A Letter

Dear Body,

I know that I have not been kind to you in our long-seeming history, and I know that over the years I have been rather neglectful of your needs.  I am sorry.  You have done your best to carry me through each day with vigor, and I have rewarded your steadfast service with scant sleep, stress, unhealthy (but oh-so-tasty) food and drink, insufficient exercise, and little medical attention.

You've been remarkably resilient.  Until recently.

Dear body, I can understand when leg muscles ache if I've been walking or climbing mountains or stairs (which sometimes feel like mountains) or working them on those infernal weight contraptions at a gym.  I can understand feet, ankles, knees, and hips that snap, crackle, pop, and zing when put into service after carrying excess pounds all these years, even when many of those excess pounds have been shed.  I can understand wheezing, sneezing, itching, watering, and running when I've been dusting or playing with furry critters.  These things, and more, have cause and effect.

What mystifies me, dear body, is when I go to sleep with everything in moderately working order and wake with an ache, a pain, a stiffness, that I cannot explain.  Why does my foot hurt that way?  It was fine before bed last night.  What was I doing in my sleep?  And my wrist.  I went to bed with a wrist that was perfectly...er...wrist-y, and woke with what feels like an unpredictable electrical short in it when I move my hand.  Was I typing or knitting or playing tennis while I dreamed?

Today, it's my shoulder.  It hurts.  Not a delicate ache or an occasional wince, this is a full-on, can't find a comfortable way to hold my arm, ow, ow, owie, ow hurt!  Stretching doesn't help.  Heat doesn't help.  Holding very still is damned near impossible (have you met my children and my cats?) and doesn't help.  Careful movement doesn't help.

Dear body, I have been trying to do right by you.  I know it seems too little, too late, but I've made small changes and keep plugging toward a goal weight that is reasonable and within the range of healthy-for-my-body-type.  I stretch semi-regularly.  I don't go to the gym but I do housework and that should count as a workout (again, have you met my children and the cats?  The housework never ends), and I eat plenty of fruits and vegetables.  Lately I've even given you the occasional Arnold Palmer and Vodka of an evening.

Give me a chance and I am sure that I can continue to improve how I treat you,  but I can't do that if you keep whomping me with these aches and pains that slow me down and make me want to (carefully) crawl into bed and give up until my parts behave themselves!

C'mon, body, you and me are a team.  Work with me, here.

Sincerely,
K

A Letter

My Dear Children,

It is my fervent hope that by the time you are grown, the following will be irrelevant because you will know that I love you no matter what and the rest of the world doesn't judge and perhaps ostracize you for who you are or who you love.

Given how much has changed since I was a child, and how much our society has grown and altered its opinions even in the short years since you were both born, I have reason to hope that by the time you have both matured, have found yourselves, defined yourselves, grown into yourselves, none of this will matter.

Still.

In case it should matter, in case you should wonder, in case anger and hatred and fear should win out, I want you to know.

I love you not matter what.

It makes no difference to me who you should love, as long as you love well and true and are loved in equal measure.  If you love a man, a woman, one or more of either or both, if you are honest and honorable, that is what matters.  I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on sexuality.

I love you no matter what.

It makes no difference to me if you should find that the skin you wear doesn't fit quite right and you seek to change it, to become something you are not now but feel you were always meant to be.  As much as I can I will go down the road with you, be by your side supporting you as you change, cocoon, emerge gloriously changed and more yourself than you've ever before been.  Son, if you feel you should have been my daughter...and daughter, if you feel you should have been my son...I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on gender.

I love you no matter what.

It makes no difference to me if you should seek to wear trousers or skirts or ball gowns or sneakers or cowboy boots or hats or go bare headed and barefoot or dress in silk or denim or lace or taffeta or nothing at all, or if you wish to be tattooed, pierced, shaven, made up with cosmetics or in your natural skin.  My son shall wear a dress and heels if he wishes, and my daughter shall wear dungarees and flannel shirts with hiking boots if she wishes, and we will make fabulous family portraits and be comfortable in what we wear.  I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on fashion.

I love you no matter what.

It makes no difference to me who you worship, or how, or how many.  One god, two gods, countless gods, goddesses, if you find that worship helps you make your way through life, helps you be the best you you can be, if that worship gives you comfort and helps you make sense of Mystery, or if you spurn gods in favor of your own good sense and strong foundation, your own well developed mores, in favor of what you can see and feel and prove, I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on religion.

I love you no matter what.

It makes no difference to me if you are wealthy, if you have countless millions and huge houses and fancy cars and yachts and all the trappings of that wealth, or if you share an apartment with three other people and struggle to make ends meet and have to borrow money from me to buy groceries sometimes, or if you are living with me because times are tough and you need to lean on your Mama because you can't stand on your own two feet, as long as you are living true to yourself and are happy and doing your best, I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on the contents of your wallet.

I love you no matter what.

No matter what.

Angels or axe murderers, I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on your actions.

There will be times when we do not agree.  There will be times when we do not like each other.  There will be times when we cannot stand each other.  Those times will be irrelevant because I am and always will be your mother, and my love?  Is a mother's love.  It is not bound by convention, tradition, sense, or sensibility.  I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on anything at all.  It is freely and endlessly given.

Sincerely and with love,
Mom, Mama, Mommy, Mother, Ma

A Love Letter

Dear Publix,

Long ago, in my misspent youth, I shopped at any old grocery store. I didn't care if it was national, local, or international - I was all about the convenience. If it was close, I shopped there. I am mortified to admit that sometimes I didn't even care how clean it was. The horror! I often wandered thoughtlessly through the local Kroger, Big Star, or Food Lion without giving a though to you, humbly waiting in the next town or a few blocks away for a token visit.

