It's the title of my latest book. This time, its an autobiography and sure to sell well to my fans. Strangely, they haven't figured out who I am yet. Or maybe they have and just don't care. Yeah, that's it. No wonder my editor laughed when I asked for an advance!
The title comes from my earliest remembered experience -- falling into the Rittenhaus's swimming pool at 11 months of age.
Due to the continued absurd limits upon AOL Journals entries, this post continues below. Don't you just love the way it breaks your train of thought?
"Of course, I'd played in the pool with my Mom and Dad, but somehow this August afternoon I managed to crawl away from the sand box and fell unnoticed into the Olympic-sized pool I'd later visit daily to learn how to swim in. I was small enough that my head didn't show above the edge of the pool. My folks used to tell me about finding me happily paddling around under the diving board, buoyed by the air trapped in the rubber pants over my diaper, but sinking lower and lower as the cloth diaper inexorably absorbed the pool water. All I remember is the shock of falling into the cold water followed by a blissful period spent staring at the clouds while paddling about, then the hullabaloo as adults around the pool started shouting and screaming and then someone snatched me from the water scaring me half to death and nearly drowning me with their tears and blubbering and then I cried too, as I was afraid and I didn't know why.
"From a purely pragmatic standpoint, my excursion in Poseidon's Realm brought immediate change for the better in the way the Rittenhaus's positioned their pool furniture. A new concrete patio was built at the shallow end of the pool, along with a new, much larger cabana with a fenced play area for us toddlers to muck about in while our mothers soaked up the sun and the gin and the gossip in the sure knowledge that the wee bairns were safe inside of the corral with the Rittenhaus's own nanny watching over us all as their attack-trained German Shepherd Dog lay at the gate to the enclosure.
"Now, the Rittenhaus's were the Holy Grail to us poor white folk [ed. note. Irony Detector alert. They were Jewish.]. They lived on a beautiful estate with its own farm, vineyards, horses and pigs and all sorts of fowl, including peacocks, tucked back in the woods away from the main road. The Main House was a 16th century stone beauty, fabulously maintained, with detached stone carriage house and servants quarters and tobacco houses and barns. That is, they lived there when they weren't in their townhouse in Philadelphia or their pied a terrae in New York, where Mr. Rittenhaus made his living as an impresario and producer on Broadway..."
So. Would YOU give me an advance?
This entry has 1 comments:
Comment from maydeeday - 10/21/03 7:41 PM