Grand Larseny

Themed entry, using the following image:

No, Sally, you may not have a pony. Not because you’ve been bad, not because you asked if you “can” have a pony instead of if you “may” have a pony, and certainly not because it’s too expensive. It’s because your father and I simply do not like you.

This is not a new development. Your father has never liked the way that you eat your food, and I cannot stand the way you smell. Between us, we have a gentleman’s agreement that we are both right in our own way. In some way, what you eat probably affects the way you smell, especially consider you do little to clean the partially consumed digestive material from your long neglected hair. We do what we can to make our relationship work, and at this point, part of making our relationship work is letting you know in no uncertain terms that you will never, ever have a pony, so long as you live.

I wish it were different, Sally, I really do. I wish you had been born in the Himalayas, perhaps. Some land where your bovine hips and bellowing strains would set a natural scene. Somewhere that does not demand silly things like grace, temperance, subtlety, and a full set of teeth. Sadly, our house does. Dr. Kreider told me that it is perfectly natural for children to lose teeth only to regrow them later, but who can trust such a lunatic physician as he? Honestly, no good man I know would try to take my fifth martini away like he did at last years christmas soiree. That man doesn’t know a dorchester from a doorknob.

Don’t be glum, my dear. That horse is as good as glue to you, but you will go on. As my daughter, I can’t help but love you. It’s just that I don’t like you. Have kids and you’ll find out just how natural this is. Take care darling, and ride with your head high. That is to say, happy trails to you.

Best Wishes,

Cecilia Winthrop Clinton