4/1/26
3/16/26
I GOT PLACES TO BE : FRED AGAIN and ANDERSON PAAK
3/15/26
3/13/26
GIVE ME SHELTER : THE ROLLING STONES
2/25/26
TALES OF THE AMERICAN (HOTEL IN DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES - AREA NOW CALLED THE ARTS DISTRICT) : CHRISTINE TRZYNA FILM REVIEW
https://www.talesoftheamerican.com/ A documentary.
I attended a presentation of this film, made a few years ago, of excellent quality, at LAPL - Central. It was made by Stephen Seemayer and Pamela Wilson and they interviewed over 140 once-upon-a-time and current artist residents in the process. The history of the building, built in 1905, which had other names, was that it was the first hotel in the city of Los Angeles to welcome Negro guests - and was then called, interestingly enough, The Canadian. It then became a place where recent Japanese immigrants could live; some were put into camps after the United States entered World War II. Eventually artists, writers, and musicians moved in. The rent was low and the then-Arts District- was vibrant - lawless - but you had a chance of honing your craft and skill because it was affordable. Now the Los Angeles Arts District is becoming too expensive for someone who is, at best, up and coming.
Perhaps the American was the Los Angeles equivalent of New York's Chelsea Hotel?
I had never heard of it.
It was not my kind of place which is probably why I had not.
Affordable. That is the buzz word these days. The word Affordable should never be used to advertise rooms for rent or apartments for lease or townhomes for sale. It's a joke word.
I was thinking while viewing the Tales of the American documentary about my experiences being around people who were .... vexations to the spirit. As, apparently, some of the people who made this place - and the in-house Al's Bar - "home" were or would be to me.
I haven't lived a life free of such people. They are everywhere. I'm just getting better at discernment/avoidance.
Lately, and I'm not the only one saying this, it seems crazy-makers are everywhere, that one cannot find that hidey-hole where one can be alone, think, sleep enough - or work.
I think there is, overall, the wrong idea that artists of every sort need chaos, that creativity needs chaos.
Actually, what one needs to create first and foremost is the time, which usually means time off, being able to either not be concerned with affording time away from the usual pursuit of self-support, maybe because parents or partner take care of that or you inherit, or because it doesn't bother you too much to hear loud music through your floors every night or have to share a filthy bathtub and toilet with twenty other people.
I'm just the opposite. I like clean. I like quietude and privacy and knowing I'm safe without three bolts on a door.
C 2026 Christine Trzyna
2/24/26
2/17/26
IT WAS THE LAST TIME I'LL EVER GO TO THE TOURIST TRAP CALLED "THE LAST BOOKSTORE" IN DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES : THE LAST BOOK STORE SHOULD BE THE LAST PLACE YOU GO LOOKING FOR BOOKS!
IT WASTHE LAST TIME I'LL EVER GO TO THE TOURIST TRAP CALLED "THE LAST BOOKSTORE" IN DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES : THE LAST BOOK STORE SHOULD BE THE LAST PLACE YOU GO LOOKING FOR BOOKS!
Opinion by Christine Trzyna
Months ago, I and a friend, he with his service dog in a carrier (no questions asked but the carrier looks like a wheeled suitcase and cannot be missed), and me with a big bag full of library books and a manuscript as well as a purse, were allowed into THE LAST BOOKSTORE without a problem. After encountering the fanciful displays - tunnels and such - made of used books - we sat on an old sofa. He fell asleep - so did his dog - and I let him as I paged through a couple books and decided to buy one of them.
The displays - excellent upcycling and creatively designed - were also shabby and dusty. I wondered if the owners had bought up storage units of decaying paper books, as well as the book cases, of many a defunct ma and pa bookstore, especially because only in this environment did so many odd and unmatched book cases look right
There were a lot of tourists with cell phones taking pictures around us, documenting their visit to this massive space that takes the ground floor of an old building, which also has some boutique businesses within. We quickly looked into these other businesses which must be subleasing. Later we learned that we could have gotten a free cup of coffee if we showed that we had bought a book. (Which would have required going back upstairs.) Because their web site mentioned that they had a ghost, I asked an employee where the ghost was. Ha Ha! In the elevator, a bank robber who got shot by the police in an elevator. (What marketing!)
So, the other day, I decided to go solo to THE LAST BOOK STORE, in search of a memoir or two and a cup of coffee. I decided to try and navigate the Metro subway there. Last visit we had walked down the hill past Pershing Square from LAPL - Central. This time, when I went above ground, I realized I was a few blocks from LAPL - Central. I realized later I would have been better off getting off at Pershing Square.
