5 Part Series: Real Estate Letter #3

This is a fictional five-part series containing real estate letters written by bidders and presented to the sellers of a local family's estate. Enjoy.

Hey there,

My name is Ray Taylor. I am twenty-two, single, and have never had to write a letter like this, because I have never bought a house before. 

Honestly, I’ve never bought much of anything before.

I never win anything either so whatever kind of contest this is, it makes me a little scared knowing that I have to tell you things about myself but probably won’t win the right to purchase your beautiful home, anyway.

Well, here goes.

My Nana died a few months ago and left me a lot of money, which is both sad and wonderful. It’s sad because my Nana was the biggest and best part of my life and now she's gone but it’s wonderful because, due to her generosity and what her lawyer called my "ability to benefit", I'm changing my life. In fact, I was just able to rescue a trio of old dogs from the pound. It felt great being able to hand over a couple hundred dollars and walk out with three lives saved. 

I’ve always wanted a dog of my own, ever since my Dad took Millie and dropped her off on a long country road when I was seven. My Mom wouldn’t let us kids go with him but we definitely knew what was happening. Millie did too, I could see it in her eyes when Dad's truck pulled away from our house. Those are the kinds of things a kid never forgets.

So, when Nana passed and left me everything in her will, the first thing I did (after giving her a proper burial) was go to the animal shelter and told them to give me all the dogs that were slated for the gas. The three they brought out were scared, worn out, and hang-dog depressed, and you could tell they thought they were walking their last walk but I bent down, put my arms around them and told them it was going to be all right. My goal is to make them a good home. We will prop each other up. I’ll let them know every day that they are loved and safe.

My apartment where I live now was where my Nana lived for the last sixty years so there is a lot of clearing out to be done. I recently started getting rid of junk and things that I won’t need. My Dad, who I hadn’t seen in over ten years, came and took a bedroom set, a few lamps, the record player and all the record albums, and, I suppose, anything else that he wanted. Oh, yeah, he took the refrigerator too, so I am living out of coolers, but that's ok for now. The good news is, even though he came by to claim pieces of Nana that he didn’t seem to care a whole lot about while she was alive, I still have furniture for every room of my home.

I mean your home.

Well, you know what I mean.

If you could see yourself helping a young person with literally no past worth mentioning, but, possibly, depending on a little luck and lots of hard work, a very bright future, then that young person is me, Ray Taylor. By the way, I am a female and Ray is a short for 'Fay Wray'. I know it's odd but you don't know my parents. The only thing they had in common was their love of old movies. 

Anyway, my job is within walking distance of Grant Avenue and maybe because no one else wants to work they are paying me a ton of money. My mortgage payment, which the realtor helped me figure out, would be less than Nana’s rent and I’d have more than enough for the taxes and maintenance, etc. All of this is very exciting. 

The first thing I will do is install a doggy door. The second thing I will do is call a locksmith. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, it’s just that the realtor seems to think it’s important to give you details. It's weird to share plans like these, really, because I have never had an opportunity to make something my own.

But, hey, as long as I'm dreaming, I can tell you I'd like to go to college someday. Buying this new home is the steppingstone on which everything else will depend. Thanks for maybe helping me in this way. 

Hope, Faith, Charity and I are looking forward to your reply. Yes, I changed their names, but they don't seem to mind. They're all in the backseat of my truck as I’m typing this on my laptop. I’ve never seen a dog smile, but I swear they all look really happy right now.

 

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5 Part Series: Real Estate Letter #2

This is a fictional five-part series containing real estate letters written by bidders and presented to the sellers of a local family's estate. Enjoy.

Dear Madam,

My real estate agent told me I had to write a letter to you explaining who I am and why I want your house, so here goes.

I am from Brooklyn, born and bred. My wife Rosalie, who grew up on the same block as the actor Vincent Schiavelli, recently sold our third-generation brownstone after tripping over a rat in the kitchen that outweighed our dog. So now, we live with my cousin Mickey. He and his wife Gina have been good to us but frankly, we can’t wait to get the hell out.

Congratulations to me. I survived 45 years in the sanitation industry and worked my last day two weeks ago. I started counting the days until retirement after falling off the garbage truck last year and breaking my collarbone in two places, clean through. Laying in front of St. Finbar’s Church waiting for the ambulance, I swore to God (and Deacon Hector Blanco, who put a scratchy wool blanket under my head and prayed over me) that as soon as I was out of the hospital I was (a). going to confession and (b). telling my boss I was quitting my job.  

