The people behind City of Angels, (starring Nicolas Cage's husky voice and Meg Ryan's uneasy eye crinkle) are a sadistic bunch. Seriously. I don't want to sob; I have no wish to bawl, but dammit, it was an accident! Two days from riding the cotton pony, and an innocent remote control landing has me grabbing Kleenex and yelling, "Nooo, open your eyes! You're riding a bike! Open. Your Eyes, You Fool!" Honestly, it Adam hadn't taken a bite out of that apple, condemning women to riding horses and doing cartwheels every month, Hollywood wouldn't have half the power it does now.
* * *
Fourteen days to my birthday. In a grand fit of I Don't Care and a horrid display of self-pity, I thrust all responsibility for my celebrations into the hands of my sister with the words, "Here. Glorify me."
Pretty brilliant, huh?
* * *
A couple of weeks ago, I ran into my old Italian teacher at DubDub. It was like a visit from another world, poppets. Eighteen years have passed since we left the old neighborhood; where the Italian kids when to Catholic school and the Jewish kids went to public school, and there was barely anyone else, because it was just that kind of place. In this city, you're never going to find a Jewish neighborhood very far from an Italian one, so it really wasn't that rare a phenomenon. It still isn't, but I wouldn't really know anymore.
But I did know, once upon a time, before my parents became ambitious, and we moved amongst the WASPs. All of a sudden, keeping up with the Jones', actually meant keeping up with the Jones', and not the Mastrodicasa's and the Rossi's and the Lipschultz's.
At the time, I thought it was a disaster, this move to the west end, this uprooting of all that I knew. Twelve minutes on the highway, but it felt like 3000 miles.
God. All those kids in my grade 6 class are married now; some with kids, some with overworked parents who died too soon. Signora caught me up on the news. She has the inside track because all those kids were her sons' friends, and they were in my class, too. In a weird coincidence, one of her boys was left back one year, and so both brothers were in my class. The elder one, the one that failed a grade, is now a teacher at my youngest cousin's school.
And married. They're all married now. They probably all married each other, my sister said, with a touch of false derision, probably to ward off my wail of jealousy. God! Married! All of them!
Except... except for that bastard of a bully. Oh, he was a fork in the arse, that one there. Signora said he was still single, and making a success of himself as a real estate agent. Hmph. That figures. Real estate. (Not that I have anything against real estate agents, of course, but you could tell me he was a baker, and I'd snort baker in the exact same way.)
Except. Except. Here's the thing. I Googled him. And also? I'm kind of looking for a house. I'm not seriously looking for a house, because I'm not prepared now, but every so often, I'll drop in on an intriguing open house, and ask questions about the roof and the windows and wander the rooms like I know something. So, you know, it's not that far out of left field...
Of course, I didn't seriously Google him either...
But God. What I wouldn't do to torture him a little. Maybe put on a pair of the highest red heels I own and dangle a little commission in front of him. Oh, stop it. You know I'm just playing soap opera in my head. You should try it some time. It's fun!
It's enough to know that he wears a cheap suit in his business profile picture. A cheap olive suit. It even shone a little.
Sometimes, poppets, a shiny suit can make your whole day.
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