She said she'd send pictures.  She didn't say when.  But Prodigal Girl (P.G. from now on) did send some iPhone snapshots of Christmas in Brooklyn along with an account of what she cooked.  It looks and sounds like a life to be envied.  And I do know people with lives to be envied.  I wish I could still count myself among their number.

Rather and however, I have become the other thing.  To wit, the girl who didn't call me on Christmas did call today and we met up.  And oh. . . woe is me.  She reads this blog from time to time and will not like me saying this, I know, but what can I do?  I am a storyteller and truth sayer in some form, though I find I can put no art to what I am about to tell.  I've been trying.

She is a pretty girl, and as such she shares an entitlement with all those of her ilk.  Attention.  She gets it when she gets into her car.  She gets it when she steps out.  She gets it when she is walking down the street, and she gets it in cafes.  She gets it and doesn't think about it.  This is just what she gets.

I used to be a pretty girl, too.  Sort of.  I mean, I got attention.  It was not a god-given gift but was something I cultivated.  I took my hillbilly body and carved it and shaped it with