My orthopedic doc suggested I get away while I was on worker’s comp recovering and Rosalie said let's go upstate for a bit. Both my wife’s family and mine used to vacation in Lake George when we were teenagers. Back then our fathers had to drive up route 9 because the Northway wasn’t even finished. Remember that? People had a lot more patience back then. People also had a lot less garbage, I gotta tell ya.

So, we vacationed a little and hired a realtor before returning to Brooklyn. He’s Italian, which Rosalie insisted on, and the one who sent me the listing for your house today.

I’ve become interested in what you might call ‘environmental matters’ over the years. I saw firsthand as a garbageman what too many people, too much crap, and nowhere to put it can do to a city. I’d like to ride out my glory years with free parking, a vegetable garden, and some mountains. I found a decent group to sit with at the cigar shop when we were there and my wife, a helluva performer, will probably end up spending all her time at that community theater downtown. The last thing she was part of in the Heights was the show ‘Gypsy’ and even though she’s 70, she’s still got legs like Bernadette Peters.

So, Rosalie and I ask for your consideration in this matter and hope you will give us Brooklynites a chance at your nice little house. We are driving up tomorrow to lay eyes on it and are prepared to make a full priced offer…with a little something on the side for your trouble.

A domani,

 

Angelo Canizzaro

 

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5 Part Series: Real Estate Letter #1

This is a fictional five-part series containing real estate letters written by bidders and presented to the sellers of a local family's estate. Enjoy. 

Dear Nelson Family, 

On Halloween, my brother and I walked to Grant Avenue.

We put on our Snow White and Woody Woodpecker masks and we ran from the Wrights to the Mountains, the Freeberns, the Endieveris, the Homkeys and the Shevlins.

Your house was always my favorite. Large and colonial (before I knew what a ‘classic’ city colonial was) and full of happy friendly faces. With a pretty little yard and side door off the driveway to what was probably the kitchen, just like the house I grew up in.

I was never scared of trick or treating there. Your mom gave out Milky Ways and it felt like home.

So, when the house came up for sale, I told my kids that we were going to try hard, so very hard, to get it. You see, we moved back here last year after too many years of trials and tribulations in a midwestern state where I’ve lived since college. I know Covid has hit everyone particularly hard but for me, it changed my life forever. I lost my husband and father of my two children. Looking for a fresh start, my kids and I returned to this town and we’ve been trying to secure a home ever since.

I wanted to get settled in time for the start of school, so we relocated in June, and Miles and Quintin have adapted well to the local schools even though we have been living in a small and dingy apartment where we thankfully only have two months left on our one-year lease. They know I am trying my best but sharing a room hasn’t been easy for them. One is sad, the other angry and since Covid took their Dad, they have become far savvier than kids should be in the ups and downs of life. Because they are little, they do not understand why we can’t just buy and move into whatever house pops up.

This one, though, is perfect for us. When I walked through your open house today, I pictured where I would put the Christmas tree and where Miles would store his football gear and where Quintin could work on his model airplanes and where our cat might lounge on a windowsill. I pictured where my husband’s urn of cold gray steel might be placed. I pictured blue delft china, a red strawberry cookie jar, coffee with neighbors and weekend walks to the farmer’s market.

I know it’s down to the wire and you are only accepting bids until 5:00 pm Sunday. I am desperately asking that you look at our bid as more than a number. Please see us. We are a family who you could save from potentially having to return to the Midwest. My mother, who gave the best years of her life and career to a local insurance office, lives a three minute drive away from this exact location and she is repeatedly ill and failing. I am sure you can understand my desire to be close to her as well.

Thank you for reading this. We are grateful for your time and consideration.

 

Carrie Miller

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Day 23/30: Things I ABSOLUTELY Won't Be Buying Today

Day 23/30: 

Honestly, Facebook.

What in holy hell did I click on to warrant this advertisement?

I ABSOLUTELY will NOT be buying these. 

(30 second pause.)

Then again...they could really spice up a snoozy class reunion or a Sunday afternoon at the local microbrewery.

... 🤣

If you know, you know.

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It's June 21, 1979

It's Thursday, June 21, 1979. School's finally out for the summer. I will miss my teacher but because we live in the same two-mile radius, I will probably see her, and the teacher I will have next year, here and there over summer vacation anyway. 

Today, I'm going to eat a bowl of Kaboom for breakfast; a small one because I have to fit into my terry cloth shorty shorts all summer. 

Next, I'm going to sneak some of Mom's blue eyeshadow, because it's so pretty. If I wear sunglasses she probably won't notice. 

I need to slather on a bunch of Sea & Ski because it's a really sunny upstate day. Don't want Mom to come at me with that awful pink Calamine lotion! I am usually covered in that junk all summer because of my bug bites and sunburn. It ruins my look. 

