Mother guards her antique birdfeeders fiercely. Once when I was young, a schoolfriend of mine named Fred Datasphere broke out into hives next to her 1941 Lavindale. She wept for 2 hours and banned Freddy from the industrial bourgeoisie. His father resented this, as did my own for some reason, but Freddy's laborer Uncle and my possessive Aunt (both of whom were secretly engaged) praised my mother for saving the boy and contributing positively to the class struggle. My mother attended their funerals decades later. I mention this only because it illustrates that she wasn't all that bad a person. She also had their tombstones shipped to Peru where they could be put to a more cheerful and less gloomy or macabre use. I thought it a philanthropic thing. My father disagreed, and tried to have my mother and me shipped to Peru along with them. We have since forgiven him, despite holding our grudge for over 3 years. He has since undergone quite the transformation. I believe his name is now Phillippe and he can be found shepherding somewhere in South America.

It comforts me to know that he is now in a state of mind that completely forgets our horrible grudge against him and its consequences, or for that matter, his childhood in Scandinavia, the rebellious adolescent life he led as ambassador to the French Aristocracy, or even the wife he married and the four children he had (2 out of wedlock). Mother suggests we contact him and taunt him with his forgotten past, dropping hints and clues to make him madly confused and irritable. I agree that it would be quite an amusing way to spend an evening, but sadly I refuse to hire Dutchy to locate him in Brazil. I have told my mother that, regretfully, Dutchy's services are needed elsewhere at the moment.

My mother understands this not at all. Dutchy, she says, should be put to the task, for according to my mother, she has done little in the way of deserving her 40 dollars. Mother doesn't know about my secret project which I have Dutchy working round-the-clock on. It is a scientific experiment, or at least I'd like to think so. Many so-called academics will be jealous. I realize Dutchy is neither inclined nor particulary interested in science, but she does know how to knit, and quite enjoys it, and as I am trying to get back at her for her rude (and might I add, wrong) comment about my placement of the chairs in the den, my scientific experiment was carefully constructed so that it did not involve knitting in any way, shape, or form. Take that, Dutchy! How you like me now? I wanted to see the look on her face as she doesn't knit, but I unfortunatly am unable to fly out nor do I have the particular inclination to visit such a cold barren desolate place like the Siberian wastes. I had my youngest brother Zen fly out there with her (another bit of revenge on my part, but that's another story)and he plans on recording every aspect and subtle nuance of her shattered and un-concentrated-contentedly-on-knitting face.

Mother, and I suppose pre-grudge father, would be proud of my machinations. The whole business has had me feeling rather satisfied. I eat more on the whole than I ever did and delight in the size my belly is getting. Oh, you should see my belly. I had reporters from the local paper come into the parlor to get a good look earlier this week; no photographs of course, I just wanted them to get a good first peek, so that they could start developing their articles in advance before my grand unveiling (the belly is currently under a red tarp - to be lifted on the 15th by my personal orchestra's Maestro).

Come to the celebrations. You are cordially invited. Though I'm afraid I can't send you an invitation. This year I've decided not to print up any invitations at all for anybody, but I've told my house staff not to accept anyone in unless they've got them. It is really just being done as a favor for my mother, as she enjoys watching my friends being turned away from the house. She's currently trying to convince me to have my guards at the gates armed with semi-automatic machine guns or some such nonsense. I may allow it, but only if the guns are actually loaded. I go for realism in all things. It is a philosophy I picked up while visiting German boudoirs last summer. I'm having a doozy of a time getting this can of peaches open as I dictate this, so I'm bringing it over to mother to offend her as I suggest she try opening it. It will no doubt, be a "ton of fun" as the young locals like to put it. I hope you have noticed that I've been interjecting many of the more amusing slangs into my correspondence with you. Enjoy.