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FEMALE WITH A CAPITAL F
I've tried to start a diary once. It was when our second grade teacher had asked us to observe nature and note the most interesting phenomena. The first entry in my diary read: "My grandma is scared of mice." The second was: "A live mouse—1 ruble 30 kopecks. A dead one—2 rubles."
In honor of my admission into college my mother presented me with an address book of wondrous beauty: leather-bound with silk paper. I dared not debase it with numbers of local plumbers, and so it became a venue for me to record my thoughts.
For “A” there was: “A boy looked at me today in the cafeteria.”
For “B”: “Boris is an idiot.”
For “C”: “Courtesy—I will kill him with it!”
The chronicle ended abruptly on the page with the letter "F." You can guess what was written there.
Over the course of the subsequent twenty years I've written all sorts of things except a diary—novels, statutes, and official claims to the Civil Registry Office. But yesterday Arnie, my shrink, decided that I cannot do without a diary any longer.
"Write down everything that worries you. Ask yourself: who are you?"
Who am I? I am a person of an unconventional biography and even less conventional sorrows.
My name is Marge Tensh. Once it was Margarita Tenshova, but the Russian pieces of my name chipped with time.
I live in North Hollywood, the lousiest town ever.
I have the most detestable job: I am a literary agent.
I have a stupid hobby: I write books.
I have a big butt.
I have no husband, no children, and no good habits. But I do have a burial lot reserved at a cemetery.
Melissa and I visited it last week. We sat on the graves and did some grieving.
"The best place to be buried is Italy," Melissa said. "Any old crypt is like a friggin' palace. While our cemeteries look more like prime goat pastures."
She was grouchy because her lot was all the way by the fence.
"But I will have the most interesting tombstone,” Melissa said. “It'll attract tourists from around the globe. Know what I will write on it?"
"The rejuvenating grave of Madam Melissa Turner, Doctor of Chiromancy. Curing warts and female maladies from the beyond."
But I've already decided that mine will bear only my name and the following epitaph:
I wanted love, but never quite slaved it,
Nobels and Pulitzers never were impressed,
But don't despair, dear guest, for this exquisite grave
Completes my figure like the perfect dress.