I just got the new Dr. Scholl exercise sandals; they're exactly like Mom's! Super fashionable, they go with all my outfits and I really think I will have the nicest calves on the block by the end of August with these babies. I just have to figure out how to run and ride my bike when I am wearing them. 

Walking out the door, these sandals are harder to walk in than I expected. I also tripped and stepped funny and now my heel hurts like crazy.  

Clip clop. I'm on my way over to my friend's. I will play a competitive round of Rock 'em Sock 'em robots with her brother while she feathers and sprays her hair. It takes her a while but that's ok. I kind of like her brother.

Now her little sister needs us to set up the clown sprinkler. I will have to do it because my friend's hair cannot possibly get wet. As I squat to attach it to the garden hose, I take a quick swig and remember how we ran through that sprinkler all summer last year. I guess we are too grown up for that now. 

I like how it's made by Wham-O. They make a ton of groovy things. I can't stop looking at my cousin's Magic Window, which I am definitely putting on my birthday list this year, and my favorite Wham-O item is my red Superball, which I'll bounce and chase for an hour on our front sidewalk tonight while my parents sit on the porch talking to the neighbors walking by. 

I'll probably put on my sneakers first. 

Can't imagine chasing that ball in these shoes. 

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Day 22/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

I took a little break from my* Things I Won't Be Buying Today exercise. I'd like you to think it was because I took a break from writing, but I did not. I just started buying everything in sight and couldn't think of a thing to write about not buying. 

But now, I am trying to learn, once again, to practice restraint and have something to write about not buying! 

It's this. 

I'm not buying this.

Just like pre-buzzcut Britney, Oops, Amazon did it again.

I was browsing the big A for a lifting and firming cream that might help the face which I received as a genetic gift from my mother's side of the family. 

Back in the old days, my Nana would've referred to fifty year old loose skin as "jowls". Now, in 2023 when we call serious economic hardship "stagflation" and pedophiles "minor attracted persons", I will also singsongingly refer to the unpleasantness that is my falling face as my "bonus chin". 

Yay! Bonus chin!

Anyway, as a direct result of my nighttime browsing, chin down on my chest (hmm), neck bent at an angle typically reserved for navel gazing (hmm hmm), bathing in the blue light of the best and worst invention ever (hmm hmm hmm), the big A figured out just what I needed to fix that jacked wattle and started showing me a variety of electric face zappers. 

Ack! No thanks. I'd rather wear turtlenecks in July than willingly play shock the monkey with my own epidermis. But when I didn't take that click bait, it began offering me other things. 

Terry cloth face lift things. 

"Chin Bandage."

What?

Now...I'm trying to understand. 

First, the girl in the advertisement is about eighteen. Hey, don't argue with me. I've seen eighteen year olds online this past week and this girl actually looks overdressed compared to them. 

"But she's only wearing a skimpy towel and some sort of head squishing device", you say.

 "Exactly", I say.

Second, I've only seen a product like this one other time, and that was in the movie "Mommie Dearest". Faye Dunaway, as Joan Crawford, cleansed her face by undergoing a fairly lengthy and kind of psycho skin care routine involving steam and ice cubes (I have to rewatch this to be sure I am getting it right) and some sort of milky cream followed by a tight chin-sculpting head contraption. 

Then she proceeded to beat her kid senseless with Bab-O and a hanger, so I'm not sure this chin strap is a great idea. 

Would this purchase automatically send an alert to DSS? Maybe it should.

And finally, the pink factor. 

It's this sickeningly sweet candied pink color. 

Carnation pink. 

Beach pedicure pink. 

Barbie pink. 

Can you picture the product development team sitting around their huge rectangular black granite table in China? 

"How do we sell a torture device that makes a lady look like a dead ringer for Jacob Marley's ghost while she's wearing it? Also, there will be no eating, drinking or speaking when it's positioned correctly, but, hell, it might temporarily flatten out the fatty underchins of those ridiculous Americans?"

"Hmm."

Small guy in the back says, "Make it...PINK?"

And there you have it. 

Ka-ching!

Add to cart. 

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*inspired by John Magee - check out his blog on Blogger, too. 

Cream Cheese and Olives

In elementary school, we ate lunch in the beige school cafeteria grouped by grade. 

First, second, and third graders ate together during one lunch period, and then fourth, fifth, and sixth graders ate together the following period. In hindsight, I see that keeping the potty-mouthed hormonal sixth graders away from the innocent-as-baby lambs first graders was a magnificent strategy. 

