Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Dear Cindy from the B52’s,

Hi! You don’t know me, but my sister’s friend’s son is your son’s best friend. I’m going to meet you Cindy. I need to know how you go from being a B52 to a suburban mom. I need to see what your hair looks like now, because surely you can’t still have a beehive. I need to hear if your voice really does drip with honey, and if you walk around quietly humming “Rock Lobster.”

The next time my sister’s friend’s son has a birthday party, I’m coming. I don’t care if I’m not invited. I’ll be the childless woman in her thirties jumping around on the Moonwalk with all the six-year-olds. I’ll try to act real cool and promise not to ask you for my own private concert. Hopefully you’ll let me hang out with you and join in your conversations about the good old days when you hung out with R.E.M. in Athens, G-A as y’all call it. Maybe you don’t talk about those things anymore. Maybe your conversations are more geared towards the weather, the price of gasoline, and getting restraining orders against people like me. I’ll take my chances.

Can’t wait to meet you,


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