What Possessed Me

Quid pro quo

Dear Fauxhawk,

Remember when I told you I would be in your little film project only under certain conditions? Remember? Yeah, well I did what you told me to do and now I'm going to make you a star. When we walk the red carpet in Cannes, I expect you to introduce me to the paparazzi as your "muse."

Now that we're clear about that, I'd like to raise another delicate issue. You may recall something about a present - specifically, that you must give me a present for agreeing to be in your film, and for overcoming my deep and abiding hatred of acting, being in front of a camera, putting disgusting objects in my mouth, etc.

This is a preemptive strike. You mentioned something feeble about "unlimited Peppermint Patties." I'm sorry, but that's a given - we established that long ago. We go into a store, I slap down a Peppermint Patty (slapping down is a critical part of the process), and you are required to buy it for me. Any day, any time, anywhere. Because that's how we roll.

So now that we're on the same page about that, I'd like to help you out a bit with the present selection. Let's saying you're feeling flush - let's imagine that you've had an unexpected windfall, that those stock options from 2001 suddenly become worth more than a roll of toilet paper. That would be fun, right? Totally. Know what would be even more fun? Buying me any of these lovely delights by Concetta Gallo for Habitat.








I think you know what to do now.

Love! Kisses!
P.

P.S. I also like dark chocolate.
P.P.S. And marzipan.

Unsent Email: To Da on his 82nd birthday

Dear Da,

Today is your birthday. You are 82.

You care about words and the proper way to use them. You fix things yourself. You taught yourself German and translate the Vulgate Bible for fun. You like vanilla ice cream best. You know countless songs and poems by heart. You swoon over color. You never leave the house without a hat, or remove your jacket "in front of ladies." You know the difference between "lady" and "woman" and this difference means something to you. You frequently fall asleep in the dentist's chair. You are shy, but always make an effort. You wheeled me to school on your bicycle every day while I recited the 8 times table. You are incredibly strong and intrepid. You like all your chickens close to the nest. You have impeccable manners. You taught me how to throw a baseball and encouraged me to paint. You still think your wife is the most breathtaking, glorious creature to walk the earth after nearly 45 years of marriage. You think your children can do anything. Your most frequently asked question is, "What does it mean, 'to party'?" You never complain. You read more than anyone I know. You are the epitome of courtliness. You devote an inordinate amount of time to showing me how to stack the dishwasher. You are loyal to a fault. You sat with me when I cried over a breakup, even though you didn't know what to say. You have a fantastic mustache. You are curious, but careful. You tell telemarketers your name is "Frank Ice." You read to me every night, and I remember all of the books I loved as I child with your voice. You are my measuring stick for almost everything.

Please stick around for as long as you can. We need you.

Love,
Poulaki


Edouard Manet. Argenteuil. 1874. Oil on canvas. Musée des Beaux-Arts de Tournai, Tournai, Belgium. The man in this painting is the spitting image of my dad, circa 1976.

Unsent Email: The Cheese Stands Alone

Dear Person Who Found This Blog by Googling "Cheesy Smelling Wound,"

First of all, I'm really sorry about your wound. I don't know what to tell you about the smell - maybe you should quit rubbing gorgonzola into your open sore and letting it fester for weeks without bathing. But who am I to tell you what to do? What do I know? I just write this blog - a blog that doesn't even adequately address important issues like this.

Second, I'm wondering where this wound is and praying to the good Lord that it's not where I think it is, because if it's there, then I think you're in trouble and should probably stop doing that thing for a while until you get everything sorted out. Again, that's just me - a person who has never had to struggle with cheesy smelling wounds.

Finally, I'm wondering who you are. Whoever you are, thank you for visiting. It would make me really, really happy to know that in the brief time you spent here you found some real answers, or at least a temporary respite from your cheesy-smelling troubles.

Love,
P.

Dear Everyone,

Normal blogging will resume tomorrow. I am still in a coma.

xo,
P.