You could smell the cafeteria before you saw it; that murky, steaming hot water the galvanized tins of food sat in in order to stay warm, the perfumed sweat of the lunch ladies and the tang of the lemony floor wax, applied in thin layers nightly so that when we spilled, it beaded up and stayed in one place until Mr. Ovitt was dispatched to come mop it up. 

Responsible sixth graders were chosen to sit at the tops of the long cafeteria tables and maintain order. During my fourth-grade year, the sixth grader who sat in this regal position at my table made everyone in her orbit exceedingly uncomfortable, but this was during a time when children just took their lumps and didn't squeal on one another. This was my childhood; and we all have stories like what I'm about to tell you. 

I was (and still am) a talker and I used to dawdle to lunch, yapping nonstop with my friends, my teachers, and the lunch aide, Mrs. Herlihy, who stood paramount over us with her clipboard, strolling around the cafeteria keeping watch. By the time I made it to my table each day, the only seat available was next to the top banana sixth grader, to whom I will refer as "The Wasp". I would, for the sake of this piece, call her "The Queen Bee", due to her top of the table stature, but that would be an insult to the fluffy, gentle pollinators. 

Wasps will sting unprovoked and so did she. When I opened my carton of milk, unwrapped my sandwich or brought out my fat little blue and white fruit thermos each day, she'd peer over, uninvited, with her probiscis and ask me with hardened, dark eyes if my mother hated me. Swallowing anxiously, I'd eat in uncharacteristic silence for a chatty kid, and just stare at the pictures on my Krofft Superstar lunchbox. When she got no reaction from me, she'd move down the line, prodding and criticizing other lunches, haircuts, sneakers, intellectual capacities; whatever she deemed as fair game for her nasty brand of perpetual insults. 

One day I brought my favorite sandwich, cream cheese and olives on rye bread. At home, my mom and I used to eat it together on the weekends, but I rarely got it in my lunchbox, for it took some extra preparation and Mom usually packed extra grainy "Branola" bread in my lunches during the week. 

Unpeeling the waxed paper, I saw that it was a half sandwich. I expected this, as Mom had just told me I needed to lose some weight. I remember distinctly that I weighed 54 pounds and for a fourth grader, that was a little too much. I hadn't had a growth spurt where height was concerned and my older cousin Christopher's hand me down Toughskins were too tight in the thighs and rear, so, half sandwich it was. 

Well, The Wasp noticed immediately that I had half of my usual sandwich and started chiding me. 

"What's with the half sandwich? Are you poor?"

"Are your parents starving you?"

"What is that anyway? Cream cheese and what? Ick, so gross!"

And she proceeded to crow to everyone at our table to take a gander at the disgusting food I was eating. I remember leaning into my lunch, shielding it from the prying eyes of my tablemates. Then, I sat up straight and said directly to The Wasp, 

"I know. Gross. I don't really like it, but I'll eat it."

And that was my first betrayal of my family, my heritage, my home life, for the sake of being a cool kid. A kid who conformed to societal expectations about lunch. A kid who didn't eat cream cheese and olives. 

The Wasp couldn't have been happier to see me squirm and bend to her way of seeing the world. From that day forward, she spent less time picking on me and more time focusing on other weak and quiet children in her midst. She verbally speared them, mocking their lunches brought from home. I remember insincerely chuckling quietly alongside her, knowing I was wrong, watching her ebony eyes narrow and her skinny fingers point at someone's gelatinous ham sandwich or off-brand store-bought dessert. What I felt most was an overwhelming sense of relief that it wasn't me in her crosshairs, underscored by a filthy soul-crushing grime of having sold out for this safety.

Contemplating this scene 45 years later, I cannot recall what The Wasp ever ate. I don't remember her having a lunchbox (and I remember my classmates' Snoopy, Bionic Woman and Herbie the Love Bug lunch boxes with absolute clarity) so it's possible that she bought a hot lunch via the lunch line every day. Her parents, who owned a newer built, beautiful split-level home, certainly could have afforded to buy school-prepared lunches every day and her mom didn't appear to be the Betty Crocker homemaker type, so maybe that was why The Wasp felt the need to be so nosy about what others were bringing in, and why she felt so entitled to heckle us. Maybe her Mom didn't have time, or want to make time, to thoughtfully pack a Superstar Barbie lunch box with a salami sandwich and a small pink note wishing her good luck on field day. 

The Wasp is still around and she is still deriding others. I see her posts on Facebook because she is friends with a few of my friends and she still points out what everyone is doing that falls below her prickly standards. She is still publicly snickering at people's choices. She is still sticking her stinger where it doesn't belong.