I was carrying with me a small, clean, light-colored backpack - purse with handles, not one of those huge backpacks that looks like one is going to climb Mount Everest. Also a small clean canvas book bag received at a library event with a library design on it and a small collapsible umbrella. I was wearing clogs that are waterproof but also clean and well designed. I was wearing black slacks, not beat-up jeans with holes, and a classic burgundy sweater, over which I had my cotton jacket which was, unlike most of my clothing, designed by Ralph Lauren. I had a beanie on my head. No cosmetics. No facial tattoos.
I bathe. I did not smell. I am not a suspicious character.
On my way - at least eight city blocks - maybe ten - to THE LAST BOOKSTORE, I grew fatigued. I stopped in front of a side door of THE BILTMORE HOTEL. I had always wanted to go inside and look around the Biltmore, but was intimidated about going through the front lobby. If there was any place in downtown Los Angeles that I imagined someone might want to tell me, politely, that I did not belong there and needed to leave right away, it would have been THE BILTMORE HOTEL. The hotel, opened in 1923, is part of Los Angeles - Hollywood history. Instead, an employee outside, sensing my interest, said to me "Go ahead and go in!" I didn't invade all the rooms - there are restaurants and bars and ballrooms - but I spent about a half hour in there, photographing without a problem, looking around. What I saw was simply majestic. At no time did any employee inside THE BILTMORE HOTEL approach me.
But when I got to THE LAST BOOKSTORE, I quickly realized that I had wasted my day making this place a goal. I WAS TOLD I COULD NOT GO IN WITH MY BACKPACK, though I told the man with the cheesy smile at the desk, that I had money and electronics with me in it and didn't feel good about leaving it. (If it was stolen, I thought, how would I be compensated, if at all? Did he go through a background check to get the job?) I WAS TOLD THAT I COULD NOT EVEN TAKE THE CANVAS LIBRARY BAG WITH ME. Ah, what if I had to travel with a medical kit of some kind like my friend does because he has low blood sugar?
"If I cannot take these in with me, how do you expect me to buy books?"
"Most people only TAKE THEIR WALLET!" he said. Yes he did. So slick!
So I said "Forget it" and asked for my things back. He turned my things over smoothly without loosing that cheesy smile. He claimed he hated the store policy too.
Behind him were a dozen BIG BLACK BACKPACKS - OK - I get it - like homeless men take around with them.
To say I was INSULTED would not be right. I was STUPEFIED. As I left, around the bend and into the storefront came a couple with a BABY IN ARMS and A HUGE DIAPER BAG. Good Luck! I thought. I knew I would NEVER EVER BOTHER TO GO BACK TO SUCH A PLACE. I WAS ONCE CONNED BY THE CHARISMA OF IT; NO MORE!
THE LAST BOOKSTORE IS CLEARLY MAKING TOO MUCH MONEY, SO MUCH THEY DON'T CARE ABOUT A POTENTIALLY GOOD CUSTOMER - THE LIKES OF ME. They are too busy PROFILING - erroneously.
So let's look at it. IF YOU ARE STAYING IN A HOTEL OR LIVE IN DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES that is in WALKABLE DISTANCE to THE LAST BOOKSTORE, then you can go in there with your wallet.
IF YOU ARE LIKE MOST ANGELENOS - men and women - ESPECIALLY THOSE WHO GO DOWNTOWN USING THE SUBWAY or BUS - PUBLIC TRANSIT - you take a backpack or bag or bags with you. YOU DO NOT HAVE A TRUNK OR GLOVE COMPARTMENT. YOU DO NOT PAY HIGH PARKING FEES to go and do downtown. You take a backback because you are a STUDENT, say. Maybe you're a student of LITERATURE or CREATIVE WRITING AT USC or UCLA. MAYBE YOU ARE A POET, A WRITER, A PUBLISHED AUTHOR, A PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH AT LA VALLEY COLLEGE. MAYBE YOU SPEAK AT THE USC LOS ANGELES TIMES BOOK FAIR -
Maybe you are a tourist, and you're staying at a youth hostel. Maybe - just maybe - you are on the best seller list!
You get me.
At a time when Anti-Amazon sentiment is rising, many of us want to read books that seem to have gone extinct, and so we head for a used book store.
