boarders right now, gearing up for the games. But it’s cool, because we’re selling TONS of tie-dyed shit. We can’t dye it fast enough, it seems.
And I need the cash for necessities, tampons, and food and stuff, until we start showing a profit. Jesus, Cal. I would never do drugs. I need my brain cells for my ART.
Thanks—U R the BEST!!
Much love,
Your little sis
___________________________________________
To: Mark Levine <[email protected]>
Fr: Ruth Levine <[email protected] >
Re: Hello!
Sweetie, I’m sorry to bother you, I know you’re having fun on your little European jaunt, but I need to know ASAP: What size sweater are you wearing lately? I know usually you like a Large, but you joined that gym, didn’t you? So maybe you’ve bulked up a little, and need an Extra Large?
I only ask because it turns out Susie Schramm—you remember, I told you about her in my last email— she knits! Yes! On top of being a high-powered legal eagle AND a size four, she knits in her spare time (I mean, the time she spares from her work and volunteering for B’Nai Brith, of course).
And I’ve commissioned a sweater for you from her. Apparently, she isn’t afraid to use bold colors, either. I know how much you love yellow, so that’s what you’re getting….
Ooops, it was supposed to be a Hannukah surprise! Oh, well!
Write soon and let me know.
Love,
Mom
___________________________________________
To: Holly Caputo <[email protected] >
Fr: Darrin Caputo <[email protected] >
Re: Hello, it is your mother
Holly, it is your mother again. Darrin says I’m not to use his email anymore to write to you, but you do not pick up your cell phone when I call. Either your cell phone doesn’t work in Europe, or you are using that Caller ID, and not picking up when you see it is me.
Which is fine. I understand that you do not want to speak to your mother. Even though I am the one who gave birth to you, and wept with joy when I heard the doctor say you were a girl, the little daughter I had almost given up hope of having after four boys in a row.
I am writing now because I saw Jane Harris’s mother at the Kroger Sav-On yesterday, and what she said to me there disturbs me very much. Your father says it is nothing, but I do not agree. I was telling Mrs. Harris how lucky she is to have a daughter like Jane, who sees only nice Christian boys, like that very pleasant British boy, Dave, and the investment banker, Malcolm.
And Mrs. Harris says to me, “But Mark Levine is very nice, too. Listen, Maria, you must stop thinking of it as losing a daughter, but instead, of gaining a son.”
What does Claire Harris mean by this? Why would she think I am gaining a son? I do not need any more sons, I already have four… five if you count Darrin’s Roberto. Holly, you are not thinking of doing something foolish when you are in Italy, are you?
I hope you know that if you marry this boy Mark, he will NOT be a son to me. Just as you will no longer be my daughter. Think on this, I beg you.
I will pray for you.
Your mother
Travel Diary of Jane Harris
Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine
Jane Harris
Somebody needs to take Cal Langdon aside and tell him that that shirt he is wearing, which I am sure he thinks is very cutting edge and SoHo, actually makes him look gay. How can a straight man not know this?
And I know Cal is straight. Not just because he was married before, or the skank I saw slinking from his hotel room, because you know, those don’t really prove anything anymore, in today’s day and age (just look at Curt). I know because of what happened just now at the restaurant we’re having dinner at since it was raining again (what is WRONG with this country?) and nobody felt like cooking outside, much less risking all the electricity going off again by turning the oven on inside.
Plus everybody seems to be in a really bad mood, although no one will tell me why.
It must be the rain.
Anyway, they only let us into this restaurant after we stood at the door for like ten minutes tapping at the glass, then begging the proprietors in broken Italian to please please serve us, as they, like every restaurant owner we have encountered in Porto Recanati (except of course the Crazy Bar and Sexy Tattoo Shop), are actually very reluctant to prepare food and sell it to people, though they haven’t bothered to put a closed sign in their window. Apparently in the off-season what Le Marche restauranteurs do is invite all of their aged friends to sit in their restaurant at night and watch Magnum PI —in Italian of course—and ignore any actual paying customer who might wander in.
Thank God Mark is incapable of taking no for an answer, or we would never get fed. He carries this Guide to Le Marche handbook around with him and insists we have to eat at all the places Holly’s uncle marked for us. He even showed the restaurant proprietors their ranking, and insisted they feed us.
Maybe it’s something to do with him being around sick patients all day, but Mark just exudes this “Be nice to me” vibe, which people totally seem to respond to.
I mean, except for Holly’s mom.
And it’s not really as sickening as it sounds. On him, it works, and doesn’t leave you feeling like you want to hit him over the head with a pool cue or anything.
Anyway, the way I know Cal is not gay, in spite of the shirt and the model ex-wife—and Holly’s assurances to the contrary, of course, but hey, the future wife of the best friend is not always the first to know—is that after Magnum , the movie Babe came on, the one about the little pig who can herd sheep, and all of the Marquesians or whatever they are sat there, enrapt, in their traditional Le Marche-wear of jeans and Bon Jovi T-shirts, but Cal never blinked an eye. He just went right on drinking his grappa like it was actually good and not something that should only be sold as a facial astringent.
No gay guy can resist the lure of Babe . Not that I think the restauranteur and all of his aged friends are gay. They’re just foreigners. They probably cried at the end of Magnum , only I missed it because I was in the men’s room, trying to smuggle out a roll of toilet paper, because of course there wasn’t one in the ladies’ room. Ditto a toilet seat.
Which, by the way, I have to say What’s up with that? about. Clearly, Italian women never go to the bathroom outside of their own homes. That is the only thing I can think of to explain the state of some of the ladies’ washrooms in Le Marche. What do all the Italian ladies do, anyway, when they have to go? Just squat? I can barely make it into a squat during Pilates, and that’s in drawstring pants. What are the chances of me squatting in control-top panties and a pair of tight capris around my knees? Seriously? Think about it. The restaurant owners obviously haven’t.
And yes, I know, it’s a summer community and we’re here on the off-season, but I highly doubt the owner of this place has all the toilet seats stored somewhere in the back until the beach starts getting crowded again. I
