ENCHANTÉ – HOW TO SELL BOOKS
Frank and Ted love writing books. Franks writes romantic stories and Ted writes thrillers, and both are self-publishing. Both have sex in their books but they try to keep it above the porn-line. They never show these sex pieces to their writing group to avoid embarrassment, even though their writing group team members are waiting for them with lusting eyes and are utterly frustrated when they don’t get them for critique.
“Sex pays,” Ted says. “But outside the bedroom.”
“There’s an opportunity for a book signing on Brook Street,” Frank says. “An art show. Let’s go there and sell some books.”
They rent a tent and showcase their books on a table with posters.
Art on the Avenue – Alexandria VA October 2017 – www. AlexandriaNews.org
Courtesy George Vercessi (www.vercessi.com)
Frank’s poster shows a wrestler-type torso with a busty girl in his arms, carrying the title, “Lust on Devil’s Island.” He uses the pen name, Franca Bianca, because Romance Writers of America has only female writers who write for women, and stats prove that eighty percent of readers are women. Most men don’t read as most of them are illiterate morons watching football. Ted’s poster reads, “Killing Joan,” because he writes about the last of many (women) agents who rejected his book. The cover design shows a knife piercing through a crying heart with blood dripping down in large blots. Not very original but blood sells too. Both sell their books at ten dollars a piece.
“If this does not attract people, I’ll be damned,” Frank says, looking at the tent from the street side.
When crowds are filling Brook Street, all patrons pass by and look at other tents instead, selling cheap jewelry, pots and pans, fake antiques, starving artists paintings, dog collars, T-shirts, and popcorn. The tent next to theirs sells party ornaments.
“You should sport a female facemask, Frank, because you ain’t looking like Franca,” Ted says.
“Great idea. And you should wear an O’Reilly facemask because you stole his title series,” Frank says.
“Let’s stand in the middle of the street carrying our posters to attract people to our books,” Ted suggests.
“But I’m not wearing a skirt,” protests Frank.
“Go to that tent over there,” Ted says. “They sell Halloween masks and costumes.”
Frank leaves their tent to follow up on Ted’s bright suggestion. He buys a Hillary mask and a blue plastic skirt, walks back, and dresses up in the back of their tent.
“Did anybody come by to buy my book?” Frank asks.
“Somebody came and asked if that guy with the torso was Arnold Schwartzenegger. When I said ‘yes’ he didn’t buy the book.”
“You should go to that tent too,” Frank says. “They have O’Reilly masks and bloody knives for sale.”
Ted goes while Frank sits with his Hillary mask on, hoping to attract book buyers. One man stops, looks at him, or rather his Hillary mask, comes nearer and gawks at the torso poster. “Is that book about what happened to Hillary?”
“No, it’s about a handsome man like you who shipwrecks on an island in the Pacific and meets the girl of his life in the midst of crocodiles, snakes, donkeys, and elephants.”
“Why do you wear a Hillary mask then?”
“Well, Hillary’s world is devil’s island, don’t you think?”
“I only read non-fiction, thank you.” The guy walks on, leaving Frank frustrated.
Ted comes back with his O’Reilly mask and a few bloody knives. “Sold any books?”
“No. They think my book is about Hillary. I have to buy another mask. You look terrific, O’Reilly.”
Frank walks to the party tent again, buys himself a Melania mask, and hurries back, just in time to see Ted in a furious discussion with a woman.
“How do you dare to show off that womanizer’s face? Shouldn’t your book be titled, Killing O’Reilly? Shame on you!”
“I guess you didn’t sell any books,” Frank says.
“No. You saw that woman’s reaction. I have to buy another mask.”
Ted leaves for the party tent. Frank dons his Melania mask and waits. A couple loiters in front of him.
“Is that Donald Trump’s torso?” asks the wife.
“No, it’s Tarzan’s,” answers Frank wrily, grumbling through his mask.
“You don’t sound like Melania, she has a foreign accent,” the husband says.
“That accent doesn’t come with the mask,” Frank says. “Buy my book and you’ll find out whose torso it is.”
“My husband doesn’t have a torso like that. That girl in his arms must be scared-shit. Is that Melania what the book is about?”
“Just imagine you as beautiful as you are, left alone on an island with snakes and crocodiles, and a guy with that torso swims ashore, naked, saves your life, takes you in his arms, and makes love to you. Would you not want to read that story?”