O! The time wasted with other, inferior stores! Alack! Alas! Ahem...

I started shopping with you when you built a store near the track. How convenient, to be able to buy groceries when I got there instead of carting them from home! Then, when I moved up to the area, that store was the closest, and it was familiar to me, so it became my default.

A few years ago, Ingles and Kroger both tried to woo me away from you by building huge monuments to excess, also called "super stores", between you and I. I admit, I paid them visits - especially Kroger, who sought to tempt me with a Starbuck's kiosk - but they weren't you, dear Publix.

Since our beginning, you have gone far beyond mere customer service. Your pharmacy has been stellar, and your cashiers and stockers are wonderful - kind, cheerful, helpful without being intrusive - so much so that I now drive past Kroger and Ingles and eschew the Evil Empire for you. You even accept their coupons! Marvelous!

Why, I didn't even complain - much - when you rearranged the entire store to meet a nationally standardized layout. I simply wandered about, lost, until I was familiar with the new product placements. Now I can once again shop in my sleep, blindfolded, should the need arise.

I have mourned when the people I know have quit, retired, or been fired. Your employees are so nice to me, I feel valued, special. You may not know this, Publix, but an agoraphobic like me takes comfort in familiar places and faces, and even on days when I didn't want to walk to the end of the drive to collect the mail, I could come visit you without too much effort on my part. Your people have made some of my bad days better simply by being their wonderful selves.

Recently, you held a promotion - buy so many dollars or more of groceries, get a gift card for x-amount. I bought well over the minimum amount and figured I'd get a card. Your employee, though, asked the manager if it was one card for the whole order, or one card for every so many dollars. You, dear Publix, despite the careful wording of the promotion to make it clear a shopper got ONE card, you said "Eh, give one for every time they reach that amount", netting me several cards which ultimately let me buy a few luxury items like toilet paper and cat food. You are awesome that way.

Some day, hopefully in the near future, I will be moving up to Mum's place. There is no Publix here. There are only a rather inferior Ingles and an Evil Empire. Not to worry, beloved Publix - I will be loading coolers and bags into Rosie the Mule and driving down to visit you for my grocery needs. Yes, really - I would rather make a forty minute drive than have to tolerate anything less than you, Publix.

Thank you for not becoming one more in a string of retail disappointments - your constant drive to remain service-oriented is a wonder to me in an age of chains that seem to think I am here to serve them, not the other way around.

I love and adore you, Publix...

Yours as long as you'll open your doors to me,
K

A Letter

Dear AT&T,

A long while ago I had an account with your competitor, a carrier that was well known for having excellent customer service and competitive rates. I was happy with my cell phone company.

As with all good things, though, it came to an end when you bought them out. I was not delighted.

I stuck with you, although it was more from habit than from any sort of desire to be loyal. Honestly, it felt more like deciding the least horrid of the lot.

I will admit that you have surprised me over the years - your customer service and tech support people have gone above and beyond on many occasions...once I could reach them. May I suggest that you market your automated phone system to Guantanamo Bay and other places where prisoners of war are being tortured? It believe it would be most effective. Or, if that does not appeal, you could use it as a sort of psychological test. I am certain many interesting things can be revealed about one's personality if you recorded one as they spoke to the recordings. Or am I the only one who talks back to the computer?

May I also note the irony of telling a customer they can look up and/or deal with their bill online when they cannot, in fact, get online to begin with and that's why they are calling? Also, I am aware that I have called AT&T - never once have I suddenly cried out "Oh, my goodness, I thought I was holding for the Lottery Commission! How silly I feel!!" I don't need reminding every few seconds. Neither do I need to hear you tell me my call will be answered in the order it was received. I've always wondered why companies feel the need to tell us this - is there a company out there that is answering calls randomly, then?

I have had wonderful experiences in your stores, too, although I must say I get little frowny lines on my face when I am told I must pay an extra fee for using that archaic cash to pay bills. Cash is instant, hard currency, irreversible, unarguable - unlike a credit card on which charges can be argued for years before payment (if any) is finally made. So why penalize me for using it??

Lately, you have turned off my cell phone and Internet*. I don't blame you - you do actually expect to be paid occasionally for your service and I didn't keep up my end of that bargain (silly me - how could I think toilet paper and cat food were more important than my beloved Blue Nowhere??), so I understand completely your sudden cessation of service.

That said, I do wonder what you were thinking when you called me last night.

Really, AT&T, you want me to sign up for DSL? I was under the impression that I was not at all a desirable customer, but your employee (if her bruised, battered, broken, thoroughly demoralized English was to be understood) said otherwise. She exhorted me to sign up for DSL...or maybe she was telling me to go to Hell. Or perhaps she was saying I should ring a bell. Or that her feet were starting to swell. I'm not certain - I don't know that she actually knew what she was saying. I am half convinced she was reading something phonetically for two cents an hour and all the Aloo Kachori** she can stomach.

Here's a hint - if you really want me to to purchase a product or service, try making certain that the person selling it speaks the same language that I do. I can muddle along in a few languages, especially if I use them all together in one sentence, but I am primarily an English speaker. Yes, yes, insert your favorite elitist jokes here, but the truth is, there are what? thousands? millions? of languages in the world (including dialects and patois)? Is it really reasonable to expect that I speak/comprehend more than four or five at once? And you called me, after all - so it would behoove you to do me the simple courtesy of attempting to fleece me in my language of origin. For the record, I am fluent in both English and Bad English, with fair vocabularies in Slang, Typo, and Gibberish as well.

