Douglass: “Mae, my sugar bunny, whatever is troubling you so?

Mae: “Oh, Douglass, the agony is so intense that I can barely speak!”

Douglass: “Now, now. Stop writhing like a Pentecostal. Tell me what has happened. Are you hurt? Is there some blood loss that I need to attend to?”

Mae: “I think I’m okay, physically. But the psychological damage is terrible, ripping me apart. I don’t know that I can go on.”

Douglass: “The children! Where are the children? Did you leave them at the park again?”

Mae: “The children are fine. I sent them to Mother’s just as soon as it happened. Why do you always have to make everything about you and your ability to procreate? Like I had nothing to do with it.”

Douglass: “See, now you’re misdirecting your hostility. We talked about this with Oprah. Let’s not focus on the darts you’re throwing and instead look at why you want to throw the darts. Do you remember the breathing exercises?”

Mae: “Oprah can sit on it and spin. I’ve been severely traumatized and you’re babbling about talk show hosts.”

Douglass: “I’m not the only one who is babbling at the moment.  But let’s talk you down. I’m here now. Mainly because I just got off work and I live in this house, but I’m also here for you. Tell me how this all started.”

Mae: “Well, I had just finished putting the frosting on the rum cake I baked this morning, and I thought I might relax for a few minutes and watch something on TV.”

Douglass: “I love the frosting you make for the rum cake. See, I’m offering support.”

Mae: “Rum cake doesn’t normally have frosting. I do that for you. The rum part is for me. Anyway, I checked to make sure that the children hadn’t destroyed anything of value, and then I settled in on the couch, turned on the TV, and began flipping through the two channels that we get in this nowhere town we’ve been trapped in ever since we stupidly had sex behind the barn dance and we had to get married and-”

Douglass: “Darts again. Let’s focus on what’s important. What did you see on the TV?”

Mae, pausing, tears brimming in her eyes: “It was… she was right there and I couldn’t move fast enough to turn the TV off and get the image out of my mind and… it was horrible, Douglass, unbearably horrible!”

Douglass: “Who? Who was on TV?”

Mae: “It was Sarah Huckabee Sanders!”

Douglass: “Oh my GOD! You stay right there and don’t move. I’ll go call the pharmacist.”

He raced out of the room.

Ortensia Lucy Claudette Gunroswell walked into the room, peeved. “I have an issue with this post.”

Mae had little time for this brazen walk-on by a composite character representing some of the non-American guests at Bonnywood, especially if said character was not sporting a prescription bottle. “Don’t look at me. Talk to the writer.”

Ortensia walked to the front of the stage and tapped on the glass. “Hey, Mr. Writer Man, can I have a word?”

Me, discreetly sliding aside the half-empty bottle of beer so it was no longer in camera range: “Um, hello. Is there something I can help you with?”

Ortensia: “Indeed, there is. I thought I should point out that many of your international visitors are not familiar with your local politics, and when you inject said locality into your otherwise enriching stories, it’s a bit of a buzz kill.”

Me, slipping into spin-control mode as I’m fully aware that the majority of the Bonnywood regulars actually hail from places other than the USA, a situation that is both daunting and thrilling: “Please forgive my transgressions. I do worry a bit about that angle. As I was just saying to Osyth when she checked into one of the suites in the International Artists Enclave at Bonnywood, perhaps I shouldn’t focus so much on-”

Ortensia: “Hold up. What is this Enclave of which you speak?”

Me, not manipulating the conversation in any way, swear: “Well, it’s a special part of the Bonnywood Manor resort and spa reserved for fashionable, multi-cultural creative types who just want to teach the world to sing, in perfect harmony.”

Ortensia: “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

Me, still not manipulating, swear: “All accommodations are free. Because we need more singing.”

Ortensia: “I’m in. Book me a room.”

Me: “So does this mean we’re good now?”

Ortensia: “Of course. But I’m not so sure about Mae and Douglass, as we seem to have left them blowing in the wind, without answers.”

Me: “Got it. Let me finish that out.”

Douglass, racing back into the room: “Okay, the pharmacist is sending a special delivery via courier. We should be back to our happy place within minutes. Wait, why do you have that expression on your face?”

Mae: “Sorry, love. I fell asleep for a second and I just had the strangest dream where the good people of the world finally rise above and vanquish all the wretchedness that shouldn’t be happening.”

Douglass: “Yep, that was a crazy dream, alright. Who seriously believes that things will be better if we simply talk to one another as equals?”

Me, discreetly sliding aside the half-empty bottle of anxiety meds: “I do.”

Originally published in “Crusty Pie” on 02/12/16 and “Bonnywood Manor” on 08/03/16. Considerably revised and refocused for this post. I must say this: The character of “Ortensia” should not be considered a reflection of the true Ortensia who regularly visits this site, sharing her wisdom and grace. I hope she forgives me for the creative whimsicality. Hopefully this will help: Your suite has been booked. Please enjoy the complimentary champagne.