I SUGGEST THAT YOU FIND ANOTHER INDEPENDENT BOOKSTORE, and support that bookstore - even if they are in another state. Let them order in the new books that you want too, if you do not find them at your local library, on Project Gutenberg, in Google Books, on Hoopla or another such app, BEFORE YOU TAKE A TRECK TO THE LAST BOOKSTORE!
Another day I will likely post a photo of the entrance of this store, just to prove to you that I actually went there!
C 2026 Christine Trzyna
All Rights Reserved including Internet and International Rights.
Hey, I've been blogging for years. I don't need to YELP IT! Do I?
PS. It's not that about me having "class": it's that the Biltmore has it and The Last Bookstore does not!
2/14/26
2/11/26
I'LL BE YOUR MIRROR
How many times must I look in a mirror and see myself as I really am?
2/4/26
NO MORE DRUGSTORE PAPERBACKS? PUBLISHER WEEKLY SAYS NO ; MAYBE SOME BODICE RIPPERS?
1/31/26
TRIVIAL or SUPERFICIAL or LIGHTHEARTED ; THE LIST OF THE MOMENT
WHAT'S NEW?
I'm Curious : Will this Year of the Fire Horse really be horribly erratic?
I Might Just Be Done With : HERD Elephant Orphanage in South Africa. Although a young female elephant did kill a carer, they put her to death. The hell with South Africa and their policy of not allowing elephant orphans to breed. The entire situation is unnatural and I no longer believe this is the place for them. I used to look at their videos very frequently but can't bring myself to do it anymore. Just let these elephants mix with and join the Wild Elephants!
So funny! : AI generated political cartoons of sorts on YouTube that feature "world leaders."
Am I what I eat?
Cheese Of The Moment : Cream
Bread : Everything Bagel
Soup : Curry chicken
Condiment : Mayo
Sweet/Snack : Werthers original hard tac candies. Bags and bags of them.
I'm Drinking : Ginger-honey-lemon instant tea (tisane) : love the ginger kick.
I'm Craving : Freshly cooked Chinese food that has no MSG and isn't overly salted.
AM I WHAT I BUY? white sweater with zipper front, brown suede denim slacks - wide legs, backpack that also has handles and excellent zippers, black sweatshirt beautifully colorfully embroidered with flowers that looks Polish.
AM I WHAT I MISS? Long hours reading books.
I'M GETTING BETTER AT : Discernment.
I FEAR : The crazy people who erupt at Central Library and are a danger to others and themselves. Screaming. Shoving.
I SHOULD : Go to the beach more often. Go to a sound bath. Get back into Yoga.
I WISH : The genie would appear and grant me three wishes.
C 2026 Christine Trzyna
Ask yourself the same questions.
Don't let me influence you.
1/20/26
WHY CAN'T I CRY? (Part 3 : Buttercup)
WHY CAN'T I CRY? (Part 3 : Buttercup)
Petunia is dead. Daffodil is dead.
Thinking about Daffy and her 'sex positive' feminism, I thought about one other friend of sorts from those days when it didn't take a whole lot to think someone was a friend, a victim : Buttercup.
She sat near me in biology II class. She was a sweet little butterball - yes, sorry, it's true - with sparkly blue eyes and a simple goodness to her. While, perhaps oddly, I don't recall being in any academic high school class with Petunia or Daffodil (other than the previously mentioned wood shop), which makes me wonder if they were perhaps not in College Prep like me, but in secretarial, or general studies or, well, some form of tech school instead of high school***, Buttercup was for sure as least as smart as me or she would not have been in that class sitting next to me.
I got a B without studying because I never studied. I remember only one incident in that class, a lecture about protein. I pulled my hairbrush from my purse, harvested some of my hair out of it, and threw the hair into some solution that the teacher had. The solution and the hair all turned bright yellow. ... Wow! *****
Buttercup and me weren't especially chatty in class. Rather, we had empathy. We were bored and sulked together.
But whatever empathy there was as we got through biology class together wasn't enough. Because of what happened sometime that spring as the earth warmed after the thaw and we finished tests that proved that we listened to the lectures and planned to get the hell out of there for the summer. Buttercup came back for junior year quietly pregnant.
Actually, there were pregnant girls everywhere. It seemed there was a pregnant girl on every street. Girls that were careless students were pregnant. Girls that were good students were pregnant. Usually they dropped out of school, or were sent away, or sometimes parents would arrange abortions. If you were as observant and listened well like me you would know:
There was the poor stuttering girl who took six months to afford a trip out of state on a Greyhound bus, a girl who had probably been raped by an old man, to have an abortion all alone. There were rumors that she was into witchcraft.