In addition, given the state of the economy and my distinct lack of employment (despite a shocking amount of effort on my part...although, if I am being honest, ANY effort on my part is a shock to those who know me, because I haven't worked in some 20 years for one reason or another, and am not terribly good at being employed anyway), having someone who is clearly not working inside the boundaries of the nation (let alone state) in which I reside, call me to sell me something displays a lack of wisdom on your part. Outsourcing is not MY friend, as I am not share holder in your company, and I am disinclined to reward it with my custom.

Clearly one branch of your company is not aware of how the other branches are bending in the breeze...and you a communications company! Save yourself two cents and a bowl of curry and quit calling customers that you've cut off in the first place.

Thank you - and by the way, it will be a minute before I can pay what I owe you, but I fully intend to as soon as I sell one of T's kidneys when he's not looking.

Cheers!

* Which is why I am once again borrowing Mum's.

**I am not bashing anyone, here...just playing on the fact that the woman was quite obviously Indian, and, at the same time, enthusiastically unable to speak even basic English but delighted to be giving it the old college try all the same.

Status: Quo

Dear Fellow Facebook User,

Hi, how ya doin'?? Enjoying that Farmville, are ya? Judging by the number of game updates scrolling up my screen, you're rolling in rutabagas right now. Congratulations on the birth of that green glowing cow - have you checked your water supply? Your new barn looks fabulous. No, I haven't built one. I know, I know, all I have to do is pester everyone I know on Facebook a few hundred times to send me weird parts so I can build my very own barn, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm lazy - three clicks per person is just too many.

About that Pot Farm game - it's just a game. Chill. Un-pucker your bits. I like watching my Hippie Farmer avatar run around harvesting stuff. Run, Hippie, run!! I am not attempting, via cartoon plants on a Facebook game, to make "connections" and build my own green, grassy cartel in Redneck Central. Relax, yo.

I see your Mafia Wars family is growing. Well done, you. Sorry I haven't been helping you knock over fruit stands, rip off drug dealers, or ice anyone. I haven't been playing in a while. This thing called "real life" keeps popping up in front of my screen. Tch, it's such a nuisance!

So hey, we need to talk a minute, Fellow Facebook User. I'm thinking about blocking you from posting on my wall. Now, don't cry - it's not you, honest! It's me - I just don't have the time to read all those game updates and quirky news stories, or watch all the videos of kitties and puppies and children doing Fun! Amazing! Things!! I know they're all fabulous, but they interfere with my ability to see what's going on with the handful of people on my friends list that I actually know, you know, in the real world.

What's the real world?

Umm...it's the place that starts to smell bad when you're on Facebook too long, cross-posting on Twitter when you have a minute. You know, where the pizza guy actually comes to your door and that big light in the sky keeps coming on, going off, coming on, going off at regular intervals. The place we're all trying to avoid because it is currently sucking. Yeah, the real world.

So, anyway...the thing is, I could probably handle the videos, the game updates, the links, and the weird "Post your shoe size as inches and a sad face but don't tell anyone why and hilarity will ensue" status games, but I just can't take any more of those chain-letter "post this if you love me/I'm sure no one likes me and won't re post/you're an asshole if you don't re post/you hate puppies and kittens and fluffy bunnies if you don't re post/you are Satan's sweaty armpit washrag if you don't re post/you're not a real Ahmuricun if you don't re post/you launch RPGs at soldiers if you don't re post/if you don't re post then you must want the baby Jesus to cry/if you don't vote left, right, or centrist, you clearly want the nation to fail and crumble into a communist, socialist, Zoroastrian* mess/re post if you think cancer sucks otherwise you must love it and want to have its babies/re post or you suck sweaty donkey balls/if you don't re post then an orphan in Somalia will be fed to a starving lion" status updates.

See, I don't do causes just because someone's trying to guilt me. I have no social conscience, in that sense. I do causes that I feel are actually worth my time/thought/effort/money, and I support them in person. I don't show my love by copy-and-pasting on Facebook. I show it by acting like I love people (you know, like not farting in bed and holding their head under the covers), and writing them, you know, personal messages rather than blindly pasting some anonymous, poorly spelled, poorly typed, nondescript status update that will quickly be lost among the newest cause-celebres. Causes-celebres? Umm...you know...fads.

So, dear Fellow Facebook User, I am giving serious thought to blocking wall access to anyone who bombards me with these pseudo-psychological, religious, guilt-inducing, manipulative, chain-letter statuses. I hope you understand...and if you don't repost this as your status then you don't grok where I'm coming from, and you suck**.

*No Zoroastrians were harmed in the typing of this post, and no aspersions were meant to be cast - Zoroastrians are lovely folks and don't deserve to be maligned in any way, I just think it's fun to say "Zoroastrian". Go on, try it. See? Fun!

**You do't really suck - that there was just a bit of ironic license.

Catharsis

Dear Low Rent, Water Buffalo, Horse Teeth, 666,

As I held my daughter in my arms, rocking her to sleep tonight, I thought about you.

I wondered if your mother, your father, if anyone at all ever held you and felt such love, ever rocked you and crooned gently as you slipped from wakefulness to warm, limp, innocent sleep. I wondered if anyone ever felt protective of you, looked at you and felt hope, dreamed of your future, seeing it as a terrific brightness, a huge, happy maybe.

I wonder if that was absent, if perhaps the way you behave now is rooted in the lack of strong arms holding you while you wept and wailed and wriggled against inevitable sleep. I felt pity, imagining an infant unloved, perhaps unwanted, left to her own devices to grow into a woman.

