(This feature appeared in the Summer 1999 issue of the Bastard Quarterly.)

This ongoing series allows you, the average Dastard National, to see your leaders 'at home'; away from the cameras. No fuss, no muss. Who could forget last month's interview with the leather-clad Debbie Keegan leading her riveting Dominatrix Seminar? Or the moving "Damsel Plum: Tap Dancing with a Song in My Heart and Broadway Bound"? In that same vein of journalistic quality, I proudly bring you Marley Greiner. I joined Marley in her modest, suburban kitchen on a lovely spring afternoon...

We have all heard the saying that claims the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I’ve often wondered if it were true. “Oh, yes,” Marley agrees. “That’s how I lassoed my honey-bun. One taste of my chicken pot pie and he was mine!” She giggles lightly, as if embarrassed, glowing like a school girl as she mixes a large batch of cookie dough. She glances out into the living room of their modest white colonial and shouts, “Isn’t that right, Pooh Bear?” The only actual response he gives is turning the volume up on the big-screen television. “Oh, men are like little boys when it comes to their toys. On weekends he’s just glued to that set. Thank God for satellite dishes, you know? His life was so empty before we got DTN. Now he’s as content as can be.”

“DTN?” I ask.

“The Dwarf Tossing Network. My stud muffin watches it day in and day out on weekends. It’s how he unwinds from a hard week working part time at the filling station. And he does work hard. Not just any man can sit in a glass booth counting change and handing out air fresheners. It’s an awesome responsibility.” Her voice softens as she leans across the counter. “Sometimes someone tries to slip him a Canadian coin. Can you just imagine? The dishonesty in some folk.” She shakes her head and clucks her tongue loudly.

As she scoops the thickening dough out onto a baking sheet in even thick gobs, I ask, “I never suspected you as a traditional housewife, Marley. I’m sure our readers haven’t, either. Fill us in on that.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be complete without that, Pandora,” she answers with a chuckle as she puts the first batch of cookies into the oven. “A woman isn’t a woman until she makes a home.” She winks as she runs a dust buster along the formica countertop while humming the theme to the old Lemon Pledge commercials. “I pity women who don’t know the joy I have. There are so many perks.”

“Such as?”

“Aprons. I get to wear some adorable aprons. Like this one!” She stands back and spreads her arms so the apron is in full view. BLESS THIS MESS it reads. “Isn’t that just a hoot?” she laughs. “My baby-cakes gave that to me on our honeymoon. He’s such a romantic, that man.”

“Was it a wonderful honeymoon?” I ask.

“Oh, yes,” Marley replies. “Every girls dream. He bowled the best game of his life that night.”

“Do you have children?”

“Fourteen.” She turns off the dust buster and removes four cans of tuna from the cupboard, opening each and dumping the contents into a nearby casserole dish. “I live for my kids. And what mother wouldn’t?” She gazes at the refrigerator, which is inundated with drawings and report cards, as tears swell in her eyes. “Children just make me smile.” Pulling six cans of Cream of Mushroom Soup from the pantry she continues, “I’m sorry, but sometimes I just get overwhelmed. When we’re out at Denny’s and my youngest, Clovis, starts gnawing on that crusty ketchup bottle, I realize just how lucky I am.”

"And how do you account for having so many children?”

She looks around to make sure no one is listening then removes a can of Spam from the cabinet. “This,” she says as she proudly displays the can before me. “Few people realize Spam is an aphrodisiac.”

“And what about your involvement with Dastard Nation? What brought that on? Surely your duties as wife and mother take all of your free time.”

She blushes. “Well, Pandora, I have a confession to make. I do have a ‘guilty pleasure’. I do love to watch my stories in the afternoon. But I always make sure the cooking, cleaning, ironing, washing, sewing, remodeling, trash removal, gardening, roofing, and baking is finished. Responsibilities are just that, you know? Responsibilities.”

“It is that, Marley.”

“Anyway,” she continues, “One day Sunset Beach wasn’t on. In it’s place was this Ricki Lake person. Well, I was hooked! All those poor people with such real problems. And the furniture! Those chairs on her show look sooooo comfortable.” She puts on her duck shaped oven mitts and opens the oven door. The aroma of melting chocolate chips permeates the air. “So I say to myself, ‘I want to sit in one of those chairs.’ ” She gives me a knowing look and says, “So I figure the only way to do that is to get on her show.” She pulls the tray of cookies from the confines of the oven and slams the door shut with a gentle push of her hip. “Since I don’t know any devil-worshiping born-again lesbian strippers I thought my being adopted would be a way in.” She rests the cookie sheet on top of the stove and her shoulders droop a little. “So far, though, no call from Ricki.”

“So, in the mean time?”

“So, in the mean time,” Marley continues, “I do what I can. I just hope Ricki doesn’t change decor before I get on the show. That would be such a let down. Know what I mean?”

I nodded. “I can only imagine your pain.”

See Marley in action at ..events/beast/.

Pandora Bocks almost graduated from the Columbia School of Broadcasting twice and holds a Genuine Certification from the Cashiers Institute of Indiana.

(This feature appeared in the Summer 1999 issue of the Bastard Quarterly.)

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