COLUMBIA, MD -

I’m barely through the door when the miniature ball of energy that Jilly calls a dog meets me with pointed ears and a wiggling nub of a tail. I often wonder, when he greets me this way, if he isn’t confused by who I am, if all the dark hair in this house allows him to greet us all happily and to then distinguish between us by who returns his affections with as much glee as he gives them.

I am not one to return almost anyone’s affections, much less a fourteen pound Rat Terrier with a Napoleon complex…but it’s nice to know he loves me even though I’m his aunt and not his biggest fan. It gives me hope.

Jilly is in the kitchen and when I round the corner, my black bag hanging from my arm and Duke running circles around me with the hope I’ll drop something edible, she turns to face me with the refrigerator door open and two long neck bottles in either hand.

‘Sam Adams Cherry Wheat or Stoudt’s Belgian Ale?’

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

Let me begin by saying that YES, I am aware that what I’m about to say sounds crazy. And not just any kind of crazy. We’re talking Stephen King nuthouse crazy—a room with padded walls and a warden named Large Marge who goes about 6’6” and 250 and hasn’t smiled since the Reagan administration, partly because her moustache gets in the way and partly because that tick of hers prevents any form of facial expression. Nevertheless, here goes: I am being attacked by the Pillow People.

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LOS ANGELES-

Last night my wife and I went out and had drinks with Lenore Zion and Rich Ferguson. We were at this place called Bird’s, on Franklin Avenue in Hollywood, right across the street from the Scientology Celebrity Centre. It was me, my wife, Rich, Lenore, and Lenore’s sex buddy, Jason. That’s what she called him, anyway. I think she was kidding. She has a boyfriend right now, and it isn’t Jason. This new boyfriend, apparently he doesn’t brush his teeth before bed, and he leaves turds in Lenore’s toilet. He flushes once but has a tendency to leave remnants, she told us. They haven’t been dating for long. Lenore was like, “He’s a total misogynist, but he’s a really nice guy.” And Jason was telling us how when he first moved to LA he almost took a job at a nude housecleaning service.

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BROOKLYN, NY -

I’m picky about my name.

I am “Kimberly” not “Kim”.

I introduce myself as such and will immediately correct you when you choose the diminutive.

Professionally, I require middle initial incorporation: “Kimberly M. Wetherell.”

I like the way the ‘M’ makes a mountain in the middle and how the ‘K’ and the double ‘l’s form peaks at either end; as if, when charted on a graph, the visual effect forms the letter ‘W’, which in and of itself is cool, since that’s the first letter of my surname.

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SAN FRANCISCO, CA-

“But I don’t even like tennis. I hate it.”

I was adamant. I was honest. Watching little green balls sail backwards and forwards has never been my idea of a jolly time. Until Venus and Serena happened upon the scene I was convinced that there was nothing whiter and more elitist than a game of tennis, and I’ve always been righteously determined to maintain my sniffy stance.

But despite my protestations the smiling face across the wide wooden table continued to expound upon the merits of tennis coaching. Within five minutes I had promised him that I would not only take lessons, but that I would purchase a racket.

Another five minutes after that and I’d been coerced into tango lessons. The strange grinning person was hella persuasive.

Shit, thought I, I’d better leave this cafe before I get roped into learning Swahili. I don’t think my poor little model brain has room for Swahili.

“Are you ready to be this validated and this happy?” asked the still-smiling face of my newest cafe acquaintance. I nodded, unsure. “Yeah? Then welcome to San Francisco!”

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

Think of the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. You know, the kind of stories that make you cringe every single time you tell them, even though it’s been, like, eight years since you had brunch at that little café in Smyrna, Georgia and you had to go to the bathroom really, really, really bad and, because God has a really terrific sense of humor, there was somebody in the men’s room who was not coming out anytime that year, which left you no choice but to duck into the women’s restroom where, again since God is a regular comedian, you discovered someone had clogged the toilet, meaning you were up to your ankles in toilet water, and the whole thing was terribly embarrassing, particularly when you walked out and saw not only the manager but also your horrified date.

