I’ve started to write this letter at least 20 times in as many years. Just imagine me sitting alone in my office surrounded by crumpled pieces of paper.
During the fall of my daughter’s sophomore year at the most difficult and impossibly demanding public high school in New York City, Sandra, our cleaning lady, came rushing into my room wearing a pained look…
In this sweltering summer of discontent, the Elvis impersonator is wedged into a rhinestone-encrusted royal-blue jumpsuit. Our pores sweat like Corona bottles under the blistering sun.
We’ve just finished telling my in-laws that according to a recent consult with my doctor, it will be difficult, if not downright dangerous, for us to have a baby.