19. Dear Sasha

Dear Sasha,
I still haven't heard from you. Happy new year. I'm sending you this as a little cute joke gift. It reminds me of your parents and the advice they would try to give us.



S.

p.s. did you and your brother ever talk about the time he caught us?

18. Sasha

Dear Merve,

This is Sasha and this is my story. It's mine - not yours, not hers, and not the version you'd get from any of my clients. I'm a hooker living in Germany (I won't say exactly where, and please understand) and I'm not German and I like it all that way. It's helps me separate the past from the present and know that future is somewhere else, and that whenever hooking doesn't work for me any longer I can just go there, wherever. For now I'm happy, don't get me wrong. This life as an American ex-pat hooker isn't all it's cracked up to be and it sure is a lot of sweaty, dirty work, but it's good, and it's mine. And I like it.

And that ninny Sally (aka S., which is so stupid, by the way) wants to take it away from me. More about her later, unfortunately.

The name my parents gave me is Sasha and I want you to know the real story. My hooker name is Kirsche. I have a small round mouth with nice plump lips and when I lay on the lipstick, it's just all a little cherry in the middle of my face. Kirsche = cherry. Cute, isn't it? And it isn't hard to explain to the dumb ones. All clients get it and they think it's cute. Cute is the game I play. I play kitten and tiny and bubbly and you can pick me up and throw me around. All that stuff most men like. Most men who pay for sex anyway.

I specialize in fur. Anywhere. Just ask for it. Fur is my game. Meow!

So, about Sally. I mean, "S.," as she seems to need privacy these days. My god, the woman is so freaky and always has been. Remember when she stayed up all night long making finger puppets of the nativity scene? Baby Jesus had hair to her knuckles. Unnatural.

She's writing me. Like, constantly. I don't know how she found me but she's calling me Sasha so far and hasn't referred to my job. She hasn't even asked me about it. She probably thinks I'm a fucking foreign exchange student. I should tell her I give discounted blow jobs to the exchange students, see what she says about that. She'd freak out and you know it.

What the hell am I going to do about her? Help me! I'm afraid she's going to fly over here with her nasty little stinky mutt and track me down. I don't want to get the German police all in my business, so I have to avoid this happening. Help, please.

Sasha

p.s. I sure do miss you, baby.

17. Dear Sasha

Dear Sasha,
it's almost a new year. Whatcha gonna do when they come for you? I'm gonna strap on my boots and run. Slap! Gimme a buck, I'll show you.

S.

p.s. dear, dear Sasha.

16. Dear Sasha

Dear Sasha,
I'm officially mad.

I wish I could tell you how mad I've been for all these years.

I wish we could play Twister and do algebra homework before dinner and then watch a movie or play Monopoly or Clue with your parents.

I wish we could wear swim suits and leotards and stand in the front yard pretending to be sexy statues.

I wish you could show me your training bra and laugh at my jealousy.

I wish your sister could wedge her way between and make us scream at her.

Remember your pimento cheese spread? I hated that shit.

I am so mad at you.

S.

p.s. Mad!

15. Dear Sasha

Dear Sasha,
winter has definitely descended. Bucky and I went for a walk last night and I knew it was cold when his little toes were laced with ice globs. I asked him to sniff for you. He's no inspector puppy but he sometimes feels up to a challenge. You, my dear, are the challenge of the decade. He sniffed around a little on each block and seemed very disappointed and uninspired. Poor Buck-o. I got his hopes raised too high that he'd get to meet his auntie Sasha.

Unless that's too presumptuous of me? You'd be a good auntie if you could just see his curls.

So for now I'll set up the doggie treadmill in the basement because it's too damn cold outside for any small creature. Especially my beloved.

S.

p.s. When the going gets tough, Sasha, the tough pick up the phone.

14. Dear Sasha

Dear Sasha,
I gave up waiting to hear back. You probably noticed my lack of chatter.

I saved you some Halloween candy because I wondered if you had Halloween in Germany and I didn't want you to be deprived of it another year.

Let me know where to mail it and I will ASAP.

S.

p.s. Will you send pictures of your home and such? By the way, Bucky has anal sac adnocarcinoma.

13. Dear Sasha

Dear Sasha,
I'm wondering if this is why I should decide to not have friends much anymore. It's awfully painful. I've tried to have fun finding you - tried to file the past and enliven the future. And I am just not feeling my inner circus right now. The lions are emaciated and the tightrope walkers can't find their magical shoes. It's not in the stars? I'm just not for you?