I steer clear, though I would love to someday drive by her house, cream cheese and olive sandwich held aloft through my sunroof and tell her to fuck off. 

My mother loved me. 

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25 Things My Father Taught Me

For Dad, Father's Day 2023

Things My Father Taught Me:

1. You can sit behind home plate for less money on getaway days.

2. Cheap bourbon will make you sick. So will good bourbon if you're stupid, but that is no excuse to drink cheap bourbon.

3. There are only three reasons to get up before dawn: the balloon festival, hockey practice, and to go to the bathroom; otherwise, sleep in.

4. Always help the underdog, the downtrodden, and the desperate, but don't hurt your arm patting yourself on the back about it. 

5. Swapping lies with friends over an outdoor fire is just about the best time you'll ever have. The bigger the fish, the better the story.

6. Respect your elders. Call them, visit them, bring them dessert.

7. Old recipes are the best. If it tasted good on Thanksgiving in 1960, for the love of God, don't mess with it. 

8. Buy an American car...during the last week of the month...and walk in knowing exactly the number for a 500-dollar deal in favor of the dealer. If the salesperson flinches, walk out.

9. Own a woodstove, a Bible, a cat, a dog, and a rifle. 

10. Speak highly of people or don't speak of them at all. 

11. Quit trying to win arguments with idiots. It's better to be happy than to be right. 

12. If there are checks in the checkbook, you've got spending money today.

13. Life is short. Pick out the best steak. Invest in the season tickets. Go see the concert.  

14. A bouquet of flowers is usually better than a practical present. 

15. Get to know your neighbors. Invite them to your parties and go celebrate in their backyards; that way no one calls the cops when things run late and get loud.

16. Woolrich lasts a lifetime.

17. Be aware of your town's noise ordinance and have a meter. You'll save more in fines than you'll pay for the gadget.

18. Michael McDonald, Lionel Richie, Smokey Robinson and Neil Diamond are better than the singers who arrived on the scene after them. 

19. The drive to New York City will soothe emotional anguish with the right company and the fun you'll have there will be the cherry on the sundae.

20. Your family is more important than your job, your financial standing, and your ego. 

21. Go to all the weddings and all the funerals. People will remember that you showed up. 

22. Good hair products can change your whole appearance. 

23. Fight your own battles. 

24. Never be too busy, too intimidated or too ignorant to talk to anyone about anything at any time. Read everything you can get your hands on, listen intently to all that goes on around you and absorb everything. Being able to converse freely will be your greatest gift to others. 

25. Run toward the ball, use two hands and pay attention. There will be a test on all of this someday. 

Thanks for over 50 years of lessons.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

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The Only Living Boy in New York

Half of the time we're gone, 

                            but we don't know where. 

                                            We don't know where. 

In my car, this song is life. 

I hear pointed distress, thick and devout. 

Someone is leaving another less fortunate someone behind.

Deep breaths. Deeper breaths. The deepest breath I can take. 

I drive and I dive.

Simon is Poseidon. I surf his sonorous wave; foamy indigo, quenching and swelling; suddenly ungovernable as the echo of Garfunkel's hypnotic and hoary backing vocal swamps me in its icy undertow and I am dragged beneath.

My throat closes. I pull over. I taste ocean salt on my face. 

Garfunkel's mewl is no match for my own as I increase the volume to a level which requires absolute pacifistic surrender.

I caterwaul in a voice I barely recognize and then let my head hang. 

I drown. 

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All The News That's Fit to Print

Our local newspaper has been shot through its journalistic heart.

From what I hear, it will only be available online, behind a paywall, from this day forward. 

I take no pleasure in wondering if it will be done and gone, out of circulation within a year. 

And you can't even joke about sticking a fork in it...because it's digital. 

Once a thriving publication dating back to 1904, it has been declining in readership for too many depressing years to count. Even I, a multi-decade subscriber, let mine lapse a few years ago when I had been reduced to reading it with a red sharpie in hand, circling spelling mistakes and grammar gaffes like a demented English teacher, scrawling on errors in proper names, historical inaccuracies, and some mighty dreadful syntax. 

I do not recommend starting your morning with that level of frustration. It's horrible. 

Part of the problem is that many of the paper's editorial staff work miles away in another city. I don't know if it is a matter of not having time for us or simply not knowing if they've underreported our local news. Quotes from local residents seemed to have disappeared. Most articles rich in content were inserted from the AP. Photos supporting local news stories looked like they'd been resurrected from those on file. A local hometown photographer from the 1970s who earned a residual every time they used one of his antique pics was happy to be of service, but it might have been nice to see a picture highlighting one of the local annual festivals while actually showing locals who were still among the living.  

