Henrietta


henrietta letters

Oh yeah, and I got some pretty sweet cat salt and pepper shakers, too. You’re welcome.

I’d never liked antiquing before — my mother half-dragging me around rooms full of musty nonsense that nobody wanted, my feet tired, my nose stinging a little from all that dust and “history.” History in quotes, of course, because much of it seems to be weird plastic crap from the 1970s that got tossed out of someone’s basement and somehow landed in a shop dubbed as an “antique.” But my family took a trip to a little town on the river and found an amazing shop with proper, beautiful antiques. Vases, gorgeous old pipes, well-preserved powder blue suitcases, lamps, a strangely huge collection of salt and pepper shakers and finally…a stack of old letters spanning from 1913 to 1935 chronicling the life of Henrietta, a woman from California whose husband died of influenza in 1918, whose children grew up and sent her postcards from their trips throughout the state, whose sister and disabled brother sent her darling letters, drawings, and times tables. My favorite envelope simply contains a newspaper clipping of a burned-down building, with the words “our old playgrounds are ruined” in thick pencil-scrawled cursive.

I hadn’t written or been inspired to write since I left India. Life has felt like a blur, and a not-so-pleasant one at that, since I returned. I miss my life in Bangalore, miss the way people treated me and loved me and randomly took photos with me, miss the bizarre hole-ridden sidewalks and too-strong milk in bags, miss the food (oh, the food), miss rickshaw rides through monsoons. I often find myself up at night wishing I were back there, even though I love being home in the states, where it’s actually quiet at night and I don’t have to wear long pants in 90 degrees with 80% humidity. I’m glad I don’t have E. coli anymore, which finally ended its long romp inside my intestines after 4 weeks of the most impressive diarrhea imaginable. But I want to go back. It’s particularly hard because I was supposed to be there for 10 weeks and left after 4 instead, so in my mind I’m supposed to be there, not here doing yard work at 7 a.m. or living in the country with only a few friends around. I got used to never being alone, always having something to look at or taste or laugh about (so many goats), and writing is such a solitary activity that I think I’ve been avoiding it.

But then…Henrietta. Henrietta has a story to tell, and I’ve been researching her family tree and census records, trying to get a timeline so I can imagine her life and recreate it on paper. She came to me on old, yellowed paper, wrapped in a pink ribbon, and it’s my job, my duty even, to do her justice. You’ll see the results. Not tomorrow, maybe not next year, but someday you’ll meet Henrietta.

Many thanks to my reader Hans, whose kind words and constant reassurance always add a little joy to my day! (Basically, he was like “Why don’t you write anymore” and I was like “Good question” and that was like…that.)

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Greetings


This is very obviously me, post-plastic surgery, with my hunky boyfriend. Obviously.

This is very obviously me, post-plastic surgery, with my hunky boyfriend. Obviously.

Dear Friends,

It’s Christmas time again, and with each passing day comes mounting anticipation for my latest novel, “Kristen Wiig Ate My Cake,” which comes out December 25. After the wild success of my autobiography (entitled “Saving Orphaned Ladybugs, and Other Things I Did In College”), my publishers wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I was forced to continue writing. Ohh, the days dragged on as I wrote, sometimes for an hour each day, revising at least twice before sending it off to print. Yes, it’s been a long two weeks of writing, but my publishers expect at least 2 million in revenue, so that should satisfy some of my newly acquired expensive tastes.

But I digress. This spring, I was fortunate enough to spend a month in the Bahamas with my male-model boyfriend Charlie, where we spent our days on the beach and our nights at the clubs with all the other really sexy people. We had a great time, but we were happy to finally come home to our posh London pad for a little relaxation before my next book tour. I spent the rest of the spring touring France, Italy, and the US and giving inspirational speeches to homeless people at charity banquets. Needless to say, they wished they were me.

I’ve learned so much from the homeless this year. I’ve learned that you ought to bathe at least once a day, unless you want to smell like rotten garbage. I’ve also learned that going days without bathing can cause massive breakouts, a serious problem among homeless English people especially (and a problem which I helped treat for hours on end at dermatology clinics – for a small fee, of course). Most importantly, I’ve learned that I’m incredibly fortunate to be so smart, beautiful, and successful; if I wasn’t, nobody would like me and I’d likely kill myself. There is so much to learn from those around us.

I’ve also had a lovely time celebrating the recent success of my sister, whose dance single (“Let’s Grove Wit It”) dropped this summer to wild success among America’s Tea Party members. Her husband/record producer Sergio de la Blanca has also produced music by Mini Mama, Dolce Bam Bam, and Joo Yoo Wanna.

Charlie has been modeling like crazy this year! I’m so proud of him; he recently guest judged on America’s Next Top Model after Fabio sprained his toe during an “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” photo shoot. He has really brought out my spiritual side and taught me the wonders of yoga, which is just one more reason we look so great together in our Christmas photo (enclosed).

As I said before, this fall I devoted much of my time to my passion: writing about myself. I suffered from a severe depression after my autobiography grossed only 3 million, but after a few therapy sessions and another vacation with Charlie, I came to my senses and began writing again. I look forward to another great year in 2011. Even if it’s terrible, it’ll be better than yours.

We wish we could be with each of you this holiday season so everyone would know how much better looking we are than you.

Hope you all have a lovely holiday season, and don’t forget to look for “Kristen Wiig Ate My Cake” in stores Christmas day worldwide.

xoxox

Cappy

Outside My Window, Something Seranades Me


 

Is this you? Are you this?

Dear weird owlet/cat/small child outside my window,

First of all, what are you? You are making a strange squealing/squeaking/(dare I say) burping noise that I can’t properly identify you by. This species ambiguity is freaking me out.

Also, why must you make this noise outside my window? Like…RIGHT outside my window? Every single night this week, it’s been “squeal/squeak/burp” over and over and over until I have to practically blast The Strokes to drown you out. But once they’re blasting, sleep is out of the question since The Strokes are louder than you anyway.

See how difficult you are making my life?

Maybe you could move to a different tree/shrub/hole in the ground. And hopefully you aren’t a small child, because that’s creepy and dangerous – you could be eaten by a coyote or owl or something even scarier, like Katy Perry. I’ve heard she shoots babies with her whipped cream gun bra.

With all due respect, I ask you to shut up.

GoodNIGHT,

Cappy