Trapping/s

It's a rosy-faced baby moon framed with caramel brown hair that’s bobbed into a Beatle’s haircut whose vintage might tattle-tale an advanced age safely distant from close guesses.


She’s from one of those cold, Great Lakes states, a girl adults may have described as ‘big-boned’ with that frame wrapped-on and molded with the semi-firm rubbery stuff they use to make the ball you’d squeeze a thousand times a day in physical therapy for an injured hand, a physical construct the cruelest kids in high school would call ‘fat.’

One could cast her as a clarinet player in ‘Music Man's’ marching band, wearing the feathered band uniform's hat settled not-quite-right on her head, a role she could play so convincingly well that you'd swear she's the genuine article.

She effects a corn-fed Midwestern sweetness that opposes her projection of the business-worldly confidence, coming out of the woman in iron-seeking, tumble-dried corduroys, with tapered shirttails drumming padded thighs as she walks, hanging loosely, incongruously adorned with a flowered scarf around her neck tightly inside the collar, mindful of a '70s flight attendant.

Her business persona aches for every nuance to hold her farm girlish image in a woman too old to sell 'easy going' convincingly to the wiser, whilst yearning be one of the girls by socializing with women 20 years her junior, struggling to capitalize on a that countenace to bullshit others that she’s delivering on everything you see and hear.

Convinced you've figured it out and aren't buying any, the potent concentrate of passive aggression and obsessive compulsion mix and come at you in wave after wave of attack on your character and credibilty, designed with cowardice hiding from confrontation in a wrapper of respectability, confident she’ll see you fall, hoping it’s with the surprise of the actor who disappears down through a hole in the floor of the stage, cut by the hand bearing a silent and purposeful saw rotating at the speed of advanced erosion.