I was sorting my in-box (not a euphemism) and found this email Jeff sent me last year. Too cute not to share! (The email I mean, not Jeff.)
Oh do you remember sweet
Dixie LaRue?
She's sometimes a Stoic and
sometimes a Jew,
And sometimes a vixen who
rides on the trains,
Asking men what they're
reading and clouding their brains.
She lives with her multiform
psittacine friends,
And to their quotidian needs
she attends,
Bananas and cashews for
Clemmie and Butch
(Pearl, Smitty, and Jonesy
get not quite so much).
And don't forget Lulu, the
Havanese pup
Who barks if the water's too
low in her cup,
And pitches a fit when you
come through the door,
And once took a shit on the
Time-Warner floor!
Sweet Dixie wears Diane von
Furstenberg wraps
And tank-tops and flip-flops
(but NOT baseball caps).
The spots of the leopard are
pinstripes to her,
So long as the garment is
not real fur!
Sweet Dixie's affectionate,
funny and smart,
And lives in a riot of
tchotchkes and art,
And loves fifties clothing
and flour-based food
And plays the accordion when
in the mood.
She reads the philosophers,
classic and pop,
And dances the Shorty George
and Lindy Hop,
And runs around Central Park
by several routes,
And goes to the gym to blast
hams, delts and glutes.
She trolls the flea market
for vintage couture,
And sometimes goes out for a
dark manicure,
And has her hair blow-dried
to make is less curled,
And I am the luckiest man in
the world -
For Dixie picked me on the
Brooklyn-bound R
And gave me her e-mail as
she left the car,
And answered my letters with
humor and charm,
And said, "Yes!"
to pancakes and leaned on my arm.
And that is my story of
Dixie LaRue,
Who brightened my winter and
broke my streak, too,
And won't dress in
run-of-the-mill underwear,
And speeds up my heartbeat by just standing there.
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