This is the first time I've read Dorothy Parker's brilliant short story Big Blond. As I was reading it I kept think of the many versions of Big Blond I could write. Not just my own, but those of women I've known.
I think I've written a short version of the failed suicide attempt and the pain of finding yourself alive that comes after in Maggy. The chapter is called Crazy. It is for me, always the back story that I need. I want the map of how you got to be "Big Blond." How did I? It's a crazy childhood and a strange culture that gets a woman to that location. I have model friends in their early fifties by now who have gone MIA. Maybe into their Big Blond faze. I hope not, but fear it. Now I am again inspired to write more short stories. It was husband number three's metier, sacred territory for him. It took me twenty years after leaving him to dare to try. Still Life was my first attempt. I'm getting braver all the time. I'm itching to kick my drunken ex while he's in a drunken coma after pissing the bed. I'm wearing high heeled boots. My name is Judith Blue. His is Junior. We live in Springfield, Missouri, which I pronounce misery. It's in the works.
Here's this week's adorable elderly rankings:
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