They Still Make Malteds

Did you know they still make malted milk powder? Or whatever it’s called. I was going to meet Maggs at the train (surprise of all times, she took the train back!) and needed to pick up some Splenda for her. I never use artificial sweeteners myself, and she already used up the packets I swiped from Friendly’s. So on the way, I stopped by that old-fashioned-y little grocery store on Sunrise Highway, and there it was. Right by the sugars and flour and cocoa. Not Ovaltine, but the real thing. I stood there looking at it, and my entire childhood flashed before my eyes. Well, I had to buy some, right? And a few pints of ice cream and some chocolate syrup. Smoothies my ass! THIS is why it pays to have a blender! We had 100% authentic malteds for lunch, with spicy curly fries that I had in the freezer against an emergency ☺ Uncle Harry always gave me a pretzel with a malted. There’s something about the salt with the sweet that really works. Maggs had to admit it was even a better binge than killing a couple of bottles of wine. Not that we didn’t do that for dinner. If she doesn’t go home, I’m going to gain a ton. I think she must be bulimic, because I know she doesn’t exercise enough to burn off all the booze and sugar.

I think she probably will be going home soon. Saturday, we drove out to the beach house, which wasn’t as hard for me as last time I went. It looks closed up and lonely, but still okay. The garden is really green from all the rain. I have to stop thinking about that garden. Okay, so Maggs was really sniffing around the house. It’s more her style than it ever was mine. What I loved was where it was, and no matter what it was a more comfortable place to be than the apartment. Maggs didn’t come flat out and make an offer, but she implied that she’d like to buy it. Only her lawyers have advised her not to even rent a place outside California until the settlement is set in stone. Ken’s getting ready for a fight, and any tiny wedge to turn on her and say she’s not a California resident would be something he’d jump on in a minute. She’s going to have to head back to LA and show her face for a while.

I love Maggs to pieces, I really do. But what makes it hard to have her around is that it makes me feel like a poor relation. I’m getting used to living like I do out here, you know, having a kind of small life. Once she stopped crying and passing out, when she strapped on her stilettos and started planning out her battles, it was all about a life I’m not living any more. Events, and shops, and new hot restaurants, and spas and facials. I was hardly thinking about those things any more. I was getting back to the time before, remembering other ways to be. And I was thinking it was good and, I don’t know, “authentic” maybe? to do what I was doing. But hearing about that other world day in day out, even if I’m not sure I want it, I can’t help but feel like Tiny Tim looking through a toystore window.