Mostly because I’m in no position to do so. I’m a receptionist at a music school.

Partly because I know you gave this memoir to all the men in our extended family before you gave it to me, since you consciously, though not vocally, think that women are incapable man-garnishes. I know the only reason I am now getting this memoir is because I now live in Hollywood and you think I must know some bigtime producers.

Partly because it’s not even a script. It’s a handwritten journal that you Xeroxed.

Partly because no one in the family believes you were kidnapped and taken to Mexico by your ex-boyfriend. The others who read the memoir told me what really happened—you went with him willingly on a vacation, but then wanted to get back together with Grandpa, so you called Grandpa from Mexico and told him you’d been kidnapped.

Partly because you keep calling me at horrible times (5 a.m., 6 a.m.) and leaving horribly droning messages about how we are both going to be millionaires because of your memoir, which your girlfriends all agree is better than anything that’s in the theaters, and how you sent it via UPS and how I should keep my eyes open for it because you only have so many copies of it. When I did call you back to tell you I had received the memoir and to please not call at those times, you blamed the time difference, but the time difference is quite nice, especially when I wake up on Sunday and my favorite football team is kicking off at 10 a.m. So I couldn’t possibly place the blame there.

Partly because when I told you that I didn’t think I’d be able to do anything with the memoir, you said, “I’ll bet you didn’t even read it,” and hung up on me.

Partly because you’ve been a bit of an asshole-grandma. This is the first time you’ve called me regularly in my entire life. I guess it’s all relative, but I prefer my other grandma, who is as sweet as they come. Just the other day I called her and she was making cinnamon buns for the neighbors who had just brought their new baby home from the hospital. Now that’s a grandma.

Partly because—oh, Grandma, fuck it. I’m in. I’ll make some phone calls and we’ll publish your memoir and celebrate the forthcoming millions by eating foie gras doused in pints of truffle oil.