Granny Bones

On my work desk lives a messy assortment of kitsch – the Elvis Pez dispensers, the Kinder egg surprises, the advertisement for Sholem Aleichem bobbleheads…  But prominence of place goes to a hideous piece of folk art that my parents brought back from a Mexican excursion this past summer. 

The figure is nothing less than a Day of the Dead masterpiece.  It features a hunched over granny dissolving into her typewriter – she is a receptionist!  My father swears he saw her as a concert pianist, but those are clearly office supplies spread out on the desk before her.  She is a Day of the Dead receptionist!  Can anything be more hilariously specific than that?  I, too, am a receptionist and I take her clay formed scoliosis as a warning clear as day: DO NOT TURN INTO A DAY OF THE DEAD RECEPTIONIST!

In my other life, I trained for three years in a ridiculously obscure profession.  I have been searching for a full-time position in this field for almost as long as I trained and I am almost ready to throw it all in and devote my life to sticky notes.  But then I look at my little undead friend and I’m ready to renounce all my constant slouching.  It’s not that I particularly mind being a receptionist, it’s just that I spend too many hours of the day bored and unstimulated. 

So I’ve made a sort of unhealthy obsession out of Abuela Bonebag.  I always thought it was funny when fat girls in movies would tack pictures of skinny girls to their mirrors as some strange inspiration.  These pictures never make the fat girls self-conscious, they only motivate the fat girls to eat better and to get into shape.  It’s like the moral at the end of ROCKY HORROR – “don’t dream it, be it.”  My little Granny Bones friend is the skinny girl pinned to my bathroom wall.  Marvelous as I find her, I would do anything to avoid her fate – a career in boredom!


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