“Come on, Elena,” the husband says, pulling her away. “You’ve got other books to read. You haven’t even finished Nora Robert’s latest.”
“Okay, Melania,” the woman says. “I’ll look it up on Amazon. Goodbye…”
Ted comes back with a Bruce Willis Mask and a Die Hard-flagged plastic pistol.
“Sold any books, Frank?”
“No, Melania does not sell because people don’t want her to be pulverized by Donald Trump’s torso. I need another mask.”
Frank leaves for the party tent and Ted reinvents his author bio, waiting for people to come and buy “Killing Joan.”
“Hah,” a man says to Ted. “I hate my wife Joan. Is that a “How to” book?”
“It’s about Joan of Arc, burned at the stakes,” replies Ted. The man walks away, disappointed.
Frank comes back with a Sylvester Stallone mask and a fake carton torso piece. “If this doesn’t do it, I must change genre,” Frank says.
He sits behind the table, watching onlookers passing by, not even looking at them. “We should be more proactive, Ted. Yell at them, ‘Come by and read for pleasure.'”
Frank and Ted yell, but people stare at them as if they’re crazed idiots.
“I repeat: Let’s go on the street with our posters and draw people to our tent,” Ted says.
They leave the tent for the street, Frank with his Sylvestor Stallone face and fake torso, and Ted in his Bruce Willis costume, swaying his Die Hard pistol in the air.
Two cops swerve in front of them, out from nowhere, guns drawn. “Hey, you, you have a weapons permit?”
Curious onlookers are immediately crowding around them. “It’s plastic, man! We’re selling books over there, you see?” Ted responds, pointing frantically to their tent. “We paid one hundred dollars for that piece of junk. Hi everybody, come and buy our books! Half price!”
Throngs of people suddenly stand in line. Frank and Ted sell all their books, emptying their boxes. Even the cops buy a couple.
After the art show, they have a beer at the nearby bar, smiling broadly.
“Frank, you must be goofy, writing those books,” Ted says, wiping the foam off his lips.
“And you must be cracked selling them,” Frank says. “What’s your next book?”
“Killing Frank, and yours?”
“The Kiss That Poisoned Ted.”
Coming Soon: Francine – Dazzling Daughter of the Mountain State –
Kirkus Reviews: “A corporate novel chronicles a young woman’s meteoric rise at a coal mining company. A dramatically taut tale propelled by artful characterization and political relevance. “
Also coming:
Audrey – A Cherished Memory – A Short Story in print for the benefit of the Audrey Hepburn Children’s Fund.
Customer Reviews on Amazon.com of the 2014 e-book version:
“An engaging story from start to finish. Evocative of a particular time and place but ultimately timeless and universal in touching the human heart.” Mark Spencer
“A pleasant account of an exceptional person. There’s always something poignant about beautiful people recovering from ghastly times. Thanks for the read.” Micah Harris
“I adore Audrey Hepburn and love to hear new stories about her. Can’t get enough. And this short story was a nice little peek into her life, especially pre-fame, as a young girl… loved it.” Kendal Brenneman
ENCHANTÉ – A SCRIBBLER GOES HOME
Do you ever feel that you can talk to your ancestors?
I do. I didn’t think I ever would when I was young. But once your life progresses and you become more aware of life’s fate of family and close friends passing, you begin to think about where they went. They can’t just have gone away when you still feel their presence.
This happens to me with several people who have been instrumental or influential in my life. You still feel their heartbeat, you hear their speech, you know they’re in your room as if listening in, wanting to continue partaking in your life. My grandmother, my mother, Fioen, the girl who gave me my first kiss and died in a dreadful accident when she was 16 years old; and my dear cousin intended co-writer, Anne van der Laan.
It happened again when I dwelled in the library and workroom of my great-uncle Joost, or Joshua van der Poorten Schwartz, alias Maarten Maartens – the once-famous Dutch writer who wrote primarily in English at the turn of the 19th and 20th century – in his splendid house in Doorn, a small town in the Netherlands. I had visited this workroom many times before, always impressed by its serenity and literary wealth, with the many old books in French, English, German and even Latin and Greek, filling the shelves along the walls.
