Personal Essays
Signed, Sealed, Delivered
Which is more effective: a valentine to him that says “Be mine,” or one sent to his ex that says “He’s mine?” CLAIRE MICCIO’s childhood practice gets back into swing with valentines carrying a hidden agenda.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- Better Baby Names Bureau (The Non-Expert)
- This Is Not a Eulogy (Profiles)
- The Vanishing Date (Spoofs & Satire)
Also by Claire Miccio
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- It'll End in Tears (September 2, 2008)
- What Is It, Boy? (August 5, 2008)
- The Dream Vacation (July 1, 2008)
Also in Personal Essays
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For most children, Valentine’s Day is a chance to get creative with markers and safety scissors, but when I was a kid I saw it as a vehicle for mischief, an opportunity to craft only lies. Along with genuine valentines—my sloppy construction paper cutouts—I would deliver counterfeit valentines, written in a series of scripts on loose-leaf paper. In these letters I revealed crushes (regardless of their reality), intimated betrayals, and concocted unlikely secret admirers. I was what you might call a “matchmaker” or “shit” but I always had a good time bringing people together and, yes, sometimes tearing them apart.
At some point I stopped doing it. I’m not sure if I grew out of it or if it was the shame of eventually getting caught. Ambition got the best of me when I wanted to make kiss imprints on a number of the letters. My mother wouldn’t let me waste her lipstick, so instead I used a blue permanent marker and ended up with a curiously stained face. You’d think I ate out a Smurf or something.
Ah, those were the days. I think this Valentine’s Day I’m going to forgo the flowers and the chocolates and remind myself of what it’s like to be a kid. Especially a shitty one.
* * *
Jacob,
As you know, Claire is truly something special. I too know this because a long time ago she used to be mine, long before you two ever met. Due to extenuating circumstances we could not be together and she moved to Massachusetts, where I can only assume she happened upon the likes of you. I’m aware that none of this matters now and that my loveable pudgster wiped me from her memory like crumbly pastry bits on her pants.
But pay me mind because the advice I have to offer is invaluable. Claire may have changed greatly since our adolescent days together but there is one thing about her that I’m certain has not changed. On the subject of Valentine’s Day, she will likely hem and haw, saying in her sweet, self-sacrificing way that you should save your money because there is nothing that she needs. Despite its truth, you must not fall prey to this reasoning. Claire may not need anything but she still has needs. Pie, Jacob; she needs pie and she needs it brought to her door. But don’t get anything with nuts in it because she doesn’t care much for that.
My message to you is effectively my final valentine to her. Please, bring her pie and maybe ice cream, so that I may know that she is happy. This is my last wish. Now I must join the witness protection program and wipe myself away, too.
Godspeed,
Old Flame
* * *
Pussycat,
You’re a bonne bouche baby, that’s what you are. People think we can’t be together because we’re different. But the way I feel about your body is proof that they’re wrong. What I feel is the only natural thing left in this world. Baby, I wanna make a baby. And you and I both know that that baby would be the finest, most beautiful baby in the whole kingdom. Just imagine it: My ears and your nose, your independence and my loyalty, my instincts and your third eye. Baby, let’s make a baby; let’s make a pupkin, or a kippy, or whatever the hell people are gonna call it. Let’s just do it and get your kitty kat fed doggy-style.
—Puppydog
* * *
Dear Mr. Darcy,
I’m sorry about your being upset with me. I hope you’ve had the chance to calm down and think about why it is I take comfort in other men, even if only temporarily. You see, Mr. Darcy, as a modern American woman I have choices and while I do not choose to keep Daniel Deronda or John Thornton (and certainly not that awful Reverend Edward Casaubon!) I do choose to know them.
You and I live in different times. I have a fabulous daughter named Claire and you, after six wonderful episodes, have Miss Bennet! This doesn’t mean we can’t continue to have each other. I assure you that whatever charming creatures are born of the BBC, none are so exquisite as you. Don’t let the pride that nearly cost you Elizabeth come between us too; righteous indignation gets you nowhere, bucko.
Let’s stay steadies,
Mamacità
* * *
Dear R.
I declare you to be awesome. “Trapped in the Closet” is a masterpiece and as a rock critic I’m sure that few have had balls to say so because most of us are off dropping four-star reviews for Sleater-Kinney’s X chromosomes and not their music.
Anyway, you’re totally batshit and I’m shocked by how much mileage you still get out of it. You are consistently entertaining and for that I am grateful. Now, this isn’t to say, like, mi casa su casa because dude, I’ve got a sister, but I do appreciate your lunacy. Especially in the form of “Sex Weed” and “Sex in the Kitchen.” They’re doozies.
Keep trippin’ balls and steppin’ in the name of love,
Anthony Miccio
* * *
Dear Omar,
On a normal day I would never have the guts to tell you this, but since today’s Valentine’s Day, here it goes. Omar, I am in love with you and always have been. I want you to move out of the apartment you share with Claire and move into another apartment where I can soon join you.