Oh, and the obituary page (relegated to the Sports section, a very odd decision) ran almost as many corrections as obituaries near the end of the physical paper's tenure. I feel those errors wouldn't have happened if some hometown folks who'd known the dearly departed had glanced at their tributes for a few minutes during pre-publishing.

On more of an optimistic note, I also predict that someone else will take up the mantle and produce a decent FUBU* physical newspaper in the future. Just like the cool cats are rediscovering small towns, bookstores, record albums, Levis made without spandex, and cane sugar, I bet they will be hungry for some good old fashioned hands-on news at some point. 

Flap it open loudly in the sunlight on a Sunday morning; relaxing on the porch, coffee in hand. Gather the kids and tell them what's going on around town. 

Doesn't that make for a nice story? 

*For us, by us.

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Rich Kids

I am in love with your bathroom. 

(Giggle) Yes, I know I'm weird, but I've never had a friend who had her own bathroom, and yours has two lipstick red sinks. That Crayola Crayon shower curtain is about the neatest thing I've ever seen. Makes me want to jump in and take a shower right now.  No, no...psych! Don't get your shampoo out. Psych...you know, it means like, fooling! Wait, you have Nexxus shampoo? 

Oh shit! You spilled the Covergirl! Ugh! Mop it up, quick! Wait, not with the white washcloth. You're totally going to get killed over this. Oh, the cleaning lady will get it out? Well, ok. I hadn't considered the cleaning lady. What's her name? Well, maybe you should ask her sometime. She is cleaning up your messy bathroom counter, and probably your grody toilet, too, right? I hope she has some bleach, this makeup is the long wearing kind and it's staining big time. Naw, her English doesn't have to be perfect for you to at least know her name. Well, I'd be cranky too if I had to pick up all these Izod shirts and designer jeans and fold them for you. I mean I can, like, barely walk in here. 

Wait, I don't know if we should be in your parents' room. I don't really go in my parents' room at home. Yeah, her dressing table is so pretty. Chanel No. 5? Totally. I've seen it on TV but never smelled it up close. Oh. My. Gawd. That is something I'd definitely wear to a dance or somewhere fancy...like a date with Richie Rich, ha ha!  Hey, stop spraying it on me! It doesn't go with my Asia Heat of the Moment t-shirt. Oh, you like it? Aww, thanks, I do too. You've never had a concert t-shirt of your own? Well, we can fix that. Let's go to Fashions of India at the mall on Saturday and look through the racks for a band you might like. Marillion? Umm, maybe not that one. Don't you like Duran Duran or Van Halen?

Sure, I'd love to go downstairs and have a snack and watch Valley Girl on your Videodisc player. What's a Videodisc player? 

Hi Rich Kid's Mom. Yes, you're correct. I do smell like I'm bathing in Chanel No. 5. Rich Kid said it was ok to spray it. Well, yes, I do love it. Oh, no, no, no...that's all right. I don't need to bring a bottle home with me. What do you mean you have a year's worth in the back of the linen closet? Oh, well that is super nice of Rich Kid's Dad. Yes, perfume is a thoughtful gift, perfect for every occasion.

Caviar on water crackers? You're kidding, right? Usually we eat Cheez Balls or Snack Pack vanilla pudding at my house when we want a little something. No, I can't say I've ever been to a dinner party but I would love to. I'm, like, way too sophisticated for Cheez Balls, especially since I smell so radical. No, radical is good. Absolutely, I'll try your caviar and let you know what I think. 

Valley Girl, mm hmmmmmm. There's no such thing as seeing it too many times. I shouldn't be talking with my mouth full, but this snack is like, totally bitchen. No, Rich Kid's Mom, I'm not swearing. You have to listen to the girls in this movie to get what I'm saying. 

Julie's red Vuarnet sunglasses? Yes, they are major. I'm saving up for a pair. Maybe by the end of the summer I'll have enough money from babysitting. Oh, you have a couple pairs from your trip to France last year? What colors? Mmm, black and brown are nice. And having a leather case for them is totally necessary, I agree. You already scratched the lenses of the black ones? No doy, leaving them face down on your dresser will do that. You think the cleaning lady made them worse? That's heinous. Why would she do that?

Where are you going, Rich Kid's Mom? Rossignol gets shampooed somewhere other than your bathtub? Oh I hadn't thought about his toenails scratching the glaze. Does my tub at home have glaze? I've honestly never noticed. Well, yes, a standing appointment does seem kind of cool. Sure, after I get done eating this delicious caviar cracker, I'd love to ride along so you don't have to lift him into the Mercedes by yourself. Come on, Rich Kid, pause the movie. 