There was the clever girl who managed to fool her mother long enough that her mother could not insist she have an abortion. She told me what she'd done, her mother suspecting and demanding proof she was not, what proof she had given, and how angry her mother was with her and how the baby had been taken away from her, how much she wanted to keep it, how depressed she felt. She kept her head down on the desktop and failed to do her homework.
My mother must have gotten wind of the way things were though she was not part of the gossip network. (The Avon Lady, the biggest gossip there was, my mother would not even buy from.) One day I came home from school and as I passed her on my way to my room she said, "Don't be bringing any babies home for me to raise. You get pregnant, you'll pack your bags and move out."
She had not spent five minutes talking to me about the so called facts of life.
Buttercup, like many of us, had nothing to do and nowhere to go when we were not in school. For boys who were interested, talented - skilled, and had a modicum of financial sponsorship, there were sports. Other than volleyball, which was certainly not for everyone, there were no sports for girls who had not made it onto Drill Team or Cheerleading, neither of which were actually considered sports.
So, like anyone bored and broke might, Buttercup had made the most of her surroundings. Buttercup had taken a walk in the woods with a boy. It might have been into a hollow. It might have been near the dump. It might have been in a colonial era ruin or one of the old Underground Railroad houses, or near the closed mines. And the boy was black and Buttercup was white.
Her parents had not sent her away. She still took the orange school bus to school. She had special permission to use the girls bathroom whenever she wanted or needed to and to skip out of any classes if she felt sick. Her natural plumpness hid her pregnancy for some time, and then, I'd find her posing, looking out over the football field, into the yonder, watching for hawks that might circle, waiting, waiting, waiting, for the day that she would split in two.
The sparkle in her blue eyes was out. She had taken up smoking and no one told her not to. She lingered in the girls bathroom, smoking. She would smile my way and I'd say hello. But I knew and she knew I knew. Without ever saying a word.
Christmas came. School Break. Back to school in January, sitting in study hall, some snotty girls came over to my table just to tell me that they had heard that Buttercup, hollowed out, had an abortion. An abortion was barely legal and was considered horrible sin. This was a condemnation. Especially for a Roman Catholic.
She was sitting by herself across the room.
I found myself hurling words back at them, "You had better not let Buttercup hear you say that. It would really hurt her!"
They scurried away.
All was not well. Buttercup's parents had conspired with a doctor to have her induced early and she gave birth to a premie before the New Year. She came back to school in a state of shock, new to every form of pain and without any sense of a future. They had the newborn taken away before she could hold it. She wasn't speaking to me or not speaking to me. Was it a girl or boy? She was less likely to talk than ever. And it seemed as if from then on, absolutely no one was supposed to talk about it.
In recent years, with an emphasis on adopted children and birth parents finding each other, I've thought of Buttercup, wondering if her child survived into adulthood and had ever tried to find her, and what that could've meant to her.
I'd seen her once since high school. I'd gone to a flea market at an old drive-in theater and had seen her with her parents, trailing after them like a duckling. She walked by me, smoking. We made eye contact and smiled mutually, but she we didn't find each other after that to ask how's life?
And so, yes I did, I looked up Buttercup on the Internet, just as I had Petunia, and Daffodil.
Buttercup had also died. Cancer.
She had died a few years ago and if you read that obituary, you would know she was a maiden. Her obituary mentioned no husband, no children, only that she was a sports fan and that she had worked the same job - a little job - her entire adult life. I couldn't imagine how it had been for all those years, getting up Monday through Friday and going to the very same company and the very same job, in the very same town, until you died. I also knew that kind of loyalty to a company or a company to an employee was not something most people experienced - not anymore! What was it like to actually live close to where you went to high school for the rest of your life? Because when I was in high school I was raring to get out of there and once I graduated I never looked back. School was just something I had to do. I'd never ever even, though all those forced pep rallies, learned the school song. What was it like to continue to live with one's parents as an adult in the same house one had always lived in? Had she ever moved out? And then maybe moved back in?
I wondered if Buttercup had ever had a real love affair, if her family had ever forgiven her, if she was burdened by what had happened when she was sixteen for the rest of her life. Had I secretly had greater expectations of her?
