It's The Pulp Writer's Way...

I am a pulp writer. I can't get around that fact even if my trusty laptop or my pen and Moleskine aren't within reach. I instantly dramatize any situation, any line of dialogue or even a simple sentence for its maximum entertainment value.

It is simply the way I think and act.

Some people see a man taking out the garbage, and I see a sleeper agent taking shredded documents out for disposal. Some people see a lady walking her dog, I see a serial killer who is searching for her next prey to feed to her trusted cannibalistic canine comrade. (say that three times fast!). Some people see a man chatting up a young lady at the coffee shop - I see a pulp headline in the making.

In this way I think I am the complete opposite of the rest of my family who tend to downplay everything and force you to dig the pertinent facts out through carefully guided conversation, like a cruise missile heading to target:

(Riiing)

Mom: Hello, Cunningham's
Me: Hi Mom, it's Bill. How are you doing?
Mom: Oh good...I have no complaints.
Me: That's good. So what's going on?
Mom: Nothing. I went to the Doctor today...
Me: And?
Mom: Oh, nothing. I just got that drainage tube taken out...
Me: Drainage?
Mom: It's nothing. I'm so happy I don't have that bag dangling off my hip anymore.
Me: Okay. Bag. Dangling. Off. Hip.

(As squeaky gears within the bastard's head turn and pick up speed)

Mom: Oh, I have a bone to pick with you...
(Wheels grind to a screeching halt. Here it comes...)
Me: What about?
Mom: I didn't have four feet of intestine taken out...
Me: Okay. Sorry. You know I'm no good at math. How much was it?
Mom: It was more like half a foot...
Me: Well, sorry I embarrassed you by telling everyone it was four feet. I'll know better next time. At least you read my blog.
Mom: Okay, dear. And I still don't like the way you refer to yourself as a bastard. Your father and I have been married for fifty...ouch!
Me: What?!

(Gears run back up to pulp speed)

Mom: I'm just uncomfortable, what with all the stitches...
Me: Well Mom, you had surgery to repair a hernia, and had part of your intestine taken out...
Mom: Just six inches...
Me: Yes, JUST six inches...then you had that blood clot in your arm...
Mom: Had. The thinners took care of it...I'm just waiting for the bleeding to stop.

(Long...freaking...pause...gears spinning wildly)

Me: Blood? Stop?
Mom: Oh it's nothing, honey. The doctor says it's perfectly normal after intestinal surgery and being on blood thinners...
Me: Blood?
Mom: Don't worry.

(Another pause...stuffed like a turkey with regret)

Me: Blood? Uh...where?
Mom: My...um, stool was...
Me: You're bleeding out of your ass!?
Mom: Honey, it's nothing. Don't bother. Whew! I'm so weak right now. Gail is right here taking care of me. I'm so grateful for her. If she hadn't insisted I go get that colonoscopy, I would never have discovered the blockage or the hernia, and had to have the surgery. I'm going to remind her of that fact every day I'm alive.
Me: Put her on the phone.
Mom: Okay dear...here she is. Love you...
Me: Love you too, Mom.

(phone jostles and is transferred to loyal Sister-in-law)

Gail: Hello?
Me: MY MOTHER IS SPEWING CRIMSON FROM HER ASS?!!!
Gail: This is going into your blog isn't it?

(Note: any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Your mileage may vary. Check your grocer's freezer)