Tag Archives: letter

Conversations, ‘Tween Myselves

21 Feb


Conversations that normal people never get to have (in open letter form.) From this role, to my last:


Dear Martha,

Since last we parted, I retired from teaching and loving people who don’t want it. Haven’t cried once in two-and-a-half weeks. (A coincidence? I think not.) I should be back to normal snot-regulation soon.

It was by no means a “picnic” to say goodbye to you, but I fear your influence was a heavy burden that being held too much longer, would have seen me 40 pounds heavier, and a full-blown alcoholic by the end.

…The morning kind.

…Who like to pretend it’s cranberry juice in their tumbler next to the Wheaties, and not a cheap $5  bottle of Cabernet.

…But I digress.

A lot has changed for me lately.

…First of all, I’ve jumped ahead a bit, (from ’39 to ’42), and yet have aged 14 years.


Am stuck in Holland, for the duration of the War. (And I thought being a lesbian in a small town was bad.)

…My Dutch is terrible, and don’t even get me started on my English. And now that I finally have a decent wardrobe to show off (complete with fur coat)…there’s nowhere to go and no one to see it. In fact, in a couple of years, my husband’s just gonna sell it for a pack of smokes on the black market, which in two days time, will be totally gone. And they won’t even be Turkish. Which, I mean…if not…why even bother?

The rationing is killing me.

…Also, I’ve converted. (It was a super short ceremony.) Am Jewish now…and married. (It was a super long ceremony.) Also, I’m told I have a son…but can’t be bothered with him much right now, on account of just moving into an attic, on the forth floor. I’ve no idea how long we’ll be here (maybe a month or so??)…but am damn glad I brought my bedpan.

The food is terrible.

The company, isn’t much better.

…Except for the men. But only when they flatter me. Otherwise, I have no use for them either.

Meanwhile, I’ve lost 5 pounds in the past 8 days, doing this new diet. I made it up, and am thinkin’ of maybe marketing it later…when the War is all over. It’s called, “You live on rotten potatoes and black beans, fatty, better drop a hot ton so you can sorta fucking look like it,” plan.

…The kid with the diary says I should maybe think of a shorter name. But what the hell does she know about anything?

…Whatever I call it, it’ll have this whole revolutionary kick-starter plan.

First off: overindulge in everything to the point that you are guaranteed to be puking all the following day from a hangover. Build this solely on the fact that one cannot embrace the idea of the Holocaust without being reduced to a puddle of sick, unless there is a sizable amount of liquor to help. You may later find irony in this as you grasp the toilet bowl…but you will also wake up finding three pounds missing from your general tonnage.

…And, you’re welcome.

Next: Give it all up, and embrace the life of food and drink-abstinence, for the entire duration, (‘cept for one day a week), while praying heavily for liberation.

…And then, complain about it.

…With wide gesticulations.

…And shouting bouts with your spouse.

Mazel Tov. You are now officially Attic-Jewish.

(This offer good from now, through April 27th.)

With fond self-affection,

~ Mrs. Van Daan



Just Checking In

24 Aug


I’m house sitting right now for one of my favorite people of all time. 

…We immediately clicked, and I think it’s cuz she reminds me of my family, in that she’s really loud, likes to carry conversations on into the bathroom with the door wide open while she pees rather than break her stride, laughs inappropriately  (in loudness and at specific times), is a giant art-nerd, swills booze like a sailor and views everything in the world from a slightly bent perspective of hilarious amazement. 

…God, I’m really homesick right now…


…She lives in a tiny apartment with her Husband (K.L — Army-strong and kickass), Great-Dane-Greyhound-Mastive-mix dog (Bruce — A 150 lb substitute for the horse she never got as a kid) and Cat (Kaliopi — which I can’t spell, so just call “the cat.”)

They are away right now getting married. For the second time.  And they didn’t even have the decency to get divorced in between, like Elizabeth Taylor has taught us. 

…The first time was at a Justice of the Peace, which The Moms immediately vetoed as not being legal…on account there was no white dress involved.  Then “M” had to tell them that she had already lost her virginity that one time…several years ago…and not even to her husband…and everyone went all up in arms about it (cuz they’re from the midwest), and insisted that they fly their happy asses back home and have a “proper wedding” if only so “M” wouldn’t look like a giant whore to the in-laws.

…So they did.

Bruce was boarded away at some stable where they keep all the other local horses, and I was nominated to watch the plants, house and cat.  Occasionally I check in with “M” and “K.L”, just because I feel its the right thing to do.  Also, if I didn’t they might start to worry that I burnt the place down on accident or something.  But I don’t know why…since I almost never start accidental fires in other people’s houses.  I’m extra careful about that. Now.

Following is the last note I sent them, yesterday afternoon:

“Dear The Mr. & Mrs.,

Just writing to assure that the place you live is still there, and your cat too. Incidentally, she asked me to relay you a quick message…hold on, I wrote it on a piece of paper here so I’d get it just right. Here it is.

Quote: “Whatthefuckyouguys?!?!”

…She also wanted to know when you might be coming home, so I told her. She suggested maybe you forget to pick up Bruce altogether and it’d go back to being the “good ol’ days again.” I told her this was highly unlikely…but then we discussed the new house and all, and she wondered if it had really high counters and good window perches. I told her I hadn’t seen it yet, so she’d have to wait until you all got back to find out. And then she gave me this look like, “Holy shit, you really are just totally useless aren’t you?” I felt really bad about that, so opened the big can of wet food and hoped she wouldn’t gorge too much and puke on the carpet.

…Also I cleaned out her poop. And she watched me to make sure I did it right. Like The Queen of Egypt breaking in a new unic. It is so much work being her, you guys…you just don’t know.

In other news: this last heat wave was exceedingly abusive to the flower-plants. I boozed ’em up real good every other day…but then I skipped one in the middle, so it was three days this one time, and when I got there they were all hanging from the baskets like melting death. So I panicked and came back-to-back days once, just to watch them. In Hospital-talk, they are now out of ICU, but are still being kept for observation.

Also, I think a bunch of people are trying to bribe you.

…Or maybe you have a Sugar Daddy who occasionally mails you gifts? Or maybe he’s “K.L’s” Sugar Daddy…I’m not judging you or anything, alternative lifestyles are awesome and everyone should have them.

Anyway…package notices keep popping up. Like 50 of them. I kept writing on the stickers to forward them to the office, and today out of curiosity, decided it was prob’ly time to go check and see if that was actually happening. But did you know, I’m not “you?” Apparently that is the only person aloud to ask about packages.

…I said I didn’t need to “see” them, just assure that they in fact “existed.” They said if you drew up papers at a local Law firm, put me in your wills, selected me as legal guardian of your unborn children in case of your untimely demise…and I got my immunization shots done…they’d tell me. But not until then. So, sorry. I guess you’re on your own. I tried. Except for the immunization part. I don’t do needles.


Your Official House Sitter and Cat Unic.”


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