Until, that is, I thought about who you are, what you do, all these many years later. Perhaps your roots are sunk deep into a dark history, but you are long past the days when you can claim ignorance or injury as excuse for the hurt you cause others.

I could have forgiven that you knowingly sought out my Someone and offered him what must have seemed like a haven at the time. I could have easily understood and gotten past the idea that you were both acting on the need of the moment, fully conscious of your actions and willing to accept such consequences as there were. He and I have an understanding, have an open, polyamourous relationship with a few simple rules. You were aware of that. You may not claim ignorance, because we discussed it openly and at length when you found out, to assuage your curiosity.

While I may question the depth of your intellect, I am not so uncertain of your ability to think, to process information, that I can believe you didn't understand the small, concise words I used to describe what our particular polyamourous relationship was like.

While some others may say you're brain damaged, that your intellect suffers from old injuries, I have seen the cunning, the sly calculation, in your eye, and I know better. You knew and understood what you were doing, and you chose to do it anyway.

Fair enough - Someone and I had some angry words and he convinced himself that I didn't want him to return to camp, to our shared bed, that night (perhaps ever). His other love was not there to offer succor (she had wounds of her own to tend to), and so he was, he thought, alone. Alone and hungry for touch, for sensation. You moved in, seeking to gain for yourself what I and Lady R had...and he, in a drunken, angry, hurt state, he responded.

Did you think I would not find out? When the community saw you, the community of which I am a part (albeit minuscule)? Though many saw, it was Someone himself who confirmed that you had spent the night together. We talked long and hard about it, about why, about the many things in our hearts and minds that led up to and followed that night. Perhaps you didn't think that would happen. I wonder if you are capable of even imagining a relationship in which there is such openness, such honesty.

So two people were left stung but still standing, both hoping, both trying to understand and to heal ourselves and each other. There was still anger, but it was simmering, cooling, becoming something Other. Our relationship took a direct hit and did not crumble.

But two people weren't enough, were they? You had to seek out Lady R and tell her all about your night's pleasure, about how wonderful it was and how you were going to have a relationship with Someone. You did so pretending you didn't know who she was, but again, I know better. I know better because I had introduced you to her at one point, mentioning casually that she was the Other in our poly relationship, and that we are friends. You knew that your words, your actions would wound, and you made your choice.

Someone spent much of the day looking for Lady R to tell her what had happened - his sense of honor dictated that he not hide, not shirk. He sought you, too, for a conversation of a different sort, but you ran like the low cur you are, hiding yourself from the consequences of your actions, from the light of day, from truth.

And so came night again, and Lady R and I had both spoken to Someone, who was willing to take his licks because he knew he'd broken our rules, knew he'd hurt us both, and was remorseful and determined never to do so again.

Lady R and I had occasion to pass by you in the night as we walked from one place to another. Had you not been rubbing yourself against her Primary, her man, her Husband J, we might have kept on. Indeed, we might have kept on, anyway, but you had to stop me to talk, to spin lies, to gouge deeper and create greater separation so you could...what? I think you actually believed that Someone would choose you, would bring you home and send me away, because you have no concept of Home, do you, nor that I am his Home as surely as J is Lady R's home?

You spoke like a victim, as though you did not know that we were together (despite the fact that we have a daughter, sleep in the same bed, share a house, a yard, four cats, and dreams), as if he'd said it was OK and that I wouldn't care (in a sense, that was right...although not as you meant it), as if he'd sought to be mean-spirited by making it clear he was in your tent in the cruelest way he could think of. You plead that you told him you were my friend (how could you be my friend? We'd only met two days prior...hardly time for acquaintanceship, let alone friendship, to flourish) and didn't want to hurt me, that you didn't want to go with him if I would be unhappy, and that he said he didn't care, that I didn't matter, that we were through. You told me that you'd made it clear to him that it was over between you. "It"? What "it"?? There was no "it". You were someone to touch, to fuck, when he needed contact and release. You weren't a person, you were a receptacle.

Lies, and more lies.

Even when I told you "We've spoken, and we're good", you kept trying. Fool.

You asked me how you could make it right. I told you "The next time you have a chance to go with someone who has an Other, you make certain the Other is OK with it. Ask them. If it takes three days for you to have the opportunity to speak to the Other, you wait until they tell you, themselves, that it's alright."

Three times, I told you that. Three times, as Lady R was talking to J, arranging to meet with him later, I told you that.

Later, when Lady R and I were walking back to her camp, you and J were gone, and we knew what was happening. They did not meet later.

The next day, as Lady R and I were spending time together again, J came to her. He was ashamed...and Lady R could not ask, so I did. "J, I am asking this from love...did you sleep with...?" Yes, he had.

You told him that you and Lady R were bosom friends...that Lady R said she didn't love him anymore, and that Lady R wanted to come and live with me and Someone. You told him that you knew all about polyamoury (funny, I had to explain it to you that first night we discussed it), and that Lady R was fine with you and J being together. You spoke poisonous words with a honeyed tongue and he lapped them up in his pain and confusion.

We talked, did J, Lady R, and I...we talked, and sought to be honest and true,...and Lady R was doubly wounded because with Someone, it could have been a mistake, but that you went after J, too? No, that was no mistake...that was calculation, pure and simple. You clearly thought us blind, or foolish...and you were wrong.

When neither Someone nor J professed their undying love for you, you found another couple having difficulties and enticed the man into your bed, this time a man who was not in a poly relationship (and you knew it).

Throughout all of this, you continued to make yourself out to be the victim, the innocent, the one who was hurt because you didn't know.