I know, you’re probably confused and wondering who I might be. My identity will come to you in time, but until then you’ll just have to trust that I’m hot enough for you to move out of your apartment with Claire. Once we’re together we can do all the things you most enjoy! We can discuss how Ben Gibbard is a gifted poet rather than a mere lyricist; we can do vocal jazz exercises while cooking in the kitchen at three in the morning; we can even make a cappella arrangements of ‘80s pop hits, choreograph them, and then practice them in the living room!
Omar, all this and a seriously hot girlfriend could be yours—but only if you move out of your apartment. I’m not possessive; there’s no need to fear the green-eyed monster in me. But with Claire in the picture, our Gilbert and Sullivan lovin’ bodies can never be free!
Think of our love and then let Claire know you will not be renewing the lease.
Kisses for now; sex for once you move out,
Claire Miccio’s hot neighbor
* * *
Dear Goth-girl Star Market clerk,
It kills me to see you and yet I’m always in your checkout lane. You never notice me; in fact, as my girlfriend pointed out, you never notice anyone. You just stare listlessly at the Teddy Grahams display while I stand there wishing more than anything that you’d roll your black-etched eyes toward me.
Of course, Claire doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get anything really, which is why I think we’re eventually going to split. To her, you’re a town character, like the lady who walks her cat on a leash or the guy who goes door to door soliciting money to build a perpetual motion machine. I tried to explain to her that life doesn’t come out of some book. That Somerville isn’t Yoknapatawpha County and that you’re not some oddball in a motley band of supermarket clerks, but rather a real, bonafide woman of extraordinary depth. After that she told me I had a crooked cock and then broke my ABBA records over her knee.
Tonight, when I come to your register with chicken broth and a packet of udon noodles, will you look up at me? You don’t need to say a thing; in fact, I’d prefer that way. Talking can only enervate the bond between us. Just promise me that you’ll stare. No matter who I’m with or how I respond, stare. Then I’ll know you think of me, too.
—Your secret admirer
* * *
Dear Smith College,
I am writing to you to ask for a favor. One terrible night in November my apartment caught fire with my two cats, Tiddlywinks and Mr. Bojangles, still in it. Claire Miccio, a recent graduate, walking home from work, saw me on the street in distress. Quickly ascertaining the situation, she fashioned a grappling hook out of roadside trash and began scaling the triple-decker. Once inside she managed to carry all three of my cats to safety before designing a pulley system to help her bring down a number of my belongings. By the time the firefighters arrived, Miss Miccio had transported nearly my entire apartment, including a personal library, to street level. In addition to her intrepid engineering, I was struck by her enthusiasm for literature. Between her trips to the inferno we had quite a lively discussion of female ambition in the 19th-century novel.
Upon later encounters with Miss Miccio I have learned that she feels indebted to Smith for giving her the opportunity to develop her mind and interests. I have also learned that she is literally in debt to Smith and will be for perhaps the rest of her life.
This Valentine’s Day, think outside the box. Don’t add another dreadful production of The Vagina Monologues to a long history of dreadful productions. Don’t throw another dance party with DJ Steve that no one in their right mind attends. This year, think of my cats and forgive Claire Miccio’s loans! That kind of generosity can only come back to you tenfold.
Sincerely,
Tiddlywinks and Mr. Bojangles’s mommy
At some point I stopped doing it. I’m not sure if I grew out of it or if it was the shame of eventually getting caught. Ambition got the best of me when I wanted to make kiss imprints on a number of the letters. My mother wouldn’t let me waste her lipstick, so instead I used a blue permanent marker and ended up with a curiously stained face. You’d think I ate out a Smurf or something.
Ah, those were the days. I think this Valentine’s Day I’m going to forgo the flowers and the chocolates and remind myself of what it’s like to be a kid. Especially a shitty one.
Jacob,
As you know, Claire is truly something special. I too know this because a long time ago she used to be mine, long before you two ever met. Due to extenuating circumstances we could not be together and she moved to Massachusetts, where I can only assume she happened upon the likes of you. I’m aware that none of this matters now and that my loveable pudgster wiped me from her memory like crumbly pastry bits on her pants.
But pay me mind because the advice I have to offer is invaluable. Claire may have changed greatly since our adolescent days together but there is one thing about her that I’m certain has not changed. On the subject of Valentine’s Day, she will likely hem and haw, saying in her sweet, self-sacrificing way that you should save your money because there is nothing that she needs. Despite its truth, you must not fall prey to this reasoning. Claire may not need anything but she still has needs. Pie, Jacob; she needs pie and she needs it brought to her door. But don’t get anything with nuts in it because she doesn’t care much for that.
My message to you is effectively my final valentine to her. Please, bring her pie and maybe ice cream, so that I may know that she is happy. This is my last wish. Now I must join the witness protection program and wipe myself away, too.
Godspeed,
Old Flame
Pussycat,
You’re a bonne bouche baby, that’s what you are. People think we can’t be together because we’re different. But the way I feel about your body is proof that they’re wrong. What I feel is the only natural thing left in this world. Baby, I wanna make a baby. And you and I both know that that baby would be the finest, most beautiful baby in the whole kingdom. Just imagine it: My ears and your nose, your independence and my loyalty, my instincts and your third eye. Baby, let’s make a baby; let’s make a pupkin, or a kippy, or whatever the hell people are gonna call it. Let’s just do it and get your kitty kat fed doggy-style.