You might be thinking I'm slow and that I should've known this so many years ago.

I'm not dumb. I just had to try again. I just wasn't ready to give up on you yet.

S.

p.s. The river seems yellow today. Pfffft.

one down, three to go

I am *almost almost* done with my first semester of social work graduate school.

One more 30-page paper and then I'm done with school for a month.

OMG!

I'm feeling energy from thinking about all the SINGING and COOKING and ART MAKING and PHOTO TAKING and RANDOM THOUGHT THINKING and SEWING and KNITTING and LAUGHING and MOVIE WATCHING and CREATIVE NEIGHBORHOOD WALKING and all sorts of other FUN things I get to do REALLY REALLY SOON. (Here I almost come with knitting needles in hand, Martha and Nancy!)

Writing Dear Sasha has been getting me through this end-of-semester intense time.

It's almost here! Vacation! AAA!

!!!!!

12. Dear Sasha

Dear Sasha,
I took Bucky for a walk just now (that's my dog; you'll meet him soon) and was thinking about post-modern theory (like where does reality exist and for what peoples? and is death just like birth in the sense that it's just a dropping out of an experience you've known as the only experience? Etc., etc.) and then checked my email to see if you'd written at all (I'm losing hope, I think, but what does it mean that I still check my email constantly?) and the only mail in there was spam and I wondered why it was all sexy sex spam (I mean I just don't get the appeal there) and worried for all the old people who know how to use email. The old people, when they see sexy sex spam, what do they think? Don't they get really embarrassed? Do they blush and pretend they didn't see it? Do they treat it like pooping in the toilet - flush and don't look? I feel so bad for old people and kind-of hope none of them actually get addicted to email, like me, waiting for anyone to write back, like you, because it just forces me to deal with all the SPAM.

S.

p.s. Bucky says hi. He already responds to the sound of your name with a little perky ear flapping.

11. Dear Sasha

Dear Sasha,
I'm sorry for the sappy poem. I couldn't help myself in a moment of weakness. I am guessing you're not ready for that kind of intimacy. Forgive my forwardness. Forgive my freakishness. Unless you liked it?

Hey, do you see the same constellations I do? I've been wondering how far apart we really are. Is Germany basically like on the other side of the globe from here? I wonder if I see some constellations half the year that you see the other half the year. I have some interesting science magazines I read that I can send to you if you like. I'm getting greener. You know, I'd rather send you used magazines so you don't have to go and kill more trees just to learn.

S.

p.s. Isn't this fun?

10. Dear Sweet Sasha

Sweet Sasha,
you looked bored
(and were pulling
the threads out of your
sweater one by one
humming a Police song)
that day
until I walked in
you'd crossed my mind
once or twice.
Ever since then
I've felt you inside my mind
bottled up.
Sweet Sasha,
some things and
some people
stay around.
Some go. And come back.
Come back.
Whatever it was
(was it the boys? your grades?
the time I played with
your sister instead of you?)
whatever was done
I'll forget
I'll talk
I'll plea.
Sweet Sasha,
an anxious love poem
is a poor replacement
for live declaration.
Give me the time
to do better
next time.

S.

p.s. Do you speak German?

9. Dear Jimi Hendrix

Dear Jimi Hendrix,
the whole world knows you write songs really well. Thanks for that contribution to our society. It most certainly invokes love and peace and kindness into the hearts of everyone at the same time when it comes up on the radio when you do that thing you do.

Hey, Jimi, I have a favor to ask you.

Jimi,
will you and Bob Marley get together and do a duo and send me some dream-like cosmic energy while you're doing it? I don't really believe in GOD so I don't believe in heaven either but I believe in you two and I bet you two are together. So however it's done, will you do it and send it to me?

Write a love song to Sasha. That'll get her.

S.

p.s. Do you two believe in GOD?

8. Dear Sasha

Dear Sasha,
I found this email address of yours when you made that webpage last summer. I found it and your email address was on the bottom of that blue page you made. That's the only reason I know it, I'm not doing anything unusual or illegal here. You put it out, I took it in. Same direction of movement. Floooooow. That's all. >>>>>>>

I'm going to leave all of this to the goddesses to determine. Yes, that's right, not GOD. You should know that by now. We need a few women to help us here. Remember that fortune cookie you got once? We laughed for minutes on end. "Two women can get anything done before noon." We laughed because we'd procrastinated our homework all weekend and then skipped Monday morning classes.