Bullshit.

Later, you told anyone who would listen that Lady R and I both decided we didn't want our men and were going to join you as lesbian lovers.

Should I ever choose to go with the Taco and not the Sausage, rest assured I will choose one that is not rotten, rancid, and ridden harder than Seattle Slew.

I have droned on with history because I want you to know, even if it's only in spirit because you will never read this blog (and if you do you will never recognize yourself because you can't bear to look that deeply into the mirror), that I know what you are and am not afraid to name it.

Now comes the part where I tell you what I think of you. I refrained in person because I didn't want to bring more drama into that community. Here, though? In my minuscule part of Blogopolis, far out on the edges? In this tiny little corner of the Blue Nowhere? Here, I will speak my mind openly, knowing full well that I am showing myself to be unkind, petty, mean-spirited myself. That's life, sugar. I can own what I am.

You are an odious toad. You are a liar, a disease, a blight. Where others seek to build, you seek to tear down. Where others seek to achieve, you seek to loot and destroy. You are rotten to the core, and more, you delight in your rot and seek to spread its filth as far and wide as you can. Your body, as well as your spirit, is an ulceration, a suppurating wound oozing infection on all you touch. You hide behind a veil of weakness, but no one is fooled for long, and so you must move on to prey on the next weak, blind fool until his eyes are clear of alcohol's fog (for only drunken men in a place of hurt or confusion go with you, and only after you have touched, rubbed, encouraged, and enticed them). You are toxic in every way, foul and vulgar. You are a thief, seeking to cast your thievery as need, and if others have and you need, they should give unto you, and if they won't give unto you, you have every right to take because otherwise it's not fair.

You demand your fair share of love, refusing to believe, to accept, that sometimes sex is just sex, desperately adhering to the idea that sex means undying love. When that love is not given, when they recoil in horror over what they've done, you tell all who will listen that you are a victim, that you were led astray.

Not content to rend individuals or couples, you attempt to divide entire communities.

In the past, you've had a measure of success, leaving a trail of devastation and mourning behind you.

Not this time.

This time, you fucked with community, and community will fuck (is fucking) back. You cast your malevolence into the water, and the ripples are spreading.

You are lucky that I and a few others who love her kept Lady R from killing you, or at least doing you great harm. You are lucky that I refrained from delighting in some petty meanness of my own because I had wit enough to know that small vengeance would feel good in the moment, but the consequences were lifelong.

You are a lesson that I am done learning. After this, I will give you nothing more of me. You are nothing, and will always be nothing, to me. Should we chance to meet again, I will give you what you are to me...nothing. Believe this: You do not matter. Your lies do not matter. I do not care. You are not welcome in my camp, nor will I ever offer you shelter, food, fire, or water. I do not give Hospitality to nothing.

I wonder...what would that oh-so-long-ago person who held you, rocked you, loved you, what would they think of the person you have become today?

I believe I hear weeping...

A Love Letter

Dear Chevrolet,

Oh, how I love my Astro van. Who wouldn't love a van on a truck chassis that doesn't take "no" for an answer?

Oh, how I mourned when I learned that you, in your infinite foolishness wisdom chose to stop manufacturing my beloved Astro van. I understand - it may be a bit self-defeating to build a vehicle that just doesn't die.

Oh, how I have sung the praises of my beloved Astro van. Her name is Rosie. Rose Marie Chevrolet, to be precise. I call her "my beloved mule" and "sweet Rosie". I cheer her on when we are towing a loaded trailer up a mountain side, and encourage her to keep her footing when we encounter ice or other poor-traction conditions.

I neglect her more often than I should, have her oil changed less often than I should, do not clean her anywhere near enough, and she cheerfully runs along tickety-boo.

True, I have had occasional...oddities...occur, but that's to be expected in any vehicle of mine.

Not that I've had many. All of my cars have been Chevrolets, by the way. All two of them.

My first love was Clementine Anne Chevrolet, and I loved her with a love that can only be had for one's first car - in this instance, a light brown 1979 Chevy Malibu Classic with a 305 V8, no AC (in Redneck Central, in the summer - my AC was frozen bottles of water placed in strategic places around my body), two working windows, and a two-station AM radio (but it only worked in the city). Oh, my darling Clementine, I miss you still. I had to sell her when I could no longer keep up with her wonderful V8 engine's maintenance needs, and a nice young, mechanically inclined fellow was delighted to have her.

Meanwhile, there's Rosie.

Chevrolet, I am a die-hard, Astro loving woman. I have sworn undying devotion to Rosie. She's every kind of awesome, even the kinds no one's discovered yet. I love, love, love the rear doors - I have the gated Dutch doors on the back. People see me open these doors and they envy me and want to know where they can get some. Not kidding...it happens all the time. I must sorrowfully tell them that they can't have these wonderful doors for their very own...because, as with the Astro, the gated Dutch doors are no longer available.

I have had to replace her starter, her fuel pump (twice), her transmission, a side view mirror, some kind of joint in the front (I called it a hip joint, 'cause that's what it would be on a people), a fuel tank cover, a heat exchanger for the radiator, the rear gate pistons, the AC, and re-glue the rear view mirror three times (Redneck Central is hot, parking outside often a necessity, and vehicle interiors are frequently glue-melting), among other things.

I should replace the driver's side-view mirror (I may or may not have been backing out of the garage and gotten just a little too close to the building which may or may not have broken the glass and given me ten smaller mirrors to look at while driving), the airbag sensor, the fuel gauge sensor (although I kind of like watching the needle dance, shimmy, and vibrate along as I drive), the driver's side lock switch that doesn't work at all, forcing me to use the rear gate lock or the passenger switch to secure the vehicle, and the passenger side window motor that works most of the time unless it doesn't feel like it.