Oh my God, this is a beautiful car, even if it smells like wet Golden Retriever. Are these leather seats? Yes, I love that Rich Kid's Dad bought it so you'd have something to drive Rossignol around in. Now, that is both gnarly and practical. Of course I said gnarly. Gnarly is a good thing. Rich Kid usually gets picked up out front of school in a Jaguar XJ12. I know; I know a lot about cars for a kid my age. My Dad sells them and I am kind of obsessed. An Aston Martin? Well, yes, I think they're the bomb. The bomb. Yes, that is a good thing. Where is it? Oh, I see. The Lake House sounds like a legit place for an Aston Martin. Sure, that would be fun; Saturday sounds awesome but first can we go shopping for a concert t-shirt for Rich Kid? 

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Goodbye #2

Please don't break up with me.

I won't know how to breathe, or what door to wait at to get into school, or how to walk past your locker.

Who will cover your books for you? You were never good at that brown paper bag thing. 

I have a real silver spoon out of your kitchen drawer from when you brought me a wrapped piece of your grandma's special dessert last Christmas. I also have your Walkman, your gray Nike sweatshirt, and your dyed electric blue rabbit's foot with your Stepdad's shed door key on it; and you still have my bike which, you might have forgotten, is in that shed for safekeeping. Bringing it back here will surely mean it'll be stolen in a week, just like my last two ten speeds. 

Do you really want that on your conscience?

Maybe your new girlfriend won't mind if I decide to stop by and grab my bike before school and then bring it back to the shed after school and maybe she won't even notice if I pick it up every weekend, now, too. 

You're right, I haven't ridden it all that much lately but my guts tell me that as of tomorrow, I'm going to be riding that bike 

All

The

Time. 

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Goodbye #1

Please don't go.

I promise I will stop flinching when you comb my hair. 

I will walk the dog.

I will stop snickering when you come down the stairs with those greenish clay face masks on that make your skin so smooth. 

I will put the wine bottles in the bottom of the trash.

I will offer the older pretzels to my friends instead of the unopened Oreos. 

I will finish my homework on Saturday morning instead of Sunday night. 

I will answer the phone with our family's last name and the word residence, so that we sound important. 

I will move the laundry from the washer to the dryer when you are tired. 

I will rinse my bathing suit of its chlorine and hang it in the bathroom. 

I will stop complaining when I have to dress up for Thanksgiving. 

I will stop shoving all five pieces of gum from the pack into my mouth.

When we shop for my winter coat, we'll buy the one you like on me instead of the one I like on me. 

Please don't leave. 

I promise I won't leave my sneakers for people to trip over in the middle of the living room. 

I won't bring home any grades lower than A minuses.

I won't take your perfume to school and spray all the girls after gym class. 

I won't bring home anymore goldfish in baggies from school fairs. 

I won't stay over at my friends' houses every weekend when you need help cooking dinner and vacuuming.

I won't roller skate on the lawn.

I won't crawl out my window onto the roof. 

I won't spend my birthday money on smelly stickers for my sticker book.

I won't toss all our wheat-flavored crackers out to the birds.

I won't draw mustaches and ink out the front teeth of the actresses on the covers of your magazines. 

I won't argue about bedtime on a school night. 

Your secrets are safe with me. Who would I tell? 

Promise you'll wait.

...

Goodbye. 

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A Stone's Throw

I'm not sure

I ever rightly thanked you

for the times you woke me up and made me feel like the prettiest girl in the movie

worthy of attention via streetlight 

on a weeknight

And even though my mom said it was too late

and my dad said both my window and I were too fragile

I adored your pebble tossing shenanigans. 

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A simple kind of hair.

I love looking at old photos before, say, 1983, when hair products consisted of a few gender specific items sold at the drugstore. Everyone's hair was different; whatever each of us was lucky (or unlucky) enough to have been born with. 

Our 1970s supermarket had Suave and Head and Shoulders, sure, but there was no mousse and Dippity Do hair gel was used, at least in my age group, only by ballerinas at recital time and the local "Coquines", synchronized swim team which performed underwater dance. 

When I began reading beauty magazines like Seventeen, something new called hair mousse arrived on the scene. The very first ad I saw for mousse was by L'Oreal. Their brand-new product called "Free Style" was touted as being very 'French' and only for the most discerning of ladies.

Immediately intrigued, I thought, well, I study French in school and although I'm not what you'd call discerning, I definitely have a ton of hair, and it tends toward extreme frizz. I had been brushing it incessantly with my cream and salmon colored Denman brush which was supposed to calm it down but produced exactly the opposite effect. As soon as I could, I rushed out to CVS to purchase L'Oreal mousse with my babysitting money.