In 2002. I sat at his writing desk and suddenly felt Uncle Joost “speaking” to me. “Pick up your pen and write. Do as I did and feel fulfilled.” To my regret, I did not follow his gentle push right away as I was still fully absorbed by my consulting demands. However, a cousin, who had also been in that room at that time, and felt the same way, agreed with me to outline our first book together, entitling it Some Women We Have Known after the title of our uncle’s first volume of published short stories. Then he passed away before we could finish it and again on my next visit to Maarten Maartens’ desk I felt his strong urge, “John, you go on. Don’t let this fail.”
I started with short stories in English about each woman I had selected for this purpose. Audrey Hepburn, whom I had known when we were kids, she 13 and I 7, was the first. Eventually, these stories became a coming-of-age and early-adult memoir, ending with my marriage, this time keeping the same title as Maarten Maartens’ first short story volume, Some Women I Have Known.
After I climbed that first hurdle – everyone who writes knows that a first book is a hurdle – I wrote my first novel, Enchanting The Swan, about a musician couple whose love goes wrong before it gets right. It’s quite a dramatic tale, starting at William & Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia, and from there to Brussels, Geneva and New York. Even though it is written in the first person, it is pure fiction, except for the description of the hall of Baron Maconville’s house in Waterloo: as close a description as possible of the antiques in the hall of Uncle Joost’s house. It had to be based on memory: when I went back to the house to verify my memory, all the antiques had disappeared (harnasses, musquet rifles fixed to the ceiling in a perfect circle, little canons, and other collections from North Africa where the Maartens traveled – see the picture below in Th. M. Gorissen’s book Maarten Maartens, 1992). For some sad reason and madness, they had been removed. Nobody could tell me how that happened and where they went, but it had to have had the approval of the then managing committee (including family) responsible for the upkeep of Maartens’ library. Shame. If I had still been in Holland, that would never have occurred.
At the stage of writing Swan, I strongly believed Uncle Joost communicated with me. In 2013, my sister Mary Kranendonk and I and a small group of family members decided to celebrate Maarten Maartens’ one-hundred-year passing in 1915. I heard this voice in me to write a summarization of his 13 novels and his 4 volumes of published short stories. By reading his work, often twice, to enable me to commingle my summarizations with passages of his own writing, I bonded with this long-gone family member-writer and now feel that I’ve known him all my life. When I am in his workroom, I don’t feel like an outsider. I am part of him. Other learned people may have studied his work and life, and analyzed it, but nobody ever made his works available in a contemporary format that allows family and interested readers to enjoy Maarten Maartens’ writing without having to read his sometimes lengthy 19th century style in full, that is, if they can still find them in antique bookstores or libraries.
The One-Hundred-Year Commemoration of Maarten Maartens in September 2015 became a very successful event, thanks to the hard work of a small dedicated group of family members who spent many months preparing it (see a previous blog in November 2015, describing the festivity). It gave us a feeling we had revived his memory and done him right.
Living in the US, I wanted to go back to Uncle Joost’s house once more. My sister and I decided to celebrate our 80th birthday there in July 2017 (she a half-year ahead and I a half-year past). This scribbler went “home” to the Maarten Maartens House to pay his respect and express his gratitude while at the same time celebrating a life with many family members and friends (the subject of a next blog). For me, as a modest scribbler with no fame, it was also a day of reconnecting with an uncle who had instilled in me the joy of authoring stories.
Soon to come:
Francine – Dazzling Daughter of the Mountain State: She rises to the top of a mining conglomerate, demobilizes the anti-mining lobby, but will she save the company and find love in the meantime?
ENCHANTÉ – Cable Panel Blues
Fred and Tom meet in de makeup room.
“You know what she’s going to talk about?” asks Tom.
“The same thing they’ve been talking about all the time,” says Fred. “Russian roulette, Watergate 2.0, leaking sewers, deep state, all things that excite viewers of all stripes.”
“It’s the rating game, isn’t it?” says Tom. “I bet they won’t talk about how much better their 401Ks look now compared to just a year ago, though I’m sure they’re happy about it.”
“The old adagio is good news doesn’t sell, sex does,” mused Fred.
“I heard millions of women bought Weiner’s pics so that he could cover his legal fees.”
“She’s not going to talk about that, Tom. That’s her party’s side, and she won’t shoot herself in the foot. Rule number one of the Panel Debating Club, friend. Better take note.”
“You know what side you’re on? They didn’t tell me.”
“Me neither. Doesn’t matter. She’ll look at our face and knows right away you’re right and I’m left.”
“How so?”