I have lived for weeks at a time in that van, and can tell anyone foolish enough to ask exactly how to set up a full-sized bed and a kitchen in there and still have room for their suitcase.

The dealership that sold my Mum her Z-70 and the Astro she bought after she experienced the wonders of Rosie the Mule is the same dealership that does most of my maintenance. They have warned me that one day, even they won't be able to fix whatever's wrong. I dread the day.

She brought my son home from the hospital when he was born. She will bring my daughter home sometime in the next seven days, when she is born. She has made rescue runs to Las Vegas, New York state, and Florida, hauled my family up to Mass and back (the trip that killed the fuel pump, but she got us home anyway), and it was Rosie who carried me to Texas to first meet my Someone. Should the opportunity present itself for a new vehicle, I will decline if it means I cannot also keep Rosie...unless, maybe, if it was another Astro van...and even then...

Please, Chevrolet...won't you reconsider and start building these marvelous vans again? For me?? Preferably a blue one with an iPod friendly stereo, a sliding door on each side, and no trace of that evil tool of the Devil, Onstar? I'd be ever so grateful...

Do I Really Have To Spell It Out?

I know, dear reader, that you don't need to be told these things, but it seems much of the general public is wandering around in a haze of self-important self-indulgence and needs a little reminder...so please bear with me as I vent my spleen in the place least likely to garner attention from the men in white coats - the Blue Nowhere. In the interest space and time, I have refrained from a full-on venting...just two small items for now. Thank you for your patience.
~~~~~
S-T-O-P

When the above is found on an octagonal sign (that being a sign with eight sides - count them, you'll see), wherein the background of the sign is red (crimson, if you like) and the letters and a handy, attention-getting edge are white (often reflective for easy night time viewing), what does it mean, children? Yes, that's right Bobby - it means that you must gently apply your brakes and bring your vehicle to a safe, complete stop, preferably before actually entering the intersection at the corner of which the sign may be found. Sometimes there's even a nice white line painted on the pavement to indicate where the sign-placers believe you should end your forward motion. Thoughtful, aren't they?

Many times you will note that an intersection has one of these fancy little signs at each corner, indicating that all approaching traffic must stop. Should you be the only one at the intersection, you may of course proceed onward in your chosen direction as soon as you've attended the sign's directive and ascertained (that means "made sure", children) that the intersection is clear.

It is generally considered rude (and unsafe) to perform a "rolling stop", wherein you simply slow a bit and then cruise through the intersection...especially when another vehicle, long before your approach, performed the legally mandated cessation of motion, looked in all directions to be sure it's safe, and began to accelerate once more. Ruder (and less safe) still would be to perform said "rolling stop" while turning into the lane the previously mentioned vehicle is also trying to occupy at that same moment. You may find your lack of courtesy having a rather crunchy result.

Courtesy and safety aside, there is the small matter of the law, which frowns upon such shenanigans. Don't make Officer Friendly frown, children - it puts lines on his face.

Some intersections provide special lanes for people who wish to turn left or right. Handy, aren't they? It is not only polite, but recommended, that you use your turn indicator - left for a left turn, right for a right turn (I only mention this because there seems to have been some confusion on the matter, lately) - to show other motorists which way you wish to go. Playing "Guess the Direction" makes motorists cranky.

If you are in the center lane, other motorists will believe you wish to proceed straight through the intersection. This means that the nice lady in the red Astro van who has been waiting for half an hour in the right turn lane because traffic is rancid will not be looking for you to turn right from the central lane just as she is also turning right from the (gasp) actual turning lane, both of you seeking to occupy the same space at the same time. It is possible that your little black Lexus (with, apparently, malfunctioning turn signals and a directionally challenged driver) will find itself on the losing end of this physical impossibility, unless of course the nice lady in the red Astro van is being extra vigilant because you are not the first motorist to get up to shenaniganry that day, and the nice lady in the red Astro van does not wish to put lines on Officer Friendly's face (although clearly you have no regard for poor Officer Friendly and his youthful appearance, for shame).

It would be wise to note, as well, that when you are behind someone who is actually following the directive of the traffic sign, you need not honk your horn, flash your lights, or attempt to inch your vehicle up the lead vehicle's tailpipe in order to encourage motion simply because they actually dared to come to a complete halt and (gasp) impeded your own scheme to perform your beloved "rolling stop". Perhaps you could, instead, pause and enjoy the scenery while you obey the traffic laws you (as a voting citizen) have helped put into place. See the icicles on the tree? Shiny. See the flowers in the verge? Pretty. See the children chasing their puppy into the intersection? Squishy.

Alright, now, children, let's all go have some juice and cookies and think about what we've learned.
~~~~~
Elevate Your Manners

Attention, boys and girls, attention! There's a small matter of elevator courtesy to discuss before we break out our naptime mats and cuddly blankies.

Can anyone tell me what an elevator is? Yes, Suzy, that's right - it's a magic box that takes us up or down in a bulding, depending on which buttons we push. Aren't they wonderful? Aren't they fun?

Here are some things to know that will make them wonderful and fun for everyone on the ride:

First, direction. Don't push the upward facing button of you really wish to go down. Don't push the downward facing button if you really wish to go up. It confuses the poor elevator, which is really a very simple machine after all and only wants to please its passengers.

If the directional button you desire has been pressed, it will usually have a light indicating so. You don't have to push it again. Pushing it again, once or many time in rapid succession, will not make the elevator reach you any faster.

