Guide to Love with Clara Cartwell

The time is about 4:15 AM. I’ve decided to shift from my prone position on the couch to a curled position in an adjacent loveseat in an attempt to save my circulation anymore undue trouble. After an entire night of burning eyes and cold sandwiches and writer’s cramp, I’m ready to be done. I’m at the pivot point of wanting to sleep, not feeling tired, not wanting to move, and being bored of doing the things that keep us living, both physically and philosophically. At this juncture, I am here. And the remote is just…all the way over there. I’ll watch another show.

The camera pans across a garishly decorated living room set. Every square inch is adorned with pink fringe, red shag, and hearts upon hearts upon hearts. In the middle of the set sits a long red patent leather sofa with white doilies draped across the top and a pink Sherpa-ish blanket laid across the cushions. On top of it all is a woman lying somewhat sensuously across the couch.

“Good morning to all my lovebirds! Welcome to Guide to Love. If this is your first time joining us, then I am Clara Cartwell and might I say that it’s a joy to have you here with us today.”

Perhaps it’s her surroundings, but to me she looks like one of those little chubby cherub statues you would see in a Greek temple. Or Aphrodite if she was short. It’s with somewhat of a shock that I realize I know this woman. Actually, I don’t know her—only of her. I’ve seen her on more than one occasion at the grocery store, the smaller one about ten minutes from my apartment as opposed to the larger, higher-end one that was about twenty minutes away. From one end of an aisle, I could see her at the other end, cart loaded with Kraft cheese, punnets of strawberries, cans of Wolf Brand chili, merrily scratching away at her shopping list with a red pen. I had only ever seen her face and heard her voice at a distance but now she’s in front of me, clear and resonant. She’s of that particular caste: an individual you see as you go about your day who is so intriguing, so visually striking, that you unwittingly project an entire mythos onto them. I saw her, all blonde curls and pink and red and hearts and mirth, and presumed her to be in a hurry to return home with her wares to a husband and three children who were all as pleasant and apple-cheeked as herself. I, admittedly, am not of that caste. My face is a standard model and my life is a standard life. Nevertheless, I feel oddly comforted but simultaneously disconcerted at the sight of a face that was so familiar following a night of pondering images of strangers.

“On today’s show, we’re going to be talking about making time for yourself, being your most authentic self, and as always, how you can learn to love in a world that seems less loving by the day.”

Her voice is so sweet, syrupy, and Southern that if I hadn’t previously heard it out in the wild, I would’ve called it farcical.

“But first, let’s get to know some of the eligible, enthusiastic singles in your area and beyond.”

What follows is a deluge of cuts to assorted lonely people who share quick blurbs about themselves before the footage cuts to the next person. The whole affair feels like watching cars roll down an assembly line, or I suppose the effect is meant to mimic speed dating, with you, the viewer, being the person on the other side of the table etching yes or no onto your provided slip of paper. Each person passes, some leaving more of an impression than others. A large, bearded man wearing a boiler suit and a tattered Kansas City Chiefs hat. A woman with a mathematically perfect bob holding a framed photograph of her recently deceased dog, her eyes red with impending tears. A man with coiffed hair, white teeth, and eyes like Charles Manson. A short, thin woman inexplicably holding a potted plant with black lettering on the pot that reads “Baby.” All of them rattling off where they’re from and that they want to find someone attractive, and then pausing just long enough to create an awkward silence with the viewer before moving on. Somewhere in the middle of the pack, the picture flicks to a woman with a massive plop of fried blonde hair on her head. Her skin is dry and too tanned, and she has a bent cigarette hanging from her painted red lips. She takes the cigarette between two knobby fingers and says with deathly serious conviction:

“I drive a hard bargain, but I’ll blow smoke in your face for free. My name is Brenda. I am 31 years old, and I like to dance.”

At the end of it all, the picture cuts back to Clara, who has gone from lying across the couch to sitting, legs crossed and professional, in an adjacent and excessively decorative recliner. She was now wearing a pair of pink glasses that I’m quite sure had no actual glass in them. Bright pink text at the bottom of the screen indicates that she is, with no uncertainty, Clara Cartwell: Love Expert.

“Once again, welcome to our program. Today, I want to talk to you all about something that has really been weighing on my mind as of late. The other day I was walking in the park with a friend and she said ‘Clara?’ and I said ‘Yes?’ and she said ‘Clara, how do you find time for romance during the hustle and bustle of the holidays?’ Well, I told her that you don’t find time, you make it.’ You can take the eligible bachelors and bachelorettes on our program as an example. Actually, let’s take a look back at Luanne.”

A still frame of Luanne (the woman with the potted plant) pops up on screen. As bemused as I am by this onslaught of odd characters and the pink and red revelry of it all, I can feel a strange pit growing in my stomach as I watch and listen. Some of it may just be me. Or maybe, at nearly 4:30 in the morning, I’m being hit with the realization that I’m alone. But beyond that I think it’s simply something about me and my own previously held expectations that are making me feel this odd, looming feeling. At any moment I expect to hear sharp pangs of canned laughter or be jostled by a sneering jab from the host. Not that Clara strikes me as that type but more that it’s simply a convention of the genre. I have spent many nights similar to this one glugging down bevies of cruel reality television programs poking fun at any down-on-their-luck person available at the moment. You know, like hoarders, fat women, men who were never built for academia. All of it carries this implicit statement: These people are losers. They are lesser. This is what you should wake up in the morning and try not to be. These shows are intercut with commercials that tell you how to avoid falling into the throngs of the lesser. It’s the you that’s the crux of everything. You could do lots of things. You could buy a new cable package and be in the know. You could buy a piece of exercise equipment that looks like a medieval torture device. You could lose twenty pounds for only twenty dollars. Well shit, Miss Jenny Craig, let me go get my credit card! After all, I don’t wanna be a loser! I wanna be a winner! I wanna be a millionaire! The Survivor! The next American Idol! I wanna walk out my front door when the sun comes up and be Kelly Clarkson! I wanna flip my hair like I’m in a Pantene commercial while I show the girls my new whisper quiet dishwasher… But of course you know, people like me don’t go out and do those things, at least not right now they don’t. Or if they do, I haven’t seen it. I’m not built to be a winner just by virtue of some, let’s say, inextricable features.