Buttercup, and all those pregnant girls, had effected me profoundly. Without saying a word they had spoken to me far more than my mother ever had. I knew I could not become one of them, not only because of the threat my mother had made that one day when I came home from school, but because I myself could not cope with anything to do with unplanned pregnancy. I would never have wanted to have to choose nor would I have wanted to have no choice in the matter.
And when I think back to those days, when a girl had to sneak for contraception, when a teacher could loose her job for telling girls about using condoms to avoid unwanted pregnancy, when abortion cost way more than most girls earned as minimum wage workers - a time I'd hoped was left in the ignorant past - that girls and women in some states have had the choice taken from them, angers and upsets me.
But as the new year began, as I learned that I'd outlived three women who had been my life young, who had influenced my way of thinking, my way of being, for better or worse, I also thought about how one never knows what challenges one will experience alive.
Oh Petunia, Daffodil, and Buttercup!
Damn it!
C 2026 Christine Trzyna
***Or many accelerated program, but then almost all the students who were in that program were going to college on scholarships.
Just a note. Based on some research into Petunia's four marriages and divorces before she died at 40, it would seem she got over her racism.
***** I also learned that the biology teacher had also recently died. He'd had a teaching career of about three decades and then had a second career. I didn't recognize him in the photo that had been posted.
1/13/26
WHY CAN'T I CRY? (Part 2 : Daffodil)
WHY CAN'T I CRY? (Part 2: Daffodil)
I tell my best friend about Petunia and her blue Cleopatra eye shadow, all the way up to her plucked eyebrows. He comments that I'm wearing nail polish.
The scene where we girls walked to the movie theater for old Jerry Lewis-Dean Martin movie matinees, for which I can't remember a single title or plot, makes him smile. He too recalls going to the matinees with a few quarters in hand.
I tell him the theater was in the crook of a two lane road not far from the mines, which were long ago closed up, but it must have been opened there for the miner's entertainment back in the 1920's. And maybe there had once been a stage. I heard that years later it had been converted into a dancing school where local girls who aspired to be on drill team started early to learn to twirl batons. I describe the territory; the mission churches, the creek, a graveyard with colonial burials in the woods, overgrown. There's flooding in the spring. A railroad trestle high above. All of these childhood-quaint experiences, these people - their attitudes, all of them would soon enough become worthy of escape.
I'm not especially sentimental.
I tell him that I don't know what compelled me, but that after discovering that Pauly and Petunia were dead, that they had died years ago and I sensed tragedy, I decided to look on the Internet to see how Daffodil was doing; Daffy who had elected to go to electronics tech school right out of high school and was one of the few other girls who identified as a feminist or had feminist leanings. Daffy, who I'd defended when Petunia talked against her that last phone call.
Daffy had said, when we were teens, that she was just being practical. She had already told her boyfriend-fiancée that after she finished tech school they'd see who was making more money. Who was making the least was going to have to stay home to raise the children. Word was that some big companies, sans a single woman employee, were making women who graduated from electronics school higher starter-job offers than the men.
An obituary for Daffy that included her married and maiden name came up quickly on the internet. She had died early December! Recently! Whomever wrote that obituary had no sense of artistry. It said simply Daffy died. I got the impression she had just one day dropped.
She had married - young - and stuck with it - no divorce! She'd had children. She'd become a grandmother! There was no mention of her having worked at any particular job, company, or a career. Nor was she called a 'home-maker.' Apparently she had taken up golfing. Golfing?! Suddenly I imagined her as a corporate wife, the member of a country club, having concluded her job of raising her children. She'd moved further into the country. She'd left a husband behind.
There was one sentence that gave a clue to her personality. It said she always told funny stories. She had! I was so glad to know that was a lifelong characteristic. There was a photo of her with her same wolfie smile I remembered, her hair a little spiked and her eyes full of life.
Bit by bit my memories of Daffy bubbled up. I wonder if she ever told her daughters what it was to live when we were young.
She'd been one of the very few girl-teens to actually buy one when a Hope Chest manufacturer came around to sell big wooden chests with lids. If you're too modern to know, a Hope Chest was supposed to be filled with the things a young bride would need in her marriage, like bath towels and bedsheets, pots and utensils, things you might be gifted at a bridal shower instead. I'd never heard of one before that or contemplated using my teen years, or minimal baby-sitting money or minimum-wage cashiering income, to fill one with things I might need if I ever married, so I thought a Hope Chest as antiquated and seriously not feminist.
