I tug on a black sweater and a black-and-white tartan skirt. I smooth black leggings from my toes to my hips and slide into the only pair of heels I own.
And there’s Christopher’s voice: Damn. You look hot.
Oh, I know. I know he can’t see me, that he’s in the bathroom getting prepared for my funeral, yeah, yeah, yeah. That doesn’t stop me from hearing his voice the way I heard it for years. And of course now I idealize him. You know how the living romanticize the dead? The dead return the favor.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Yes, I was nervous!
I just interviewed Donald Trump Jr. about 40 Wall Street. He was a funny guy and down to earth. Some mornings are cool!
Monday, February 15, 2010
Today's writing
When I was six I learned to tie a tie.
I was taught from example. My father knelt before me with red-rimmed eyes and lifted the collar of my white shirt. He smelled like something woodsy and somber, something that had spent years crying, decades maybe.
“Chrissie,” he said, “you’re learning early.”
With steady hands he looped the small blue swath around my neck. My father’s hands were too dignified to betray emotion, no matter the occasion, regardless of circumstance. His was the touch not of any father, but of my own: solid but not overbearing, warm without excess heat. It was the touch you feel in your sleep when you need comfort. It is the feeling you remember when the floor goes missing and the roof tumbles down.
I was taught from example. My father knelt before me with red-rimmed eyes and lifted the collar of my white shirt. He smelled like something woodsy and somber, something that had spent years crying, decades maybe.
“Chrissie,” he said, “you’re learning early.”
With steady hands he looped the small blue swath around my neck. My father’s hands were too dignified to betray emotion, no matter the occasion, regardless of circumstance. His was the touch not of any father, but of my own: solid but not overbearing, warm without excess heat. It was the touch you feel in your sleep when you need comfort. It is the feeling you remember when the floor goes missing and the roof tumbles down.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Happy best friend day
I met you seven and a half years ago, first kissed you seven years ago, started dating you five and a half years ago. Moved in four years ago, engaged three years ago, married nearly two years ago. Lucky, lucky, lucky. We are both lucky.
I love you.
I love you.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Today's writing
He is not Henry. He is Bernie. He is my grandfather, my insanely badass, loving grandfather. When he was a kid he walked the Bronx with a two-by-four, daring the corners and alleys to attack. At seventeen he put pinpricks in his condoms so his father wouldn’t steal them. Nine months later he was presented with a baby brother.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
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