Sit yourself down and write yourself a letter. Once in print it might actually acquire the patina of truth.
Letter To Self: 1
12 May, 1986
Dear Me,
I cannot believe that you are only just now writing to me for advice. What did the doctor say when the skeleton walked into his office? “Now you come to me?” Perhaps it’s not too late, and, no, you didn’t really ask me for my advice. But I’m going to give it to you anyway…in due course. After all, how long have you and Manya been together? It’s been at least ten years since you have “consummated your friendship,” as you so quaintly phrased it, and never a word.
You have, shall I say, finally figured out how babies are made. And, once you started, you couldn’t figure out how to stop. Let me see, that’s three babies in twenty-seven months. And please, don’t tell me she’s pregnant again. Manya’s health insurance plan at work can’t possibly allow for more babies. Trust me when I write that I have very carefully considered your problem. You are, indeed, in very deep doo-doo.
FACT: You and Manya cannot really afford nannies, or even day care. You say that you’ve tried both. The English nanny cracked up one car already; the older Mormon nanny from Utah kept running off to Times Square; and the younger Mormon nanny was hiding her boyfriend in the barn. Something tells me your kids are at risk here. Never mind about the money.
FACT: All three of your children are still in diapers. Need I say more?
FACT: You’re driving them around in old Ford Pinto? Surely, you must know by now that the car is justly named The Death Car. It appears that the gasoline tank explodes unpredictably, but certainly when another car hits it from behind at high speed. You cannot expose your children to such a risk. I know that Mom gave you this car. Did it ever enter your thick skull that maybe she didn’t want you to marry Manya? And that she was conducting her own little private holocaust? Then again, when I knew you and the family in San Francisco, they were driving a Chevrolet Corvair, known then as GM’s Death Car. Maybe insanity does run in the family. You’ll just have to get something large, like a Suburban.
FACT: Not only are you driving your offspring around in a car that is certain to kill them, but you and Manya just bought a house that is a 1752 colonial which is, by your own admission, a wreck. You write that the contractors surprised you one day by jacking up the entire second story and removing the walls in order to repair the foundation. This would indicate to me that insanity runs in Manya’s family too.
FACT: You have adopted three cats and a dog. The diapers aren’t enough for you?
What do I think you should do? I’ll tell you. Manya has a job, you don’t. Forget about writing your dissertation, kiss your PhD goodbye: you are staying home with the kids.
Lovingly, your elder ego
Che B.
