A letter from Dad to the little girl at camp
Hello, SWEETIE. Hope you are having a great time up there at Camp Wompie-noodle. Did you know that Wompie-noodle is an Indian term for tortellini? I’ll bet you did.
Your mother asked that I drop you a note to let you know that we are thinking of you and miss you very, very much. You know, she cried the first night you were gone. And the other day she set a place for you at the dinner table, forgetting that you were away. When you didn’t show for dinner, she grounded you for two weeks. So you’ll come back to that. I thought you should know.
How are things going up at old Wompie-noodle? Do the canoes still leak? Do all the other campers smell like bad breath and baloney sandwiches? That’s the way it always is at camp. In a few more days, they’ll begin to smell like the blanket in the garage where the dogs sleep. Enjoy that smell. You’ll remember it your whole life.
So, how’s the networking going? You playing much golf? You know, we didn’t send you off to summer camp for a bunch of fun and games. It cost us several hundred dollars, a considerable sacrifice for people in our tax bracket. We hope you are making the most of it and meeting nice kids you might one day marry. Hang out with the doctors’ kids, OK? And there’s always major money in commercial real estate. It never hurts to show an interest.
Have you brushed your teeth yet? Your mother made me ask. If you don’t brush your teeth, they’ll get soft as gum and you’ll soon find yourself swallowing them. No, I am not exaggerating one bit, young lady. So go. Brush. Now!
Are you back from brushing? Good. Things down here are fine, thanks for asking. As always, each day brings another exciting development. Your mother just bought your baby brother a little table where he can sit and eat his breakfast. This makes it easier for the dogs to reach his food. They are very grateful to your mother for this table. Now, they don’t even need to strain their thick doggy necks to gorge themselves on Cocoa Puffs and bananas.
Your baby brother is doing fine. He apparently thinks Barney is his real daddy and watches him endlessly all day, waiting for him to come home. When he’s not watching Barney, he scampers all over the house on the balls of his feet, doing that little run he learned from watching cocktail waitresses. Your mother blames me for that.
“Look, he already has an eye for cocktail waitresses,” she says, then smacks me on the arm.
I swear to you, I haven’t looked at a cocktail waitress that way in, like, three weeks. So I have no idea where she’s getting that. And I find her allegations grossly unfair.
Meanwhile, the big brother you love so much is doing very well too. He sleeps during the day and stays up late at night. He might be a vampire, we’re not sure. But he is a pleasant young man. When we feed him, he always grunts his approval. We think this means “Thank you, I am enjoying this fine meal very much.” Or maybe, “Thank you for the love and care you have shown me my entire life. I really appreciate it.” With one grunt, he can convey all this. In his own way, he is a gifted communicator.
Your big sister has also been sleeping a lot. Your mother and I think it’s because she has a pimple the size of St. Louis. Either that or she is working as a cocktail waitress. It’s a tough economy. By the time you get back, I may be pouring drinks myself. Professionally, I mean.
Your mother? Well, except perhaps for the day you were born, the woman has never been more exceptional. Despite the heavy burden she is under, your mother greets each day with a warm smile and a kind word. By all indications, she has finally gotten over that stinky Lo Duca trade. Those were some dark days, believe me.
Oh, you haven’t heard about Lo Duca? The Dodgers traded him to Miami for a seafood platter and two jai alai players to be named later. L.A. was in flames for about three days, but now the National Guard is out and it’s safe to go outdoors again. By the time you get back, rebuilding will probably be underway. Now, it’s all about healing and moving forward, the mayor says.
So, that’s how things have been going down here since you left. Hurry home, princess. As always, we need your help desperately. The dishwasher just overflowed again, and your baby brother has some gooey stuff on his leg that we can’t seem to identify. Please bring napkins.
Love always,
Dad
Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.
