WILMINGTON, DE-
He leaned in close. Like they do in the movies. He leaned in close and I could see his every pore, his every hair follicle. He leaned in close and I didn’t move away. He leaned in close and then, without preamble, he began to sing.
WILMINGTON, DE-
My mother says that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. She says that beauty is only skin deep.
My mother says that I’m gorgeous. She says that I’m adorable. That I’m not fat, no, she swears, it’s the truth. My mother says I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.
WILMINGTON, DE-
For several years in the early ’90s, Lifetime aired reruns of “thirtysomething.” A relic of this happy time can be found on the Entertainment Weekly website. The article dates from March of 1992 and is titled, “Hope (and Co.) Springs Eternal.”
“It was Monday night,” writer Kelli Pryor began, “and ‘Murphy Brown’ was a rerun. But I was happy anyway. We had ‘thirtysomething.’”
I was seven in 1992. Too young for such sentiments.
But by the time 1995 rolled around, I too had become a “thirtysomething” devotee. At the tender age of nine, I found myself totally engrossed in lives of Hope and Michael and their crew of good-hearted-but-hapless yuppie friends and relations. I also caught “Sisters” in syndication and consequently began a lifelong love affair with Swoosie Kurtz.
WILMINGTON, DE-
My mother believes that bisexuality is, to use her word, “greedy.” “You pick one gender and stick with it,” she once said. She also thinks that Lorena Bobbit is misunderstood and Jenny Sanford is a hero. And once, when she found me watching an episode of Friends, she told me, “Real life isn’t like that, Marni. People hopping into one another’s beds.”
IRAN-
Normally I don’t post more than once a month. Once a month is, I feel, about the most anyone can take of me. But. A dear friend of mine sent me this missive from Iran a few days ago, and it seemed important to get his words out there, albeit anonymously. So, if you’re interested in, you know, the world and stuff, take a gander.
His words, after the jump.
WILMINGTON, DE-
When Marisa Tomei won her Oscar in 1993, a sizable contingent of industry types agreed that the award was largely undeserved. My Cousin Vinny had none of the prestige of that year’s best picture nominees, Unforgiven and The Crying Game. The cast boasted no Serious Actors. Tellingly, Tomei’s was the film’s only nomination. And the marquee name? Joe-fucking-Pesci.
But, against all odds, Marisa beat out Judy Davis, Joan Plowright, Vanessa Redgrave and Miranda Richardson. That’s—count ‘em—three Brits.
Tomei’s win was such an upset that, for years, rumors persisted that she hadn’t really won. That presenter Jack Palance had called her name by accident. That the true winner was Vanessa Redgrave.
It’s not true. And I for one never believed it was.
WILMINGTON, DE-
My grandather, Marvin, has half a dozen friends that go by “Buddy.” Not a one, I’d venture to guess, has the name “Buddy” on his birth certificate.
WILMINGTON, DE-
The house on Cornwall Avenue was two blocks from the beach. It was large and white and perfect. Out front were lilac bushes. In the back, on the driveway, we would ride our bikes and drag our red wagons and wash our sandy feet with the hose. The house had three stories, several balconies and room enough for most all of us. For kids and grandkids and friends dropping by. The neighbors had a pool, but we had the carriage house. We held birthday parties there. Fourth-of-July celebrations. It smelled of wet sand and must and sweat and memory.
WILMINGTON, DE-
I.
My sister is a bright red slash of lipstick.
I wrote that when I was fourteen. We were supposed to be creating vignettes, a la Sandra Cisneros in The House on Mango Street. The line seemed just right: literary, poetic, true. I thought I’d done pretty darn good.
WILMINGTON, DE-
“Jerry: It’s been a fine year- just fine (I don’t think a Burt Lancaster impression comes across too well in handwriting) and I know you and I have had a great time. You and I were the power of the Senate and we’ll be the first to admit it. Lots of luck at Georgetown (after you convert) and we’ll meet soon in the Senate (U.S., that is.) Craig.”
My father’s senior portrait appears in the 1971 edition of the Horton Watkins “Rambler.” In it he’s wearing what appears to be a plaid suit. Also horn-rimed glasses. He’s sporting serious sideburns, too. To his left is Adrienne Grossman. To his right, Sari Grossman. Above him is Brad Ginsberg: he of the two-tone jewfro and acne scars. Elsewhere we find Francine Rosen, Cathy Rosenberg, Faryl Rosenblum, Robyn Rosenblum, Marjorie Rossen. And then there’s Ellen Applebaum and Bill Bayer. Ellen, my father assures me, was a grade-A “ass-kisser.”
WILMINGTON, DE-
At the supermarket, we weren’t allowed to sit down. Sitting, apparently, made us appear lazy. And lazy was a no-no. Hard-knock life and so on.
The manager, Scott, was our own personal Miss Hannigan. Santa Claus- what’s that? Who’s he?
The standing was fine when we were busy. When we weren’t, it was murder. We couldn’t read or text message or lean idly against the counter. We couldn’t browse the magazines or play impromptu games of hangman and tic-tac-toe. We’d stand and by G-d we’d like it.
The boredom was worst when working at the cafe. Few customers ever made it back there. Just for something to do, I’d try to lure them to my register with the promise of no lines and my winning personality. I was generally less-than-persuasive.
I took to arranging the pennies in my till in chronological order.
(more…)
WILMINGTON, DE-
“The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
Tonight, alone, I marry the bed.”
-”The Ballad of a Lonely Masturbator” by Anne Sexton
There’s a masturbator in the preschool class my friend Kat teaches. She fondles herself at nap time and sometimes at the little round table where the class eats graham crackers and sips apple juice. The child’s two-and-a-half and she’s getting it regular. She’s taking matters into her own hands and she’s getting the job done. Satisfaction? Absolutely.
I am duly impressed.
Kat has promised to ask the masturbator for some tips. I wait with bated breath.