When the magical transporting box reaches you floor and opens its welcoming doors, wait a moment. Step aside and let the egressing (that means "exiting", children) passengers make room for you inside. If you see a little old lady with an oxygen tank and a walker, perhaps you might seek to place your hand in front of the door or punch the button especially for that purpose to keep the doors from closing on her as she makes her painfully slow way into the vestibule.

Let everyone off before you seek to enter the magic-funtime transporter, please. When it's your turn to climb aboard, press the button indicating your desired floor and only that button. You don't need to push them all - the vestibules all look the same, and you can always take a walking tour later if you're desperate to see each one. Move to the back of the box to allow others a chance to ride.

It is most polite to hold the door if you see someone rushing to make it to the elevator. I know the sad, frustrated, or disappointed look on their face as the door slides shut inches from them is amusing, but their gratitude will keep you warm on cold winter nights.

When the elevator has brought you to your floor and is ready to discharge you, look around. Is anyone else getting off? Is there another little old lady with two broken legs and a walker? A pregnant woman who is clearly exhausted and trying not to fall asleep between floors? If you are young, able-bodied, or empty handed, how about holding the door open for these others and giving them an opportunity to egress first? I know it means pausing your terribly important cell-phone conversation about who is going to church with whom, and how often, and what they wore and why it's wholly inappropriate long enough to actually notice your fellow passengers, but it is the polite thing to do. Also, standing in the center of the doorway while chatting blithely on the phone, holding up both outbound and inbound traffic because this isn't your floor is a double no-no and may garner you a smack on the behind with an errant umbrella.

Finally (for now), children, remember - if you felt the need to steep yourself in pungent cologne, perfume, parfum, eau de toilet, or some other scented mayhem, or if you find bathing regularly personally offensive or pungent body odor delightful...consider the allergies and sensibilities of others and take the stairs.
~~~~~
Whew...I feel a little better, now...

A Letter (or Three)

Dear Lifesavers,

We've been together a long time. I've always been true to you, shunning other candies that tried to mimic your sweetness, your shape, your style, but could never compare. You were one of my go-to candies when I had low blood sugar - I always knew I could count on you.

Lately, though, you've changed.

I can't trust you any more.

I don't know you.

Once upon a time, I could count on green meaning a burst of artificial lime was coming my way, and red was cherry sweetness. Yellow was lemon, orange was...well...orange...and white was pineapple. I was always the weird kid who wanted pineapple or lime when you were offered around by a generous classmate, and was never disappointed by you.

Now?

Now I don't know what's going to assault me when I pop one of you into my mouth. Watermelon? Excuse me, I feel ill - I have never cared for artificial watermelon flavor, and now I'm dodging it at every turn. Pina Colada? Well...that's not too bad. Neither is Tangerine. Blackberry and Raspberry, though...bleh, bleh, double bleh.

I know you thought you had to keep up with the times. I understand peer pressure - we all do. Everyone has been tempted to cave, to change themselves to suit what others think they should be, but Lifesavers...I loved you just the way you were! I know I'm not alone when I say - bring back the original five!! I miss you...
~~~~~
Dear New England Candy Company (Makers of Necco Wafers),

Well, now you've gone and done it.

Since I was a wee lass, I've loved you. You were one of my go-to candies when I had low blood sugar. I use to happily open a roll of your wafers and sort them by color, crunching up the broken ones first, then devouring them by color. Once in a while, I savor one, see how long I could make it last. Chocolates were my least favorite, so they went first. I saved licorice for last. Lemon, lime, and orange were fine, as was the cinnamon...and I adored the wintergreen snap which reminded me of Canada Mints (I haven't had one of those in many years..sigh...). Your little mini-rolls were a delight to have on Halloween, and have been riding around in my car as an emergency pick-me-up for many years.

But you've done something to yourself. Nothing tastes as it should. What happened to the wintergreen? The cinnamon?

You know, change can be a good thing...and introducing new flavors and product lines is so exciting, I can understand you'd be caught up in the glitz and glamour of debuting an all chocolate roll. But did you have to lose your heads and ruin the traditional pressed-chalk discs of goodness?? Some childhood memories are cherished and should not be tinkered with!!

Please, I beg of you, regain your senses and return my beloved Necco wafers to their original glory!
~~~~~
Dear Georgia WalMart Patron who was driving the baby-poo brown Toyota whateverthatPOSwas,

Perhaps you are unaware, sir, that Georgia is a Pedestrian Right of Way state. Let me break the big words down into manageable chunks for you - that means that when there's someone on the paved surface, especially in the crosswalk, you must actually stop and let them cross.

Never mind that said someone was a clearly pregnant woman pushing a cart with a young boy in tow.

Never mind that there were several signs clearly indicating that pedestrians were crossing at any given time and that WalMart and the state of Georgia mandated you yield.

Never mind that the parade-balloon sized woman was halfway across before you ever turned the corner and approached the crosswalk at top speed.

It is the law, ass-clown.

That you managed not to strike me or my child was more a credit to my own reflexes and still-reliable ability to accelerate my arse to unexpected speeds than to your clearly non-existent braking skills.

I understand that the prime parking spot you wanted was open right then, and I know how disappointing it is when you have to park two whole feet farther away from the door - really, it's so tedious having to walk past all those handicapped parking spaces...they're in carts or wheelchairs, for cryin' out loud, they're sitting down, why do they have to be close to the door when we non-differently-abled folks have to schlep ourselves in under our own power?? So unfair...

But trust me when I tell you that people don't make good hood ornaments, and when we get tangled up in your wheel wells we will slow you to a crawl. Also, blood ruins paint, although in your case I would consider anything an improvement - really, did you choose that color, or did you lose a bet?

Next time you may not be so lucky. Quit being a selfish twit - whatever it is you think you need so desperately to live that's inside the Evil Empire, trust me, they won't run out - they have an endless supply of pork skins, chewing tobaccy, and beer. Isn't a life worth a few extra seconds? Oh, wait, never mind - I think your behavior has clearly answered that question...
~~~~~
So, fellow denizens of the Blue Nowhere...who've you been wanting to write to lately??