—Puppydog
Dear Mr. Darcy,
I’m sorry about your being upset with me. I hope you’ve had the chance to calm down and think about why it is I take comfort in other men, even if only temporarily. You see, Mr. Darcy, as a modern American woman I have choices and while I do not choose to keep Daniel Deronda or John Thornton (and certainly not that awful Reverend Edward Casaubon!) I do choose to know them.
You and I live in different times. I have a fabulous daughter named Claire and you, after six wonderful episodes, have Miss Bennet! This doesn’t mean we can’t continue to have each other. I assure you that whatever charming creatures are born of the BBC, none are so exquisite as you. Don’t let the pride that nearly cost you Elizabeth come between us too; righteous indignation gets you nowhere, bucko.
Let’s stay steadies,
Mamacità
Dear R.
I declare you to be awesome. “Trapped in the Closet” is a masterpiece and as a rock critic I’m sure that few have had balls to say so because most of us are off dropping four-star reviews for Sleater-Kinney’s X chromosomes and not their music.
Anyway, you’re totally batshit and I’m shocked by how much mileage you still get out of it. You are consistently entertaining and for that I am grateful. Now, this isn’t to say, like, mi casa su casa because dude, I’ve got a sister, but I do appreciate your lunacy. Especially in the form of “Sex Weed” and “Sex in the Kitchen.” They’re doozies.
Keep trippin’ balls and steppin’ in the name of love,
Anthony Miccio
Dear Omar,
On a normal day I would never have the guts to tell you this, but since today’s Valentine’s Day, here it goes. Omar, I am in love with you and always have been. I want you to move out of the apartment you share with Claire and move into another apartment where I can soon join you.
I know, you’re probably confused and wondering who I might be. My identity will come to you in time, but until then you’ll just have to trust that I’m hot enough for you to move out of your apartment with Claire. Once we’re together we can do all the things you most enjoy! We can discuss how Ben Gibbard is a gifted poet rather than a mere lyricist; we can do vocal jazz exercises while cooking in the kitchen at three in the morning; we can even make a cappella arrangements of ‘80s pop hits, choreograph them, and then practice them in the living room!
Omar, all this and a seriously hot girlfriend could be yours—but only if you move out of your apartment. I’m not possessive; there’s no need to fear the green-eyed monster in me. But with Claire in the picture, our Gilbert and Sullivan lovin’ bodies can never be free!
Think of our love and then let Claire know you will not be renewing the lease.
Kisses for now; sex for once you move out,
Claire Miccio’s hot neighbor
Dear Goth-girl Star Market clerk,
It kills me to see you and yet I’m always in your checkout lane. You never notice me; in fact, as my girlfriend pointed out, you never notice anyone. You just stare listlessly at the Teddy Grahams display while I stand there wishing more than anything that you’d roll your black-etched eyes toward me.
Of course, Claire doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get anything really, which is why I think we’re eventually going to split. To her, you’re a town character, like the lady who walks her cat on a leash or the guy who goes door to door soliciting money to build a perpetual motion machine. I tried to explain to her that life doesn’t come out of some book. That Somerville isn’t Yoknapatawpha County and that you’re not some oddball in a motley band of supermarket clerks, but rather a real, bonafide woman of extraordinary depth. After that she told me I had a crooked cock and then broke my ABBA records over her knee.
Tonight, when I come to your register with chicken broth and a packet of udon noodles, will you look up at me? You don’t need to say a thing; in fact, I’d prefer that way. Talking can only enervate the bond between us. Just promise me that you’ll stare. No matter who I’m with or how I respond, stare. Then I’ll know you think of me, too.
—Your secret admirer
Dear Smith College,
I am writing to you to ask for a favor. One terrible night in November my apartment caught fire with my two cats, Tiddlywinks and Mr. Bojangles, still in it. Claire Miccio, a recent graduate, walking home from work, saw me on the street in distress. Quickly ascertaining the situation, she fashioned a grappling hook out of roadside trash and began scaling the triple-decker. Once inside she managed to carry all three of my cats to safety before designing a pulley system to help her bring down a number of my belongings. By the time the firefighters arrived, Miss Miccio had transported nearly my entire apartment, including a personal library, to street level. In addition to her intrepid engineering, I was struck by her enthusiasm for literature. Between her trips to the inferno we had quite a lively discussion of female ambition in the 19th-century novel.
Upon later encounters with Miss Miccio I have learned that she feels indebted to Smith for giving her the opportunity to develop her mind and interests. I have also learned that she is literally in debt to Smith and will be for perhaps the rest of her life.
This Valentine’s Day, think outside the box. Don’t add another dreadful production of The Vagina Monologues to a long history of dreadful productions. Don’t throw another dance party with DJ Steve that no one in their right mind attends. This year, think of my cats and forgive Claire Miccio’s loans! That kind of generosity can only come back to you tenfold.
Sincerely,
Tiddlywinks and Mr. Bojangles’s mommy
—Published February 14, 2006