I'm sure that the more I miss those days the more you miss them, too.

It's just doom, gloom and Oprah this afternoon.

Sigh.

S.

p.s. Become my friend on facebook? Listening to Tracy Chapman reminds me of you.

[I must disclaim. I read this blog and one entry made a clever combination of the words "doom, gloom, and Oprah afternoon." This poor fellow has experienced content robbery lately so I need to disclose my actions. After I read those words, I could not get them out of my head.]

7. Dear Yahoo

Dear Yahoo,
I just want to make sure things are working right. I've sent six emails to someone in Germany - her name is Sasha for purposes of future referencing in this and other correspondences we may have - and I haven't heard back from her. Is there a problem with your mailing system? Are my email letters getting clogged somewhere en route to Germany? She has not replied and even though I thought she'd need a little coaxing I'm very surprised to not hear anything from her at this point STILL.

Please let me know if you are having technical issues and I will regroup my patience. For now, though, I am broken-hearted and muffled-up over this problem I think may be, in reality, your problem.

S.

p.s. Do you hire extra staff for the holiday season? I have a nephew. He would be good.

6. Dear Sasha

Dear Sasha,
this morning I went for my cafe latte and I saw someone who looks just like you. I'm not sure it wasn't you still. It was very crowded in there and you were ten people ahead of me right when I was thinking, "why do I come when all these other bitches come here?" You were there. I thought. Were you? Was that you? Did you come here to find me but not tell me? I haven't seen you since 8th grade and we haven't talked since 10th and now we're over thirty and I don't think we've changed that much you still look like you had the same haircut and shoulder width and fingernails.

I don't know why you won't tell me if you're here or not. If this is a surprise I'll tell you that this is a surprise to you but it's pure anxiety to me!

S.

p.s. You see? If I stay home all day to see if you'll show up and you don't then I lose a whole day but if I leave I'll miss you if you're really here.

5. Dear Sasha

I just can't understand why your parents raised you Catholic. And Irish! Sasha, I hope you've dropped all that nonsense now. Did you know that guilt is a function of self denial? Stop denying yourself. This has gone on too long. Now you see why I had to intervene.

This is the greatest day of my life!

Sasha, I have an idea. Why don't we meet up like they do in the movies. Pick a place and a date and a time and a landmark and a wardrobe color and buy plane tickets. Not here, not there, somewhere else. So you're in Germany now and I'm in New Jersey. Tuscany, perhaps? Let's do it.

I'll buy my ticket first to show you how committed to this I am. Okay? Sometimes you have to trust someone to allow them to trust you. That's what I'm willing to do for you, Sasha.

If you don't send me some dates and times, I'll have to do that too.

S.

p.s. I'll bring my dog along. I hope you're not allergic.

4. Dear Sasha

Hey, Sasha, Sasha, you there? Sasha. You there? Hey. Call me. Sometime. You there?

S.

3. Dear Sasha

Dear Sasha,
I'm sorry; I've been prim. It's hard for me not to be self-righteous. You left, not me. That chip dangles from my shoulder like dried poop on a dog's furry butt. I read poetry before I write your letters so that I'm in an existential state so that you'll think I'm smart. You were always so much better than me in math. Are you a science teacher now? How are the German schools?

Sasha, I don't know what I want but I do know I want it.

What would it take for you to see me? Write me? Call me? What can I give you in return? I have been wondering that for 15 years.

S.

p.s. What size shoe do you wear? Your feet were bigger than mine when we were kids and I wonder if that's still true. I wear size 6.

"card postage"

In doing research for my Dear Sasha series, I came across this strange service. You can send a card from a country to a friend when you're not actually in that country?

2. Dear Sasha

Dear Sasha,
I said I'd write again. What did you expect? I'm always true to my word on these matters. I haven't heard from you yet and I just hope that eventually I will. I have to convince you to not be embarrassed about it. Cause I think you are.

Twinkle twinkle go the lights up on the wings of the plane in the sky and I think about that time I flew to see you and your parents and your little sister. Did you stand at the airport gate and watch the plane taxi in? Did you wait and watch each emerging face with all the other people as we emptied out of the door single file? I wish I could remember that moment. It was the last time I felt secure that you loved me. I was so secure that I didn't need to remember it.

I'll go easy on you with this letter because I take it that your lack of a response is that you're still thinking it over. I'll write a little at a time.

S.

p.s. Did your little sister become a real estate executive like she thought she would?