I think my Poppi is turning into a dirty old man. Not like a “quick hide the prepubescents” dirty old man. But like a Handsy-Harry “lockup your Nanas” type dirty old man. And this development distresses me.

I’m just back from the sunshine state, after celebrating the old man’s 92nd Birthday. Happy Birthday, Poppi! Homeboy looks like he’s about 80 years old. My lord, that man’s genes should be studied. He’s tan, mobile, and mentally sharp. Sharp enough to chat about tranches of packaged and securitized mortgages–Zzz zzz z z. Sharp enough to not get stuck paying the bill at dinner. Sharp enough to know the difference between charming confidence and ballsy lechery.[ . . . ] Continue »

I don’t totally understand celebrating birthdays. Aside from falling out of my mother’s vagina, I’m pretty sure I didn’t do anything too remarkable the day I was born.

So when my birthday arrives each year—songs sung, cakes cut, lines blown off hookers’ asses, donations made in my name to various charitable causes—I always feel a little silly and undeserving of the celebration. It’s not about low self-esteem. I have a sizable ego. It’s just that if anyone should be wearing a party hat, shouldn’t it be my Mom? Or her uterus?

After the standing ovation for my initial arrival, why the need for annual hubbub? [ . . . ] Continue »

An open letter to my Baby Sister (who is prettier than me); on this, your 21st Birthday.

Dearest Babysa,

Sometimes when my skin is really broken out and I’m premenstrually bloated such that my jeans pinch the skin beneath my belly button, imprinting deep purple grooves into my flesh, I think of you and wish you’d never been born. [ . . . ] Continue »