Power Love

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21 January 2010


The call came from Collingsworth, NJ. I know this because my voicemail at work goes straight to my computer and it tells me all kinds of details: where the call originated from, where it traveled as it transferred around the office, how long the message lasts. This call came directly to me and it lasted 32 seconds.

“Chris, this is Delores. It’s about 1:30 on Wednesday afternoon. Could you please call me tonight? I need…I need...I need someone to read at mass for your father. Will you please do it? Please call.”

My name is not Chris. My mom’s name is not Delores. My dad isn’t having a mass for him, as far as I know. I called Delores back.

“Hello?” She said.
“Hello, may I speak to Delores please?”
“Who’s this?”
“My name is Kim Morris, I—”
“Hold on. I have to switch phones. I can’t hear you. Hold on.”
“It’s going to sound like I’m hanging up on you because you’re going to hear a click, but I’m not. I’m just switching phones. I can’t hear you. Hold on.”
“Hello, is this Delores?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“I’m Kim Morris—”
“Kim Morris, I—”
“Kim who?”
“I don’t know you.”
“No, but it looks like you may have left a message on my voicemail that was intended for someone else and I just thought you might want to know…it sounded…important, and I just wanted you to know—”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Chicago? Not upstate New York? I was trying to reach upstate New York.”
“No, I’m in Chicago.”
“What’s your number there?”
I told her. She told me the number she was trying to reach was one number off from mine.
“Funny, isn’t it?” I said. “One number off, but still half the country away.”
“My husband just died.”
“Oh…oh, I’m so sorry, are you—”
“We need someone to read for his service at church.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m just so…”
“Thank you for calling to let me know.”
“OK—if there’s anything, I mean—”

But she had already hung up.

17 January 2010

15 January 2010

14 January 2010

New Orleans with The Mommers

I found this woman at the airport. She's really cool. I'm gonna hang out with her for a while.

06 January 2010


Last night my country estate was invaded by zombies. I had previously spent the last ten days engaging in activities that proactively melted my brain, such as watching paint dry. Occasionally, I stared out the window at my neighbor’s roof because the squirrels that tap danced there weren’t going to watch themselves.

The zombies who invaded my country estate weren’t just any old zombies. They were eco-zombies. Green zombies. Health-conscious, nutrition-focused. These zombies exist. And they like healthy brains.

I’m sure you can see where this is going. Two months ago, I lost my country estate in a card game. Apparently, simply having four aces in your hand isn’t the way to win Go Fish. So then I was like, “Shit.”

Obviously, I had to get my country estate back. So I called the CIA and they gave me my secret ops job back, which I quit a few years ago after I won the Pulitzer. I can’t say I was all too happy about this—not to insult anyone, but being a secret op is the kind of job you can do with your eyes closed.

Once I was rehired by the CIA, I was tempted into double agenting for the government of a small, anonymous island, but I felt guilty after the first job because I pay taxes here in the U.S. and it feels wrong to double agent the same peeps I want to manage the interstate highway system and the mail delivery system. So then I ended up quitting secret agenting altogether because they cut my benefits and frankly, I was underappreciated.

But I still didn’t have my country estate, and the four-year old who stole it from me in that treacherous card game of Go Fish let it fall into disrepair. It was too much to bear. It made me want to pull out my hair.

That’s when I went to the annual conference for health-conscious zombies. It was at the Holiday Inn in Myrtle Beach. I recruited an army of zombies, which was not easy because zombies on vacation are not highly motivated. But I promised them good, brainy treats if they successfully completed my plan (which was: the zombies eat the four-year old card shark, I commandeer my country estate, the zombies leave).

The eco-zombies were like, “We only eat organic, you know.” And I was like, “OK, and hoity toity la la la to you.” And thus, the agreement was solidified. We got rid of the petulant four-year old land baron, I commandeered my country estate, and the zombies left. I never thought about it again.

I’m sure you can see where this is going. When the eco-zombies knocked on the door of my country estate last night, I was like, “Whatever.” And they were like, “You made a deal.” And they were right, the four-year old card shark land baron wasn’t really what they had in mind when I promised them good, brainy treats, and also, the eco-zombies smelled and they were stomping on the azaleas on my front porch and it took me a long time to get those azaleas to bloom.

I was like, “A deal’s a deal, you can eat my brain.” And do you know what they did? Collectively they said, “No thanks.” No thanks. Can you believe it? I’m like, “You guys suck.” Which was unprofessional, sure, but I’m proud of my brain. It keeps my head from deflating. “YOU suck,” the eco-zombie mob said in unison. “And your brain smells like Gossip Girl reruns and carrot-flavored baby food. We like fresh, critical-thinking brains that pursue pure and natural thoughts.”


So now I owe the eco-zombie mob an organic brain, which I’m having a hard time finding. They don’t sell those at Stanley’s.