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LOS ANGELES, CA -

I’ve come to realize that when certain people leave your life they can still occupy a huge part of your heart. Their goodness and grace; the sound of their laughter; how they moved in their skin; how their skin felt touching yours; all those memories and more can get so locked inside your heart that it’s sometimes hard to make room for others.

If I had to rent out the remaining space in my heart it wouldn’t be very large. At best the size of a small studio apartment.

I can see the add now:

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SAN FRANCISCO-

Hello, my name is Zoë Brock and I am a hopelessly hopeful romantic.

Love and I have a long and sordid relationship. We’re stuck to each other with that cheap, tacky glue that never dries properly and gets hairs and other bits of icky dirt and effluvia stuck in it and ends up looking like a coughed up owl pellet, minus the skeletal bits. It’s horrible, trust me.

Sometimes I feel as if I live my life adhered to the cheap pulpy paper bound between the flowery covers of a Harlequin romance novel.

Sometimes I wonder if some sticky-fingered house-wife isn’t pouring over the sordid details of my love-life, swooning, moaning and gasping at the more elaborately descriptive paragraphs as she takes a break between episodes of ‘The Bold and the Beautiful’ and ‘Days of Our Lives’.

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PARIS -

We’re walking together along the trail beside the river. After a late winter the low hills are still green and there are wildflowers even now. The air smells of sage and dust and pine and if you look north up Highway 75 you can see mountains capped with white.

We’re bare-chested wearing sandals and shorts. It’s my father’s birthday today. He’s fifty years old, six feet tall, thin. His dark curly hair has lightened from the sun. There are patches of grey at his temples.

I’m shorter than he is with dark hair on my legs and arms, hair that my father found unsettling when it first appeared at fourteen - a feature, which seemed to him impossible. It must have been a terrible reminder of time passing. How could this boy with the big brown eyes and the round cheeks be sprouting the body hair of a Sicilian?

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THE FUTURE -

Dear You,

If all goes well and according to plan, you (that would be me) should receive this long lost letter on your 37th birthday, ten years after I (that would be you) sent it. It’s 2008 here at the moment, June to be exact. You will turn 27 in close to three months. Exciting, I know.

It’s been a rough year so far, not in terms of terminal illnesses or deaths or deep and beleaguered sadness, but tough in the sense that the life you had planned for yourself all those years earlier isn’t exactly panning out the way you had thought it would. For one thing, your wardrobe isn’t at all what you’d envisioned it to be…so that’s mildly depressing.

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GULF BREEZE, FL-

This post first appeared, in somewhat different form, in September 2006 here at TNB. I’m rerunning it for Mother’s Day this year. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! (And to all other mothers out there as well.)

My mother hates cut flowers.

Despises them, resents them, with a power I don’t understand nor know the origins of.

I on the other hand love them.

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THE DEEP SOUTH-

This is a time of hope

for something greater than ourselves

to save ourselves

from ourselves

a time of dreams and dying

and dreams dying

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MADRID

The message read Feliz Navidad Guapisimo!

Spaniards toss around the word guapo/a as if it were a definite article, but the extra oomph given to any noun with -isimo/a is not to be taken lightly and should be considered serious flirtation.

The number had no name attached to it, but I assumed it was from a girl, as most men don’t call other men guapisimo unless they’re gay or being facetious. (more…)

MIAMI, FL-

I am really hungover.

I stayed up late last night, doing blow and talking shit.

“When in Rome….”

Miami makes me behave like this guy-

Of course, I’m only joking. In actuality, here in Miami, I tend to be act more like most of the other residents. The blue rinse and pinochle set. But without the blue rinse. Or the pinochle.

My time here has been lovely. Two weeks of sun and friendship, late nigh (more…)

GULF BREEZE, FL-

So. Here I am in the new place.

Crickets chirp. A tumbleweed rolls by.

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