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May 4 - May 5, 2025
Lula’s hair is always a surprise. Some days it’s lavender. Some days it’s braided. Some days it isn’t even Lula’s real hair. Today it was a massive puffball of chemically induced black ringlets shot through with hot pink highlights and sprinkled with glittery tiny pink stars. It was awesome. The rest of Lula is equally awesome, as her bounty runneth over in booty and boob and everything else.
The Burg is a lot like Rex’s glass aquarium. Small and enclosed and open for everyone to see in. I can’t get away from my past in the Burg. Not that my past is so terrible. It’s more that I’d like to be judged on my future… whatever that might be.
My maternal grandmother lives in the house, too. She moved in when my grandpa Mazur succumbed to years of schnitzel and Marlboros and took up residence in heaven. At least we hope it’s heaven.
Food is important in the Burg. It’s the glue that holds everything together. News travels through the bakery and the deli. Bread is blessed at the church. Charities are funded at bake sales. Families still sit at the table for dinner whether they like it or not. Adult children are bribed into visiting their parents with the promise of pineapple upside-down cake, lasagna, fried chicken and biscuits, Virginia baked ham. Cultural appropriation is a good thing here. Polish housewives share recipes with their Italian neighbors. Kielbasa, macaroni and red sauce, Cozido a Portuguesa, enchiladas,
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Here it is. You think you know someone and then next thing they tell you is that they want a Chihuahua named Chardonnay.
“Is this it?” Potts asked. “What should I do? Should I go in first and make sure it’s safe for you? I’m okay with taking a bullet. Just in case, I’m wearing a medical bracelet that has my blood type.”
“Your mother made too much spaghetti,” she said. “Do you want to come to dinner?” I cracked my door and looked out. Potts was still there. “Is your mother expecting you to be home for dinner?” I asked him. “No, I told her I was working the night shift.” “Can I bring a friend?” I asked Grandma. “You can bring an army. Your mother was hitting the hooch, and next thing, poof, we got two weeks’ worth of pasta.”
“This is very good antipasto,” Potts said. “You can take some home with you,” Grandma said. “Where do you live? Are you local?” “I live with Stephanie,” Potts said. Everyone stopped eating and looked at me. “Pay no attention,” I said. “It’s the PTSD.” My father accepted that as a decent explanation and returned to his meatballs. My mother poured herself more wine. My grandmother wouldn’t let it go.
There was an acceptance of personality that was sometimes lacking between Morelli and me. Maybe that was because Ranger and I had no illusions about a binding, long-term commitment. There wasn’t as much at stake between us.
“Oh, I’m so scared,” Trotter said. He barely got the words out of his mouth when I charged across the room, snatched him by the front of his shirt, and head-butted him. I gave him a shove.
Ranger went full-on grin. “Babe.” “I have a headache,” I said. “I never head-butted anyone before.” “Best display of female rage that I’ve seen in a long time. Maybe ever. I liked the part where you hit him with the bowl.” “Hair is important in Jersey. You don’t dump glop in a Jersey girl’s hair.”
I was stumped. I didn’t have a bucket list. My bucket was empty. “I haven’t gotten around to making a bucket list,” I said. “Do you think that’s a personal failure?” “No. You’re busy living every day. That’s a personal triumph.” “It doesn’t feel like a triumph. It feels like I’m moving through my life with no important goals or aspirations.”
Grandma didn’t have a fat problem, but she was a victim of gravity. She could walk forever, and she could lug the long-barrel around in the crook of her arm like the queen of England, but beyond that she had the muscle development of a soup chicken.
“What have you got to offer?” Morelli smiled. “Something a lot better than a cupcake.” I knew this to be true.
