Author: Kristian

Every Girl Should NOT Be Married

March 5, 1971
Dear Diary,

Tonight I watched an old Cary Grant movie called “Every Girl Should Be Married.” It was about this girl who does all kinds of scheming to snag a guy. It was corny. I told Mommy about this boy-chasing stuff. She said I should always play hard-to-get; let the boys chase ME. Well, that’s wasted advice. Ain’t no boys gonna chase me for anything other than wanting to borrow some cool toy, like that woodburning kit (which was, unfortunately, removed from my possession a few days after XMAS).

January 4, 2017
Dear Little Tommie,

Every girl should NOT be married.

Cry Baby, Cry

January 15, 1973

Dear Diary,

Tonight after school I had a big fit and ranted to mommy for hours about how much I hate my life and how nothing’s ever going to get better. And the song that kept going through my head was “Cry Baby Cry,” from the White Album. “Cry baby cry, make your mother sigh / she’s old enough to know better.” That’s one of of my favorites from that album (which, by at the way, would be a KILLER single LP, rather than a pretty good double LP). Anyway, Mommy managed to calm me down. SHE ended up feeling a lot worse than I did, actually. But it’s okay. She’s old enough to know better.

Dear Little Tommy,

I’m STILL ranting to mommy. Tonight I went to her house, climbed on top of her on the couch, rested my head on her chest, and cried till her sweatshirt was soaked. I was 13 years old, just like you, all over again. “Mommy, are you proud of me? Did I do anything special with my life.” And I let her go on and on, without my usual protestations of “who cares”, “that’s ancient history,” “my career ended so early,” “the truly accomplished and talented people don’t give a shit about who many countries I’ve visited and how many interesting people I’ve met in my corporate life.” No, I just let her sing my praises as she soothed me — stroked my hair and my cheek and gently rubbed my back. And, as I covered her body with mine, I stared across the room to the fireplace mantle — at the Tommie Shrine. All those beautiful baby pictures in their original metal frames. All of those pictures that will be thrown in the garbage after she dies. And I howled and bawled and soaked her shirt even more. (Hey, if you’re looking for a TRULY maudlin Beatles lyric to use with Mommy next time, you might want to consider “died and was buried along with her name,” from “Eleanor Rigby.”) In closing, little Tommie, heed my advice: love your mother while you can, as much as you can. You’ll never have another person quite like her, whose soul will never drown, no matter how much sad, salty water you pour into it.

Put the Blame on Auntie Mame

Dear Diary,

Last night I stayed up late watching “Auntie Mame.” I’d love to meet someone like her one day….someone elegant and bold and worldly, who knows interesting people from all kinds of exotic places. People with lovely accents….Russian counts, Egyptian princes. In fact, I’d like to BE her some day! She’s been everywhere. Oh, if only I could afford to travel. I’d bravely roam far and wide and become ONE with the people and places. I wouldn’t be afraid of anything.

Dear Little Tommie,

Yes, you WILL travel. And, through your work, you WILL meet many interesting people who will like you. In fact, you’ll end up with enough interesting road stories and photographs to entertain yourself for years. Your foreign encounters will enrich your life. But just remember: not everyone will want to listen to those tales! Remember not to bore people. You must know when to turn it OFF. Never ramble on and on for the sake of showing off. Ah, I know you, little Tommie. And I know you’d only do it out of insecurity, especially when you worry that you’ll have nothing to talk about at dinner parties, or when you suspect that other people have done more with their lives than you have. Watch your ego, little girl.

If someone asks about your adventures, deliver one or two tidbits — preferably funny ones. People will love and accept you as you are. You don’t have to impress them.

And picture this: You don’t want end up in a nursing home one day, with all the health care workers saying, “that old lady in room 227 never stops talking about the time she met some child star named Shirley Temple in Prague. Or was it Eric Clapton in Prague and Shirley Temple at an AA meeting in Tokyo? Poor old bat. God, if I have to hear one more of her travel stories I’m slipping some arsenic into that drip.”