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I listened as my father bragged about my beauty and achievements to his friends at the country club. And I listened as he told the story about how Marilyn Monroe kissed my cheek at the ice cream parlor and how Maurice Chavalier took my hand to kiss it on Rodeo Drive, telling my father how he’d never seen such a beautiful little girl.
My father was a narcissist. In front of his friends, my father and I had a healthy relationship, but behind closed doors and in front of anyone who came over to visit, he was always angry that…
All you need is love. Love is patient and kind. Love is a many splendored thing. To know her is to love her. Do you love me, now that I can dance?
Some people say it so easily, I have to wonder if they even notice they say it. “Love you!” It’s like when someone sneezes in a store and a stranger shopping in the next aisle says, “Bless you.” No connection, no emotion, just a couple of words. Other people sit you down and look you in the eyes and say, “I just have to tell you something right…
I was 18 weeks pregnant and had the most unbelievable knife-like shooting pains in my left side. I actually fell off the toilet, writhing on the floor in agony. No cell phones then. Couldn’t even crawl to the phone. My husband was in trial in downtown Los Angeles, and when he came home, he found me on the bathroom floor.
We went to Cedars Sinai emergency, and they gave me an enema and said I was constipated (pregnant woman do not get enemas). It was a Friday night, and I screamed and cried all weekend. It wasn’t until I walked…
“Sometimes I swear I can taste tiny stars on the tip of my tongue. Just buzzing around on the edge. You know that tingling when your coffee’s too hot, and those little bumps rise like they’re on fire? Those stars. Can you taste them?”
I still have no idea what she was talking about. How exhilarating it must feel to have magic coursing through your veins, I thought. Most days I felt nothing at all.
She always walked at a brisk pace, with such purpose, like she was about to miss a train. But that day, each step bore into…
I am from Beverly Hills, Rodeo Drive, street of loneliness, street of dread, street of danger, street of famous and celebrated
I am from criticism, humiliation, accusations, histrionics, cries and outcries
I am from dingy kitchen, filthy grout, moldy jam, stale bread, greasy cupboards, unpolished silver
I am from ironed sheets, yellowed newspapers, live-in housekeepers, boarding schools, privileged and underprivileged
I am from dark house, anger revealed through bulging veins, fear seeping from behind closed doors
I am from hiding inside my bedroom, blamed, feeling shamed and ashamed
I am from lawyers, poets, actresses, performances, rage and outrage
I stand in this hallway looking towards this door
I am afraid of what’s on the other side
I know he will say “Come in” when he hears me knock and I am scared
He is in there lying on his bed with the television on
I hear something about Khrushchev’s meeting with Eisenhower
I don’t know what that means
I am twelve and I don’t care
I am still in the hallway afraid to knock
I stand in this hallway looking towards this door I don’t want him to yell at me but I know he will I only…
Writer and copyeditor. “What doesn’t kill us gives us something new to write about” ~ J. Wright