Charlotte (Snooki) Brontë Ditches Rehab Again

This is my most popular article, which has always puzzled me I hope Charlotte (Snooki) Brontë will forgive the liberties I have taken with her personal story..

Pacificmelody's Blog

Apparently even famous writers are susceptible to the whims of fame.

Wednesday, February 2, 1840. This just in: Paparazzi, who have been staking out the Elizabeth Fordyce Clinic for Troublesome Young Women in the hope of catching a glimpse of Snooki Brontë, were rewarded by the sight of a cloaked and hooded figure being ushered away from the clinic by her publisher. Since this is in direct violation of the judge’s orders, her freedom can probably be counted in hours. It is expected that Snooki will make the most of her time on the loose. The trip from the front door of the facility to her carriage was marred by several stumbles, but she recovered and was able to make it up the steps with the aid of her maid, who had accompanied her into rehab.

Friends, who had arranged an intervention for Snooki and pleaded with her to…

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This Is the Night

What I’m saying to you
I cannot put into words
But if you are curious

Press your hand against
My racing heart
Watch how my pupils
Widen with desire I feel
No need to hide
Or be ashamed of

We have been traveling
Toward this rendezvous
Since the day we met
And recognized each other

This is a precious moment
Against which all the others
Will be measured
And fall short

Tonight my darling
We are making history

The Coward

I stand watching
The tail lights of
Your plane as they
Vanish into the dark
Wondering why
You looked so sad
When you kissed me

As I turn to leave
I feel a hand on my arm
And hear a young voice
Asking “Ma’am
Is your name Sara?”
When I nod my head
He thrusts a small
Envelope into my hand
Then disappears
Into the crowd

Staring at my name
In your distinctive
Script
I know now why
There were tears
In your eyes
Why you touched
My face so gently

You were saying
Goodbye

I curse you for
The coward
That you are
I will not read
Your letter

Ripped in half
It lies where
You left me and
I step on the pieces
As I walk away

I have already
Forgotten you

The Look of Love

Once in a dream
I saw you pass by
On the other side
Of the road

And I thought you
Beautiful
With the sun all golden
In your golden hair

Since then I’ve looked
For you everywhere
Till I began to think
That you were only

A figment of my
Fertile imagination
The ultimate in the
Unobtainable dream

Yet now you’re here
My dream’s come true
And you look at me
As I first looked at you

A Brief Encounter

I had the perfect dress once. It was forest green, a supple jersey material, which embraced me in its warmth. The neck was scalloped, and it was mid-calf in length, with sleeves that stopped six inches above my wrists. It flowed in a smooth sweep from my shoulders, with nothing to interrupt the purity of its line, and it hugged me like a lover. The skirt was full. If I picked it up by the hems, I could lift my arms up above my shoulders. If I twirled around and sank down on the carpet, it spread around me like the petals of a flower.

I paired it with a triangular, peach-colored shawl I had crocheted, and I wore it with the point aiming down my right arm and the ends crossed over my left shoulder. On my feet I wore little black suede pumps, all rounded toes and high heels; they looked as if they’d been made for me. A matching purse with a gold chain shoulder strap and two pairs of gold earrings completed my ensemble. I had brushed my hair until it shone like spun gold, and with lips painted coral and sexy sunglasses perched on my nose, I was ready to face the world.

This may sound like a lot of work, but when I’m getting ready to go out, my costume du jour is an important part of the armor I wear to protect myself. At any rate, the reward for all my efforts came later that afternoon. I was strolling along, when I met a couple walking arm-in-arm. We smiled and nodded and passed each other by, and then the man called out to me, “Oh, miss, my wife and I love your look!”. I thanked them and walked on, day completely made. That was at least 15 years ago, and I’ve no memory of what happened to the dress, but even now, when I remember those words, I smile.

(Originally published December 12, 2009, on seeing a young lady with a very put-together look.)