A Library Fashionista

A library patron said to me: “I like your style. It’s Emily Dickinson meets reference librarian.” 

Thank you, I think? 

Untitled XIV

“You don’t have a boyfriend.  Are you a lesbian?" ,the mother asks the daughter. 

The daughter will move several hundred miles away from home.

Hey Amazon Book Reviewers

Here’s a hint: Book reviews are not book reports. You don’t have to summarize every detail and give away the ending to prove you read the book. No one will be grading you for comprehension and insightful conclusions. If want to do a book report, kindly email it to your former sixth grade teacher.

Also, unless you are E.B. White or Dorothy Parker reviewing for the New Yorker and Vanity Fair (which you are not), there is no need to discuss the details of your personal life in relationship to the book. Don’t care if the book reminds you of picking daisies in Wisconsin and the smell of your granny’s marmalade. 

This is probably why book reviews should be left to the professional critics and librarians. 

No Mucking Please

My blog is not a democratic forum. 

Please go exercise your freedom of speech elsewhere. 

On Writing

I do not write for money. I do not write for bylines. I do not write to win love, earn respect or make friends. I do not write to say “screw you.” I do not write to appear clever, intelligent or witty.

My motivations are not complex. My reason is quite simple: Writing has less sexual side effects than antidepressants. 

Untitled XIII

He is the son of a math professor and an English professor at Penn State University and the grandson of a pharmacist and an artist. She is a daughter of a garbageman and a stay-at-home mom and the granddaughter of a garbageman and a Penn State University cafeteria lady.

When she meets his mother, the mother asks: “Who is your favorite author and why?” When he meets her father, the father asks: “Do you like to go huntin’?”   

He will break her heart.

Untitled XII

On a sunny Saturday morning in May, newlyweds visit the zoo. While walking hand in hand, they see a young girl, maybe two or three-years-old, jump in a puddle and squeal in delight.  He takes his wife by the hand. “Let’s have a baby. I want our baby to have your brown eyes.” 

Nine-months later, she will give birth to a blue-eyed boy.

Untitled XI

She obsesses in the mirror. Too many blemishes, hair too frizzy, upper lip too small and nose too crooked. He says nothing. The Most Beautiful Girl in the World comes over the stereo. He holds her until she stops crying.

She will marry him.

Untitled X

He teaches her to play basketball, drive a standard, and French kiss. He calls her “his girl” and sends her love letters from college in North Carolina, drenched in Polo. 

Twelve years later, he will be shot and killed by his lover’s ex-boyfriend.

Letter to the Editor

Dear Washington Post Editors:

Remember me? I sent you my newspaper story about the gas truck that leaked hundreds of gallons of gas in my small central Pennsylvanian hometown along with my exposé on the relocation of our fire station, an in-depth profile about a local woman with 800 plants in her house, and my impassioned editorial about the washer/dryers and candy machines eating our quarters in the college dorms. 

For some reason, you didn’t find my editorializing on student annoyances at a small liberal arts college and reporting on pie-eating contents at county fairs and rubber duckie races at Memorial Day picnics (for a local newspaper with a circulation of about 35,000) as appropriate experience to cover hard-hitting political news in our Nation’s Capital.

So, thanks to you, I stayed on the county fair and fireman’s festival beat in central Pennsylvania during the summer of 1995 as the world’s most notorious intern arrived in D.C. While Monica Lewinsky hung out under Bill Clinton’s desk in the Oval Office, I reported on sewer leaks, pothole controversies, and animal ordinances involving potbelly pigs as pets.

Eventually, I quit journalism all together, developed severe writer’s block, went to graduate school in Texas, found a husband, popped out four kids, and became a librarian.

Almost 15 years after being your internship reject, all is good. The husband is great, the kids are amazing (good looking and smart too), and my job excites and challenges me. I even started writing again. Got my own blog with seven semi-loyal followers. 

Thank you Washington Post for not hiring me as your summer intern in 1995.

Sincerely,

Garbageman’s Daughter

On Dogs

Your best friend is my panic attack. So, along with your political views, religious beliefs, displays of affection, bad breathe, unfilled childhood dreams, family secrets, germs, and cell phone conversations, please keep your dogs to yourself. 

On Valentine's Day

A dimly lit room, a Francine Rivers novel, a mixed tape of Journey, Air Supply and Foreigner, and 3 of bottles wine bought at my local laundromat. Wake me up when it is over. 

On Humility

A recent email that I received: “I love your blog. It is a great way to start my day.” 

My reply: About freakin’ time someone notices my writing and gives me the credit that I deserve.  I have been writing every day since I have been nine-years-old. My morning starts not with a 5-mile run but with writing exercises, which is precisely why my ass looks like a tub of Jell-O at a company picnic, which is poked repeatedly with a fork by balding, chubby guys in Sipowicz shirts.  Each time, I write something, it is like stripping in public without the benefit of applause, catcalls, dollar bills, and inappropriate gropes in interesting spots. So when I tell you, it is more about personal happiness and artistic expression, it is really is about the praise and accolades.   

Humility is for overconfident convincing liars or people with low self-esteem and limited talent.

Untitled IX

She wears dewberry perfume and reads Jacques Derrida in the morning light as he sketches her in charcoal.

She will break his heart.

The Math of Labor

 6 months of morning sickness

+

43 pound weight gain

+

3 weeks of physical therapy caused by pregnancy induced sciatica

One gorgeous baby boy on February 11, 1999

 

Bad Love

Bad hair, bad skin, bad breathe, bad feet, bad stuck in the 80s clothes, bad GRES Scores, bad duck walk, bad credit, bad music taste, bad Yankee accent, bad--oh so bad--poetry, bad cooking, bad temper, bad childhood stories, and bad joke telling, not dirty just plain bad. 

That was all before you met my parents and was obligated to work on the garbage truck, and you married me anyway. Thank you.  

Happy Anniversary, my Handsome Husband. Thank you for loving me and all my flaws for so many years. 

Sophomore Ambitions

Author’s note: Essayists are encouraged to collect stories that they have heard from others that resonate with them. Here is a story that I heard from a former co-worker. I imagined most of this dialogue.

Tenth Grade Teacher: It’s the start of a new school year. Let’s talk about our goals. 

Girl #1: Improve my grades in math.

Teacher: Good.

Boy #2: Run a 6 minute mile.

Teacher: Great. Anyone else?

Girl #3: I am going to become Ricky’s girlfriend this year.

Class bursts out in laughter. 

Ricky slumps in his seat in embarrassment.

Girl smiles.