“You wear your parting on the right and mine’s left. Simple,” Fred says.
“What if a guy’s bald?”
“All bald guys are right wing. Look at Karl Rove, Giuliani, Gianforte, for example.”
“But James Carville’s left wing, Fred, and so is Jerry Brown.”
“They lost their hair because they couldn’t get it right.”
“What about women pundits then?”
“Come on, Tom, you know. They fake it, whether left or right.”
A program assistant enters. ” OK, guys, you’re on next. Come with me. You, Tom, you sit on Sheila’s right, and Fred sits on her left.”
“You see? I told you so,” Fred says.
WWN’s show The World in Seven Days is on. Sheila introduces her panel members. “Tom, let me start with you. We have these daily leaks from Deep State. Your thoughts?”
“Washington’s leaking like a sieve as it always does, and the stinky dirt left is bubbling up. Washington press cooks take the blubber, make so-called news of it, and nobody cares, except you.”
“Fred, don’t you believe these deep state stories are true?” Sheila asks, her eyes showing bewilderment.
“Of course, they are. Deep state wants to save the country from going down the tube. Under the previous administration, society was changing so nicely to the left until it got criminally stopped by Russian infiltration.”
“Tom, don’t you think too the Russians stole the election from the American society?” Sheila asks with a sneaky smile, fixing Ted’s eyes.
“The Russians are pokers and thieves and have always been,” Tom acknowledges. “Its operatives act like those nesting dolls. You take one out and another one pops out, just looking the same, and before you know it you’ve wasted your money buying the same thing over and over, only getting smaller. Voters got fed up because they wanted real change.”
“Do you agree, Fred, that the election was lost due to those nesting dolls?” Sheila wonders, throwing a helpless glance at Fred.
“Tom is right. The Russian leaks turned the Democrat party into those dolls. Each time the party spoke, the same old same old came out, and, of course, they lost. Ergo, the Russians stole the election from the Democrats and the Republicans helped them doing it. That’s why they are guilty and the Special Counsel will prove it.”
“But why would the Russians do that, Fred,” interjects Tom. “They got twenty percent of our uranium under the Democrat administration. They might’ve gotten the other half too to beat us, if they stuck to them, rather than going for a change in party they can’t be sure of.”
“Well, Fred, Tom seems to have a point. Why would Russia want the Republican party in power?” Sheila asked.
“The Russians are against measures to stem climate change, as is the Republican party. That’s why,” Fred said, stone-faced. “They want the artic to melt so that they can more easily dig for oil and gas, like the Republicans want.”
“Should we not feel sorry for those polar bears losing their habitat, Tom?” asks Sheila, tears welling in the corner of her icy blue eyes. “Is it not clear to you now why the Russians sabotaged the re-election of the Democrat administration?”
“I thought we were talking about the deep state leaks and sieves,” Tom says. “Aren’t we straying off the subject?”
“I am asking the questions, Tom,” says Sheila, giving him her charming cold smile. “There are anonymous reports of Russian attempts to tamper with the election boots in thirty-nine states. Fred, I’m sure you’re aware of that.”
“And so is the Special Prosecutor,” Fred asserts. “Anonymous sources tell me he has hired Clinton lawyers to look into each boot.”
“So where is this heading Tom?” Sheila asks. “Don’t you think too the President must be impeached?”
“I would break this down into three segments, Sheila. ‘Imp’ stands for ‘troublemakers’; ‘Peach’ stands for deep state leakers peaching bad on the President, and ‘Ed’ stands for anonymous editorials in the Washington Post or the New York Times that have no ground, altogether standing for stench stinking to high-heaven.”
Sheila turning to Fred: “Stench stinking to high-heaven, Fred, is this not journalistic overreach?”
“Of course it is. Exactly the language of the radical right. That’s how they have divided our nation. I repeat, during the past eight years, our society was changing so nicely to the left. Freedom of speech only for those who deserve it according to them, violent protests only for those who feel belittled or racially profiled by the right, and healthcare only for those who cannot afford it regardless of the cost. And only black is beautiful and only the rich must be taxed. And Tom wants to change all that back to the right.”
“Last comment, Tom?”
“I love black is beautiful, really do, but I’ll keep changing the left’s downward curve to America’s destruction until I see blue.”
“Thank you both for being here,” Sheila says, and the screen goes to Cialis extra strength.
