MAY 2010
Dear Madrone,
I love my girlfriend, Cookie, she is a doll and a half, where am I hardly one quarter of a doll myself. I gave her one dozen of the best roses money could buy to celebrate Valentine’s Day, they set me back a bundle, let me tell you. And she was gratifyingly grateful at least I thought so. Here’s what’s been bugging me. I sent her the flowers at work, which she took home with her- she stopped in the convenience store to pick up a half gallon of milk and some Kaiser rolls, and there was this sad sack guy moaning and groaning that he had no $ to spend on his girl. Well, my heart bleeds and all that, but not so much that I would give him a bouquet of twelve dozen Maid of Mount Marcy long stemmed beauties, out of my hands. Which I didn’t, by the way, but Cookie DID. Yes you heard me, she handed my bouquet to this cheapskate son of a mamaluke. She said told me she thought it was sad that someone should be so unhappy when we were so happy and I told her in that case, no one would ever smile ever again since if there is one thing you can bet on, it’s that someone, somewhere is miserable. She told me I was heartless, I told her, or I guess I’m asking you to tell her, that she is ungrateful, and hurt my feelings. Could you pass that on?
Heartbroken, Roosevelt Field.
Dear Heartbroken,
In answer to your question, no. And if you ask me a real question, like is this some kind of a hint? I would say yes. Honestly, bub, either she’s a Mother Teresa, which is to say a saint, or she’s a run around, either way you’re in trouble. Think twice before you head down that particular road, if you ask me, which you didn’t.
God bless, Donna
Dear Madrone,
Back in the day, I was no Mother Teresa see letter above It was so far back, even Mother Teresa wasn’t herself. But I remember it like it was yesterday. The problem is, so does the party with which I was not being Saint Like. The other day, I get this postcard from Galveston, with the following note= Remember the time we got buck naked in the sand and rode home in my Porsche without a stitch? Good times. A postcard, Madrone, so anyone could read it, and did- the postman, the nosey parker neighbor who picks through our mailboxes, because she says her social security check is AWOL, my twelve year old grand daughter and my smart aleck brother who has a talking parrot that now squawks BUCK NAKED, every time it sees me. What am I supposed to say?
Ashamed and fully dressed, StormyLake
Dear fully dressed,
Say LUCKY ME. ( If you did the above things, even if you didn’t.)
God bless, Donna
Dear Readers, let the above letter be a reminder to you. Guilt and regret are a waste of time. And fully dressed should count the blessings, wild times do not generally result in grandchildren.
And BTW Readers, my book, How to Make them Pay is currently 120543234576th on the list they keep of how books are selling. It’s a real kick in the slats. What can you do? I will take my own advice and not worry.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Pamela Bongiorno Monk is a full time faculty member of Penn State University, where she teaches creative writing, both fiction and non fiction. She pursues freelance writing, authoring plays and feature articles. She has broken nearly as many rules of family as she has enforced.
