When my sister Dee died last October, we had to tell my then-four-year-old granddaughter. Dee and Miss America were very close. After shedding many tears, Miss America did a lot of deep thinking, like so many of us, trying to make sense of things like car accidents and death. A couple months later, this was our conversation:
“Heaven’s a bad place.” So says Miss America as we cuddle on the sofa watching Shrek2.
“What?” I say. “Heaven’s a good place.”
Miss America shakes her head and looks up at me with big brown eyes that reveal how much she’s learned of life and death lately.
“I don’t want to go there,” she says firmly.
“Well, you don’t have to go there now.”
“Only people gets dead there.”
I can’t argue this point.
“So I don’t want to go,” she continues. “Heaven’s a bad place.”
She opens the brightly colored spiral notebook in her lap and informs me: “I’m going to write that down in my diarrea.”
Some days, that's the only viewpoint that feels right.
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May 19, 2009
Heaven's a Bad Place
May 14, 2009
Panties in a Bunch
A few years ago, I was part of the coolest chain letter scheme ever. EVER!
The deal was this: when you received your chain letter, it contained a list of ten women, and you were to return the letter to the first person on the list. The kicker was that you returned it to this woman with the size and style of brand-spanking-new panties that she specified by her name. (Yes, not only was her name there, but the size of her butt -- in panty vernacular). Then you sent the letter to ten more people and added your name and panty preferences to the bottom of the list. The idea is that the next person to receive a letter with your name on the TOP of the list sends you some brand-spanking-new panties!
I hesitated for all of five seconds -- totally embarrassed, of course (eh, heh, heh -- I do crack myself up. Where-oh-where has my modesty gone? Mom, did I ever have modesty? Oh yeah, puberty). But off I went to the mall in search of size 8 cotton bikini undies. I bought a cute pair for about $10 and sent it to the lucky lady at the top of the list plus ten more letters to select recipients with my name at the bottom. If they each send it to ten women and then those women send it to another ten each, well, the possibilities are endless! I could get panties from Fiji!
So I waited. And waited. And waited. Until one evening after work, a puffy manila envelope sat on the kitchen counter waiting for me! That's weird, I thought, having nearly forgotten about my little foray into panty mail (no jokes about snail mail, please -- that's just rude). I opened my package and there they were: a lacy pair of pink thongs! I heard a choir of angels singing from on high. I squealed. Woo-hoo! I got undies in the mail! I held them up for everyone in my family and showed them off. Check these out! Somebody sent me underwear!
"Ew!" Was the reaction I got.
Me: What? They have the tags on! They've never been worn!
Them: Ew!
Me (twirling them in the air and singing): You're je-e-ealous, you're je-e-ealous. Cuz I got u-u-undies in the mailbox, and you didn't. And I'm taking 'em for a spin. And you're no-o-o-ot.
The next day, I told my coworkers. They shook their heads. "Underwear from strangers? That's just wrong," they said. And, "You're weird." But I would not be brought down to their level of cynicism. My panties were gifts from the universe. Or at least some woman who got that chain letter with my name at the top of the list.
And then something miraculous happened. I got another pair of brand-spanking-new panties in the mail. This time a stretchy gold lamé thong -- we're talking the Cadillac of lingerie. A few days later I got two packages, each with a sleek new thong. The following day I got a fifth pair. Soon I began running gleefully to the mailbox after work, eager for the day's sexy surprise. Over the next three weeks, I acquired about 14 new pairs of thongs from total strangers! It was like panties from Heaven. Blossoming in butt-floss, I supplanted my old raggedy panties with these lovelies. Not bad for my $10 investment, huh?
I was sad when it all came to an end. It was pathetic really. I'd be standing there, staring into an empty mailbox, whimpering, like a crackhead whose dealer had just croaked. Somebody broke the chain. Somebody let me down. Somebody thought it was icky and wouldn't play. If only I knew her name. I'd send her a letter -- and I'm not telling what I'd put in it.
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