Now, I can distinctly remember it was a little over 2 dollars a can. In today's babysitting dollars I'm guessing that would be equal to 20 or 30 bucks, but even if it had cost more, I would have figured out a way to buy it. To get a backup can, I even asked for it for my birthday. It became the white whale of beauty products for a young girl like me. 

I bought one and brought it home in my white CVS paper bag along with some Clearasil and one of my favorite Paper Mate erasable pens. Giddy with anticipation, I marched straight to the bathroom, washed my hair by leaning over our claw foot tub and moussed it according to the directions while my chest recovered from being smushed upside down for 10 minutes against the cast iron. After blow drying it with our white plastic Conair dryer, it appeared nice and shiny but was still puffier than I liked, so I got the swell idea of putting my Dad's fedora hat on for about an hour after I dried it, flattening it out. Having the mousse in it smoothed the cuticle under the hat and that made me super happy. The mousse-then-hat stunt became a routine which caused my late arrival for a lot of events that year, and when Dad wanted to wear the hat, there was a tug of war as to who really needed the chapeau-come-salon secret that night.

Walking the aisle of hair products in our grocery store today can be overwhelming and there is a large section of TJ Maxx simply for hair serums and sprays which far surpass the average mousse both in claims, and in price. And actually, mousse is sort of difficult to come by nowadays. I heard the term "product graveyard" yesterday, cannily descriptive of the undersink in many people's bathrooms; full of tress tamers we've bought and never use.

Less product agrees with my hair as time goes on, something I discovered mostly because I grew tired of dithering around with it for the last 40 years and also because my hair is increasingly porous and anything I put in it either turns it to straw or juices it up into a gluey mess. And wouldn't you know, oddly, I have grown the softest baby hair again. It's gone back to the hair I had in elementary school. I pull a sweater over my head and hundreds of filaments stick to my face in staticy unison. It flies around like scattered leaves when the wind blows; most times, straight into my lip balm. It creates Naval quality sailor knots in my sleep which require some patient and tricky undoing in the morning so that I don't have to hack them out with scissors. It smells like my leave in conditioner and serum, which is, unless I'm going somewhere super humid or super fancy, are the only things I put in it.

Simplifying my hair products has brought me a sort of back to the good old days satisfaction. Using less feels right.

On deck, body products. 

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Crazy

Don't call me crazy.

I've studied crazy as it gimped through Grand Central Station wearing one broken heel and one flip flop in the dead of winter, pulling all its belongings behind it on a sheet of indeterminable color, gesturing wildly and spinning a tale only it could comprehend. 

Don't call me crazy.

I've looked crazy in the eye on a Paris subway platform as it held itself on full display, slinging masturbatory glee while screaming about what it wanted, needed, me to do to it, raining smut and spittle down on the tracks in a Romance language better served for poets and docents. 

Don't call me crazy.

I've sat with crazy on park benches, nodding at tales about how the world is ending, how Satan walks among us, how the pirate life is the noblest profession and how it was the most heralded rap superstar before Tupac and Biggie conspired to steal all its art. 

I offer up petty cash to crazy. I extend crazy some compassion. I feed crazy when it needs dinner. I sacrifice my time for crazy because crazy was a child once, too. But some days I give crazy a wide fucking berth depending on how many hairs stand up on the back of my neck when crazy runs me down, recalling my face and my typical cheerful consolation. 

I'm not naive. Crazy can be horrifying. 

I've helplessly watched crazy pummel someone's face at a level of depravity not seen up close before or since.

I've stayed laser focused on crazy as it slunk around a campus dive bar gauging the reachability of the drinks ordered by girls with the thinnest wrists and wobbliest limbs.

I've primitively danced with crazy at an outdoor festival before it changed into a hobbit, tore into my unsuspecting shoulder with its teeth, and shambled off into the crowd, shrieking with glee.

I've been in touch with and around crazy all my life. 

It is not me. 

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A Mortal Tonic

Life is a drink.

It is effervescent spring water, full of anticipated deliciousness.

The drink sits until I am ready for it. 

Raising it to my lips I see it has taken on a milky cast, the murky creep of a fog; the chalky eye of a shark. Pebbled remnants of medicine, dropped in my plain water, struggle to swirl about but are weighted in place by the sludge of too much. 

Too much remedy and not enough river. 

This curative reeks of salt and of the storage cabinet where it was kept too long, decades past expiry.

Unused and stagnant in this state, it has become deadly. 

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