PS: In the noisy exit room, Tom is left with a blue eye and Fred with a bloody red nose, both in the true colors of the American flag. Neither knows the fight is taped by the insidious WWN, and maybe leaked to the Special Prosecutor for breaking news from anonymous sources. Continuation of the panel is in doubt.
ENCHANTÉ – THE PANEL CRAZE
Hello Everyone: Ever finalized a manuscript? If you did, you will understand why ENCHANTÉ was out of the air for a while. “Francine, The Dazzling Daughter of the Mountain State” will be out soon.
Now we are back with Tom and Fred, this time invited by World Wide Network to form a panel on important daily political matters.
“Fred, how are we going to do this?”
“Simple, Tom, you make a point and I make a counterpoint. We never agree because the opposite side must always be right, whatever side you are on.”
“But if I agree with you because you make more sense, why shouldn’t I say so?”
“Because you get fired if you do. It’s like a sports game, boy. You’re not supposed to kick the ball into your own goal. You must kick me as hard as you can, regardless of whether I’m right.”
“But isn’t that ridiculous? If I make sense, you wouldn’t agree with me?”
“Of course not. That’s how it works. You have fans on your side, and I have fans on mine. Each side wants the other to lose as badly as possible. Scorched Earth. That’s politics. It’s a sports game, the American way. Each side gets paid for making crushing opposite points. Otherwise, the viewers get bored.”
“Which side are you on?”
“The opposite of yours.”
“But which is it, left or right?”
“If you show me yours, I show you mine.”
“But does WWN not want to know first what yours is?”
“They will only tell me if they’ve seen yours first.”
“Can we switch panes when you like mine better?”
“For the viewer, left of the anchor is right, and right of the anchor is left. Don’t confuse people. They want to see which side you’re on.”
“What side is the anchor on?”
“Tom, don’t be stupid. It’s WWN that pays their salary. They talk WWN’s side.”
“How much do they pay?”
“The more they like yours or mine, the more they pay you or me.”
“Do they give equal time?”
“They may or may not. If you crush me or them, they may let me pay back twice.”
“Geez, Frank, this is really like Monday Night Football without referees or line backers.”
“It is, or more like national wrestling or kick boxing, male or female.”
“So this is how people in Congress live?”
“And what tax payers pay for. Your tax money is like buying tickets for the games. And to beat up each other in the streets if you lose.”
“What about those election slogans then, stronger together or America first?”
“Well, Tom, those are essentially sports terms. The political teams fight it out, either to show they’re stronger than the other, or to become first.”
“So we must fight it out on TV too?”
“Sure, if you want to get paid. Not physically, of course, like that guy in Montana, but by blabbing better and faster than your opponent, while keeping a straight but very false smile, as if you are the friendliest bastard or bitch ever.”
“Do we train for this before we start?”
“Don’t have to. Just look at today’s TV and you get the message.”
“Which side do I chose?”
“Just wait which side the anchor puts you. Then, whatever he or she wants you to comment on, you take the left or right side of his/her point of view. The truth does not matter. Nobody knows what that is anymore anyway.”
“But I don’t know in traffic sometimes what left or right is.”
“Doesn’t matter, as long as you take the opposite side. You’re insured by the media.”
“Fred, I’m going to sign up and hate you.”
“Me too, Tom, I hate you already.”
ENCHANTÉ – MOTHER’S HARD TIMES
Kathy is facing another hard day trying to keep her young offspring in line. Being a mom is a continuous battle. And so it is today: She feels compelled to give little Frankie a bang on his bottom because he pushed his sister onto the floor. We’re listening to the ensuing discussion with Frankie after he was punished and his reaction to his stressed mom that has many more troubling consequences. (Based on a real story).
“You took the risk, Mom!”
“What you mean, Frankie?”
“You wouldn’t have me trouble you all the time if you hadn’t done it.”
“What you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You and dad.”
“What about me and dad?”
“You doing it.”
“Doing what?”
Some hesitation on Frankie’s side. Then he mumbles, grinning, “making love.”
“Who told you that?”
“Miss Tilly at school.”
“And what else did Miss Tilly tell you?”
“If you don’t want babies you must use a papa-stopper.”
“A what? Is that what they teach you in school?”
“Amy knows it too. Tommy told her.”
“Your sister is only eight! And you are only ten! You tell your friend Tommy to stay away from Amy. It’s scandalous! I’ll raise hell about this in next week’s PTA!”