At this point I’m not really paying attention to the show anymore. I’m slowly, aimlessly pacing back and forth through the living room. I’m looking at Clara as she talks with painful earnestness about authenticity, but it feels like no words are coming out. I’m just watching her lips form shapes and her hands wave semi-frantically and her eyebrows rise to accentuate every other word. It’s at moments like this when I realize I haven’t changed. In spite of the years in which I’ve grown and lived my adult life in a big city, I haven’t changed at all. Whether it’s from my living room or across a cracked linoleum floor, I’m still just leering from a dark corner. I’m really not that different from Brenda. I too am chain-smoking and lonely. Yet I lack the courage to poke my head out from the dark to see if anyone’s looking back at me. So, I stay in the corner, ogling like a loser, jaw dangling as I consider the potentially deadly conundrum of whether I should make myself known. Then I go home and consider peeling my face off. But I don’t do that. Instead, I sit in my loveseat and watch bony, shrill women get into knock-down, drag-out brawls, ripping each other’s hair out, feet and fists flying in all directions over something related to “her man,” “my man”. Then I stand in front of my bathroom mirror and see if I can make my hair go in a different direction, and I stare at myself until my face doesn’t look like it’s mine, then I try on different clothes and different ways of standing. I don’t enjoy being a woman and I don’t know if I ever have.

But every way I live my life is done out of convenience. Truthfully, I could do lots of things. I could take up macramé. I could learn to fly a plane. I could learn the minute differences between coins from different years. I could stop going to sleep alone. Valentine’s Day could be as grand as an affair of state if I wanted it to be. Valentine’s Day could be every day. I could take Clara by the arm and tell her, “I like to dance.” Or I could never get within ten feet of her. I could call her right now and say, “Hi, yes, I want the man with the Charles Manson eyes, post haste, so we can get married and have little glaze-eyed children together who’ll be straight C+ students and take so much after their mother.” I could be that rattling housewife covered in all the faux gold and ugly chiffon my husband’s money could buy. I could drape myself in pink and red and hearts and mirth and I could just be so happy that I explode into guts and dust.

Clara’s voice rings out from the television. “Look at me,” she says. She says it in a demonstrative “take me as an example” way, but the suddenness of the declaration jolts me where I stand.

“I am 34 years young, and I’ve never been married. But I do nevertheless consider myself a Love Expert with a capital LE. I don’t speak as someone who’s had this many flings or that many partners or some number of husbands who’ve gone missing under mysterious circumstances. I speak as someone who has lived her entire life as a complex human being looking at other complex human beings. And I’d be willing to bet that unless you just popped out the womb yesterday, then you’ve done the same.”

I stand in the middle of the living room. I look at the television. I look at her face. I listen to her voice and her words glide over me. I want to reach through the screen and grab her face. Not in a violent way. I want to look her in the eye and ask her if she ever feels wrong. Do you ever feel like something very bad is about to happen? Or is it all hearts because that’s what you see? Are we made of the same guts and dust?

“You all know I’ve said this many times on our show, and I know I’m a broken record—I know—but I think it’s important that I’m honest with you all. I may be your resident Love Expert, but I can’t tell you just how many times I’ve seen someone as I go about my day and thought ‘Should I?’ ‘Can I?’ ‘Here?’ ‘Now?’ Telling someone they’re beautiful—or handsome—just seems so passé, old-fashioned. But you all know I tend to like old-fashioned. Before we finish, I want to leave on a message I know some of you need to hear, especially during such a busy time of year. Just say to yourself, or if you don’t want to say it to yourself, take it from me: If you want it, you can do it. If you’re ready, then you better do it. The toaster’s not gonna run less you plug it in. Otherwise you’re gonna spend the rest of your life waiting for plain old bread… So if you found yourself eyeing any of the eligible bachelors and bachelorettes featured on today’s program, call the number onscreen and I will be sure to put you two lovebirds in touch as soon as possible. Our program has a sixty-five-percent success rate, and you could help us make it sixty-six. So call today to be put in touch with the man or woman of your dreams. Or if you would like to be featured on a future episode, please send a short videotape of yourself to the address onscreen. And as always, I’m Clara Cartwell, and I hope you have the loveliest day.”

She blows a big, dramatic kiss at the camera. As it zooms out, Clara jumps up from her chair and begins cheerily chatting with crew members and camera men. The address and phone number taunt me in their bright pink font as I stare, jaw dangling. From a hundred miles away, she grabbed my face. Not in a violent way. She looked me in the eye and said, “We are.” I look around my living room. The light from the television has thrown a draping of pink across every surface. I look down at myself and see that I’m glowing that same soft, radiant pink.

Grace Borcherding is a third year PhD student at the University of Southern Mississippi specializing in 20th century American literature. She holds a bachelor's in creative writing and a master's in literature from Southeastern Louisiana University. Her creative work emphasizes human connection and finding the meaning in the mundane, and her critical interests include mobility, conformity, and community.