Daffy had showed me the Hope Chest catalogue in wood shop. We'd bonded a bit while we crafted wooden jewelry boxes. Hers came out beautifully and made with pride. I could actually imagine her using it. Mine, I sanded into oblivion but I got an A for effort and took it home where it soon disappeared into the basement. Our youngish teacher acted as if he were both blessed to have a couple girls in his class as well as a bit miffed about how to deal with us.
While we figured out how to use grids to copy or enlarge comics from magazines and avoided buzz-sawing our fingers off, Daffy was open about her relationship with her boyfriend. Where they were meeting to have sex, she never said, but she had already bought faux leopard skin lingerie and that had to be difficult to get in and out of in a parked car. And she once brought a sexy magazine to show me full of naked men with erections. What the hell!
But there we were, interpreting our reality as well as our idealism; feminism was also about being able to have sex as freely without guilt as boys did. If one wanted to.
Daffy, unlike other girls in high school who hadn't opted out, took charge of her sexuality. She determined that she needed to get on the contraceptive pill. To do this she had to get her teachers to agree that they would not report her as missing from school.
Here is a scene from my health class in high school: Our teacher takes roll. She says she has a film to show us. She has already taped over the window in the classroom door with cardboard. She locks the door. Somberly she tells us girls, "If any one of you tell on me that I showed you this film, I could loose my job." She proceeds to show us a short black and white film that reveals the existence and use of condoms.
Meanwhile, a good number of boys, especially the school athletes, had been told by their fathers to always carry one of these. I heard they did, in tight jeans pockets and hot and messy glove-compartments in used cars. Always ready these boys were supposed to be. But girls? Girls could still get called whores if they had sex. Who did or did not have sex was always speculation - gossip. Even some girls called other girls whores. Only the cheerleaders could have sex and not get called names, because if they were "going' with someone, they already wore a promise ring; the heck with class rings. Star sapphires were popular.
No one told on the health class teacher for showing us the film.
Every teacher Daffy asked cooperated to hide her absence from school. Everyone knew the only place to go was Planned Parenthood and to get to the closest clinic was going to be a long journey. In fact, it was going to be a whole long day to get there and back.
Daffy and her boyfriend, her fiancée, the man she did marry and stick with till death parted them, were each others very first, only, and forever lovers. Remarkable!
Her boyfriend was a volunteer fireman back in the day.
We had a friend who lived in a hollow with her grandmother, a girl of Native American heritage. Their old house burned down. I never asked where the girl and her grandmother were going to go to live, what they would do, but I turned up when Daffy's boyfriend and the other volunteer fireman brought one of the red firetrucks, filled up with water, and parked it visibly from a two lane. We held up car wash signs on the main road. We girls washed cars all day in exchange for donations to give the homeless girl so she could buy some clothes and personal items.
We were all wearing short-shorts, which we called hot pants. We had no idea how hot we were.
While Daffodil went to electronics school, using public transportation, I once in a while saw her and sat with her. I was dating one of her classmates. She was getting a lot of attention being one of the very few girls who actually went to the school. She was gently and jokingly being sexually harassed, but she seemed to be enjoying it. One day, she said, my boyfriend had followed her down the school hallway with his face very close to her rear end. I was appalled. She thought it was funny. The way she told that story!
He wouldn't have told me he did such things to be funny and popular with the other guys. He wouldn't have pulled such a thing around me. As she laughed aloud and told it, I said, "Really?"
But then there was the time she accused me of flirting with her boyfriend. She was red faced mad and I was shocked that she would think so. To this day I can't remember what might have been said or where because I spent no time with them as a couple at all. More likely it was he who said something complimentary about me to her, to make her jealous. And oh, I hate the type that say or do things just to make you jealous. I thought for a moment and said, "Maybe he just likes girls with ski-noses?!"
She broke out in a wild laugh and that was the end of that. A relief!
There was also time that she explained about getting credit and buying a house. This had never been explained to me. I took mental notes but years later when I first applied for MasterCard or Visa I was turned down.
I can't remember if I was invited to Daffy's wedding or not. Maybe I was invited to a shower? I might not have been. I'm sure I did not attend. But I do remember that I bought a set of six antique hand painted drinking glasses at an antiques show and got them to her somehow. I don't recall a thank you note but maybe she already had a set in her Hope Chest.
Daffodil was just one of my friends who disappeared into marriage.
Disappeared...
C 2026 Christine Trzyna