Vasoline’s Contraption (and face)

(First, about the picture. Since I live in cognito, I was forced to blur my side of the fence. But then, obviously, if I left the rest unblurred, I could easily be recognised through a helicopter. While Vasoline’s Contraption seems recognisable, it is of the army colour that helicopters can’t see, and also I couldn’t resist showing you this thing exists.)

But! Let’s start at the very beginning (last Tuesday).

There I am, working on my epic grim dark fantasy romantic historical novel (it developed in more directions than I intended, but such is Art) when I hear banging and clanging. So, I look through the window of my studio (walk-in closet, which is better than listening to whatever Gunther is watching on TV) and I see… a construction being built. Dear Readers, Gunther and I were at complete loss. Why would she put up a… something in her backyard? (I will call it “garden” when it has plants in it.)

Our first guess was that she is separating from the Dishwasher Man and he is going to live in it now. He has access to water (the jacuzzi) and the back door, so he can do his shopping, and he can barbecue inside (which is her cunning plan to kill him with CO2 coming from burning things in the barbecue). But then, an even weirder thing happened. Those who used to follow me on Twitter, where I am not anymore because I am now on Booming Facebook, might know that my neighbour Vasoline seems to have actually disappeared. Even when she “walks” her “dog” (lets the shit-zu poop and peep on the plastic lawn in front) only her hand sticks out of the door, holding the leash. Her hand can’t be confused for Dishwasher Man’s, because it’s half the size and also not hairy, but then I wondered. Has somebody relatively thin broken into her house, tied her to a chair, but taken pity on the shit-zu? This, however, did not explain the contraption.

Cue in Thursday.

In front of my house, I hear a strange noise, so I look out through the window and I see a person dressed like the bride of Death, with a veil, but without a scythe. Instead, the person holds envelopes in its hands, and goes through them, only to let out a sigh so exaggerated it blew the veil up, but not enough, shakes its head, and leaves. I checked on the Internet to make sure that the Royal Post has not announced new uniforms for their employees, but I saw no veils. So, I nearly forgot about it, until my smart phone has rung with an unknown number. I picked up, because I thought it was an interview request, before remembering that due to me living in cognito the media do not have my number and realising it must be either the Colombian Maffia or the police, but it was weirder than that.

“Hello,” said the posh voice on the other side, “this is Robert. The ex and ex-secretary of your friend Myrna’s husband Harry with the male pattern balding. I know you probably don’t want to hear from me…”

“Of course not,” I pshawed, curious beyond the borders of imagination. Why would Robert be ringing me?

“I have received a letter from the address” (here he named my street) “but one house further, so, I assume, from your neighbour, Ms Vasoline.”

I gulped in expectation.

“I am,” continued Robert, clearly too stunned to sound posh and uninterested, “invited to a party on the Friday night.”

“That’s nice,” I muttered, suddenly realising what the charade with the envelopes was about.

“But it’s a… a reveal party.”

The terror of the thought that Vasoline was pregnant and there would be a new, small, shrieking Vasolineling next door nearly made me faint into unconsciousness, so I said nothing, frozen to the core.

“It’s a… a… a face reveal party,” said Robert, sounding the way I felt. “What does that mean?”

“Whose face?” I could only ask.

“It doesn’t say. It says that I am cordially invited for a face reveal party. Evening wear not required, but encouraged, with swimwear underneath. There will be cocktails served in the jacuzzi for the good-looking gay people of class. Signed, Ms Vasoline.”

I was utterly stunned, dear Readers! By every thing about this and some more. So, the person with the veil was Vasoline, performing a “you are not worthy” one-woman not even monologue, after making enough noise to ensure I notice. I made Robert promise me to send me a text message with explanation once he arrives at the face party reveal, although he didn’t sound like someone who was very excited about going, but at the end curiosity killed both our cats and so he agreed. Except for the swimwear. Once he disconnected, I considered calling my designer Paolo and his boyfriend Andreas, who is vegan, but realised that whatever cocktails she will be serving with the face will have alcohol in them and not vegan wine. Also, Vasoline disapproves of Paolo due to him being a foreigner and of Andreas due to him being Swedish, so the most I could count on was that she had also performed her one-woman not even monologue for their sakes. We were all spared, luckily!

I was on my second sherry, as the party unfolded very loudly and as I was listening to my Beethoven Greatest Hits collection because I did not appreciate the sounds of both Vasoline and her sister (I became even more of an atheist upon finding out God created TWO Vasolines) when my smart phone has pinged with the sound of a text message from Robert. The face reveal was…

…

…Vasoline having received plastic surgery in industrial amounts (his wording). Another message pinged before I finished with the first, informing me that she looks like a wax figure saved from a fire at the very last moment, fixed by a kindergartener. Another one said “I asked for a double cocktail but I am not getting into this jacuzzi” and then the next “her face told me that she has not invited good looking gay men to serve them cocktails outside the jacuzzi” and then the next “can I please come over please?” with many sad face emojicons I don’t know how to insert here on the blog.

And this was how Gunther and I found ourselves with the posh Robert and his suit sobbing into my sherry as Lassie tried to console him, the lovely darling that she is. Posh Robert told us that the face is not a sight that can be unseen, then continued to weep about only being treated as a sex (or jacuzzi decoration) object instead of appreciation for his mind, which he has inside his admittedly very attractive head. Finally, he seemed to wake up, remember who I was and where, grabbed the sherry bottle, emptied it with two gulps, blubbed something like “thanks” and tried to run away, except he couldn’t quite remember how legs work because this was my good sherry, also it turned out he came by car, so I took pity and drove him home in his Lamportini car (because of course someone like Posh Robert would not drive a Fort Fiesta). His house that I was expecting to be a mansion made of marble (like Ethel’s floors) only to discover he was living in a tower block in the part of our town that I didn’t even know existed, because I have experienced enough shock and danger in my life. I parked the Lamportini inside a garage, where he chained it to the wall, and invited me upstairs to what turned out to be a bedsit the size of Lassie’s bed. (I bought Lassie a very nice bed, but I digress.)

Posh Robert, it turned out, has been recklessly spending his earnings on expensive suits and expensive Lamportini and a real ePhone, so that he would manifest riches. This did not go as well as he hoped, and now he had to live not just in the bedsit (I briefly wondered how Vasoline delivered her invitation, but he explained he has a post box in case somebody wants to find out where he lives, and while he is not living in cognito like I, I completely understood), which made me snort with laughter at the thought of Vasoline performing her one-woman not-even-monologue to a post box, and then I realised that actually I have also partaken in my own sherry and that I didn’t bring my car for obvious reasons.

Which is how I ended up sleeping in Posh Robert’s very uncomfortable bed with him bent into a pretzel on the floor.

Gunther and I were excitedly awaiting the vision of Vasoline’s new melted face only to find out that she went on a vacation after the party. Which we found out, because my designer Paolo is on Instagran and told us. There are pictures of what seems to be very luxurious exotic locations, but instead of Vasoline’s new face there are inspirational quotes, which leads me to believe the face was not as successful as she expected.

I can’t wait for her return in the way a snake capturing a mouse can’t wait to see a very slow train wreck, which is a multilayered metaphor or simile, but don’t you agree that this sort of news deserves everything my creative writing course (I have a diploma) has taught me?!

Love and terror,

Karen xoxo