids right off? Character flaws are like that. People don’t tell you they have them, so you have to deduce them yourself.

RD: Can you provide a few examples of character flaws you’ve observed personally?

MH: But of course. Mr. Halstead sells drugs to other students, for example. I think that would be considered a character flaw by some. Not only that, but the bastard cheats his supplier. My ledger came up short several times in one month alone.

RD: Should we be using names? Aren’t things like that with minors confidential?

MH: Probably. Sorry.

RD: What else can you tell me, about flaws you’ve observed?

MH: I know from personal experience Senator Wansworth cheats on his wife. Even worse, he cheats on his mistress by failing to pay for services rendered. I mean, who would think it less expensive to hire a hit man than to pay a few dollars to a cash-strapped beautiful woman?

RD: Names, Miss Havana, are they really necessary?

MH: Oh, then I probably shouldn’t mention his bitch of a wife who’s trying to kill me on her own…er, trying to kill the Senator’s mistress on her own. She’s just a sore loser who hasn’t won the township beauty pageant since I came to town.

RD: Sounds like you might have a few enemies?

MH: Nothing I can’t handle, although Macky Lane scared me a little. You know him, don’t you? He runs the Slippery Silverfish bar and grill in Chicago. Do you have any idea how many people actually believe a silverfish is a fish?

RD: I suppose you are implying Macky Lane has flaws as well?

MH: Big time! I should have guessed when I used the ladies restroom in his facility. Did you know if you lift the fig leaf on the statue of David by the sinks, a red light comes on outside in the bar. I mean, one little peek and the whole world thinks you’re a pervert. Good grief! I also have it on good authority that the bastard hires Charles Darwin to silence people, but not the original. I’ll bet he has a big paddle like mine. That sucker works for me. One whack, and I don’t hear a peep out of anyone.

RD: You do know that silencing someone in mobster talk means to kill them, don’t you?

MH: Really? That could explain a few things.

RD: Actually, I wanted to ask you about your paddle. Aren’t there rules against using corporal punishment on students?

MH: Gee, I don’t know about that. I’m really, really close to most of the school board members, and they’ve never mentioned a thing. I’ll see Billy tonight. I’ll ask.

RD: Billy?

MH: You know, the head of the school board. Frankly, he’s pretty enthusiastic about the paddle himself. He loves the way it excites me -- makes me itchy.

RD: I think I'll keep my teenage son away from your class!

MH: Very wise decision, but honestly, far too much has been made of that little incident with the quarterback two years back. I simply can't imagine what motivated him to touch me in that way. If Mr. Moxlie hadn't seen it, I probably wouldn't have cold cocked the poor kid. Guess he didn't know about my black belt.

RD: You remind me of a couple of teachers I had in High School, Miss Havana, have you ever been to Texas?

MH: Not yet, but Texas schools are something I should look into. I hear those southern boys do very well with their crayons, and I do like cowboys!

RD: Somehow I think after school would be more fun with you than being in class. Did you handle detention?

MH: Yes, to my delight, my paddle and I do detentions. Makes me shudder all over and wet in absolutely forbidden places...even led to "The Dance of Silence". Did you know an average student can make four laps around the front of the class holding his/her butt before gasping for a complete gulp of air? They never scream because they don't want their friends in the hall to know they're weak.

RD: You timed them, Miss Havana? What else have you discovered about students and their habits? Please share.

MH: Besides Mr. Halstead skimming his drug profits, I know for a fact the students call me "wish" behind my back. Pisses me off, but I understand. I enjoy looking at myself in the mirror too. Some also stutter when I call on them, apparently because their tongues are hard. I identified the one who ogled me through the hole in the toilet stall I was using when I stuck a pencil in his eye. I could go on, but perhaps I knew too much. I can tell you with deep satisfaction, as Lucifer's understudy, I got back at those who harmed me, especially the one who gave me cankles by slipping potassium chloride in my sleeping pills! My legs were a work of art before that bastard ruined them!

RD: Well, Miss Havana, I must certainly read about your adventures in The Substitute. I think your book will be most educational.

MH: Indeed so, and the lessons I offer as spirit simply drip with irony...and sometimes blood. After all, one must enjoy one's afterlife to the fullest.

RD: At risk of incriminating myself, I believe we should terminate this interview right here, Miss Havana. It was a pleasure having you.

MH: Likewise, I’m sure. BTW, and not to beat my own drum or anything, but you did realize my novel received a five star review at http://www.bookwenches.com/september10reviews.htm#636925762, did you not?

RD: (Silence).

Constipated Wife

Dear Miss Havana: My wife spends so many hours on the toilet, I fear she might grow onto the seat. She says her bowels haven’t moved in over a week, even though she sits in the restroom for hours morning and night. When I asked if she takes anything, she replied curtly, ‘Only a book’. Is there anything I can do? Yours Truly, Desperate.

Dear Desperate: It’s called a restroom for a reason. She might not be constipated but she certainly doesn’t give a crap. If she’s trying to balance her checkbook in there, maybe she just can’t budget? Whatever you do, please do not slip her laxatives on the sly. I recently heard of a man who tried that. It made his wife so regular she defecated every morning at exactly seven. Unfortunately, she didn’t get up until eight. You need to determine the real problem. If she’s constipated, get her to a doctor. If not, find another place for a home office. Very Truly Yours, Miss Havana.

Menopause, the change

Dear Miss Havana: My wife has changed since she got ‘the change’. She’s mean, inhospitable, hates sex and probably hates me even more. She has also become scatterbrained. Crap! How many middle-aged women does it take to change a light bulb anyway? Can anything be done? Sincerely, Frustrated.

Dear Frustrated: By ‘got the change’, I assume you mean menopause, but to answer your first question, one and only one. And to answer your second question, yes something can be done—you can help! Let me enlighten you as to why it takes only one menopausal woman to change a light bulb? Because no one else in the frigging house knows how or will. In fact, most men will sit in the dark for days before they’ll get off their fat ass to change the damn thing, assuming they could find the bulbs. The fact that they've been in the same place for the past twenty years doesn’t seem to register! If by some miracle they actually did find them, two days later the chair they dragged to stand on to change the stupid thing would still be in the same spot! And underneath it would be the wrapper for the freaking bulb because no one ever picks up a damn thing or carries out the trash! And don’t even get me started on who changes the toilet paper! Sincerely, Miss Havana.

Hot Flashes

“Dear Miss Havana: While being a woman is a joy, entering menopause isn’t! So far I’ve survived without ripping my clothes off in public, but that could change. Although I’m still hot, it comes in flashes, flushes and power surges. I feel like I’ve lost my mind, and if I hear my husband say, “Quick grab your mother some ice!” one more time there could be bloodshed. If I were a pig, I’d complain about sweating like a fat human. The sweat is pouring off me now; I need help. Sincerely, The Sweating Flasher.”

"Dear Flasher: Karma’s a bitch, but don’t sell your home heating system just yet. As Maxine said, ‘Don’t think of it as hot flashes. Think of it as your inner child playing with matches.’ Attitude is everything until you get through this, so avoid bloodshed by using a name tag that says: ‘Menopause in progress, please go around and do not make eye contact.’ The sign alone will give your husband pause, time to think that a scalding hot shower will cool you down but could be a threat to him. I wish I could offer a quick fix, but alas, this is one storm you’ll have to weather yourself. Black Cohosh might help, but no promises. Mostly, try to get some counseling, not for you but for your husband. By the way, it’s impossible to fool him. He won’t think he's got you excited when you turn down the air conditioner because you won’t want his hot, sweaty body anywhere near you. Regrets, Miss Havana.”