What Else I Know About You

I don’t understand sometimes. I really don’t. I have people who cut their names off the covers of magazines, and ink out their names on the flyleaves of books. And then they leave me those charge slips from the Marshall Field’s lingerie department that they used as bookmarks, which not only have their name and address but what they bought and in what size and color.

I don’t want to make anybody paranoid, so let me address those of you who are paranoid already. That means virtually anyone who watches the evening news, the ones who don’t feel everyone is out to get us personally, just that people are out there waiting to get us impersonally. (Our motto: Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me.)

I know what you bought at the grocery store last week. You used those bags to pack books in and left in the cash register slip. I applaud your decision to buy organically-grown almonds, but what the heck are you going to do with 48 boxes of frozen eclairs? And where’s my invitation?

I know the nickname your grandchildren call you. And I know you never got around to reading that book they sent you for your birthday, because if you had, those sixteen birthday cards you filed in back would have fallen out. (On the other hand, congratulations on having that many grandkids who send you cards.)

I know how much money you won at the Kentucky Derby last year. (And also that you didn’t finish the book you were reading on the trip, or your stub AND THE CASH wouldn’t still be sitting at page 179.)

I know that you are a sucker for a good cause AND Snickers Salad. (Else you wouldn’t have that recipe marked in all seven Junior League and Jaycee cookbooks you have bought over the last ten years.)

I know what some of your New Year’s Resolutions were for 2007. Thanks for that Weight Loss Journal, the Book Group Journal, and the Sketchpad, each with one and a half pages filled in.

I know about your teen angst, and who stole your sweetheart. And thanks for the three journals that were completely filled in.

But don’t fret. I observe a gentlemanly reserve in these matters. I shall tell no one but the Chicago Reader, and it shall be a secret among us three. 

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