“You may not say ‘hell’ Miss Dooley said. What’s a papa-stopper look like?”
“Well, did Miss Tilly not tell you?”
“She drew one on the blackboard, but I’ve never seen one.”
“What? On the blackboard? I’ll go straight to the principal and have her fired!”
“What’s so bad?”
“I’ll tell you when I get back!”
Kathy sits with the principal.
“You know Mrs. Johnson; our state law requires that we provide sex education. Even the Republican Party voted for it.”
“Why so young? When I was eight or ten, I’d never heard of it.”
“We have the highest rate of teen pregnancies in the industrial world. You want your kids to be one of those victims? In The Netherlands, they teach kids about love as of Kindergarten, and they have the lowest teen pregnancies in the world.”
“Kindergarten age is four; what do they know! My eight-year-old knows no more. Isn’t it bad enough that my boy’s ten-year-old friend tells my eight-year-old girl?”
“You exaggerate.”
“No, I don’t. Frankie said Tommy did.”
“I’ll tell Tommy not to tell anyone in second grade. But I won’t fire Miss Tilly. She’s an excellent teacher and a mother of six.”
“Six? My goodness! Does she know about the pill?”
“Let’s not go there, Mrs. Johnson. Good day.”
Kathy walks with hubby Frank senior in front of their beach house.
“I clam up telling kids about sex,” Kathy says. “Can you do it for me, Frank?”
“How did you learn about sex?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Why not? Was it in school?”
“Certainly not. We’d be expelled if we were talking sex.”
“Where then?”
“I said, I’m not telling you.”
“You’re not saying I was your first kisser? You did pretty well at the prom.”
“I got it from the movies.”
“Hah! And my hard-on and what followed? Did you get that from the movies, too?”
“Come on! They never show you the bottom part.”
“How then?”
“Frank, you’re embarrassing me!”
“You see? I bet you had sex before me. And you didn’t get pregnant like so many others. So who told you?”
“My mother.”
“When?”
“When I had my first period.”
“Aha! Wise mother! You know how many girls get pregnant nowadays at that age and wished they’d been told?”
“I see where you’re heading. We better tell the kids then. It’s so hard to be a mom.”
“Not harder than your mother. At least you have Miss Tilly.”
“But she has six children, Frank!”
Kathy and Frank are discussing how they’re going to tell the kids.
“The books tell you to use the proper terms, not the slang ones,” Frank says.
“But I feel uncomfortable about even using the proper terms. I prefer the little words, you know, willie and foo foo. They’re still so small!”
“As long as we tell them to keep their willie and foo foo private and not for use with or by others. That’s why we call them private parts.”
“But what when they start feeling sexy?”
“Well, by that time trouble starts. Remember? We’d better tell them to put a stop on it.”
“Oh Frank, Frankie asked what a papa stopper was. Miss Tilly told him.”
Frank laughs. “You told me she has six children.”
Next, Kathy and Frank have dinner with the kids.
“How’s Miss Tilly doing, Frankie?” Kathy asks.
Frankie looks up, a suspicious glance in his eyes. “Why you’re askin’?”
“Oh, just to know… What’s the latest gossip in school?”
“Amy used the F-word and got punished,” Frankie says, pointing his fork at Amy.
Amy puts her fork down with a broad grin.
“Is this true, Amy?” Kathy asks. Frank’s face shows he’s about to burst into laughter and that he has trouble not to.
Amy grins again, looking at her brother. “F*&in,” she says to him, dragging out the word, giggling, her eyes shining a naughty glance.
Kathy raises her voice. “That’s a very bad word, Amy! I forbid you to use it, here and anywhere! You don’t even know what it means!”
Amy giggles again. “Hee, hee, hee. Tommy told me. Like daddy and mommy doing it.”
“I don’t think we need Miss Tilly anymore,” Frank says, getting angry. “Now you guys: you listen carefully. This is serious business. Sit quiet. No more jokes!”
And so Kathy and Frank explain love and its physical consequences in fourth-graders’ terms to the best of their ability.
Amy has been listening half while drawing lines on her placemat with her fork. Then she looks up to her mommy and says, “Tommy told me you can blow up a papa stopper like a balloon. Can you buy me one?”
***
“What would you like for mother’s day?” Frank asks.
“Eight hours of sleep, and champagne on the beach with you alone.”
Read this story about another Frank and Frankie!