A Letter

Dear The Internet,

Thank you so much for your kind offer of a share in the Spanish National Lottery. While I have no recollection of having been to Spain, there was that one bout of sleep walking when it is, in theory, possible I drove to the airport, boarded a plane, passport at the ready, flew 15 hours, purchased a ticket for the lottery, got my passport stamped, again boarded an aircraft, flew another 15 hours, drove home, and crawled back into bed all without waking, I sincerely doubt I would have done so without purchasing even one souvenir postcard. That would be terribly unlike me, even in my sleep. While I would happily collect my share of the winnings, I am afraid you have me confused with some other "Kyddryn" who even now is awaiting news of her windfall, hoping it will come in time to pay for the kidney she hopes to purchase from you via an underground live-organ-donor website...not that she needs one, but she's starting a collection.

Thank you, too, for your generous offer to sell me Viagra and other medications via a Canadian pharmacy, no prescription needed. I had thought to drive to Mexico for my performance enhancing drugs, but ordering them through you for delivery right here to my home seems so much easier and safer. Everyone knows that Canadia* is polite, clean, and honest, and I know you couldn't possibly be exaggerating when you tell me I could "go all night" and "please her for hours". I was unaware of my Lesbian leanings until you told me I needed your supplements to make her happy. I am wondering, though, about entering her "like a bull". Why would I enter a bull...to what purpose, and how? Also, I'm sure that some folks are keen on that sort of thing, but it sounds uncomfortable and like it might chafe, so I'll pass.

Not to be indelicate, dear Internet, but I believe you may have mistaken me for an outie, not an innie, with another of your missives. It happens, especially when I wear my hair up, so I won't hold it against you. However, I do think it would be awfully nice if you'd stop sending me offers to lengthen, enlarge, or otherwise alter my penis in some fashion. While I've been to an adult toy store more than once** and found them fascinating, I never brought home my own penis. If I had I'm fairly certain it could not be lengthened or enlarged without serious damage to the structural integrity...and some of them? Don't need it! I like the one attached to Someone*** just fine the way it is, thank you, and don't consider that one "mine" anyway. On the one occasion you offered me an unguent to enlarge my breasts, I had to decline as well. My back aches enough with my tiny ta-tas, I don't need enormous hooters weighing me down and causing havoc to my spine. I have consulted Someone and he assures me that, should he wish larger gazongas to play with, he'll go fondle someone else instead, which suits me fine. My mazulagallagawongas shall remain petite (unlike the rest of me).

I would take it as a kindness, too, if you would refrain from asking me to perform acts of questionable morality and legality by accepting funds from your African bank into my American one so as to hide them from authorities, or secreting stolen Iraqi treasure in my crawlspace, or things of that ilk. It's not that I'm afraid of getting caught or anything - I'm a shockingly good liar, in fact - it's just that my crawlspace is full of evidence holiday decorations at the moment, and I am loathe to disturb the spiders. Black Widows can be so testy.

Finally, dear Internet, I thank you for your solicitous interest in my weight loss endeavours. Shedding my fifty-acre ass has, in fact, been a struggle, and your lotions, pills, and diet plans all sound like a breeze. I am sorely tempted. Honestly, all this eating less, eating fresh, natural foods, and taking more exercise are such a bore...why wouldn't I rather take a pill that makes my heart pound like the timpani at the beginning of 2001, A Space Odyssey? Arrhythmia is fun! Still, I can't even be relied upon to take a vitamin pill on a daily basis, so I fear your wonderful medicines would just be wasted on me, so could you please stop offering? I do so hate to waste the time you've spent personally typing each e-mail to me.

You're a good friend, dear Internet, always looking out for me. Some day I hope to return the favor.

Shade and Sweetwater,
K

*That's not a typo, it's a joke. If you don't get it, no worries - some jokes are just for me.

**Sorry, Mum. I'll bring you some mental floss next time I visit.

***Sorry Someone, Mum, Mister Hermit, sir, and anyone else who is now in the throes of TMI. With enough time and therapy, the scars will fade and you may even be able to lead a somewhat normal life.

Whadaya want?

Dear Mom, Dad, Friend, Lover, Family Member, or Anyone Else Who Gives a Damn,

What I'd like as a gift can't be boxed or wrapped.

I'd like your time. Your effort. Your attention.

I'd like to know that you see me, that you hear me, that you know me and care for me. I'd like you to pay attention.

I'd like a few minutes from you that aren't diluted by television, computer, telephone, or other distraction.

I'd like to matter.

If it's not too much to ask....

Sincerely,
Your child, grandchild, friend, lover, family member, or random person to whom you feel you must give a gift

A Letter

Dear Fellow Motorists,

Please forgive me if I jump right in here, but I have some things on my mind that I simply must share.

That lever? The one on the left side of the steering column? It's not just a place to hang your hat - when used correctly, it will actually tell other motorists that you intend to turn or make a lane change! I know! Such a novel concept! That's what the blinking yellow light on the back of my van means, by the way - that I intend to turn or change lanes. It's not an invitation to accelerate and take that space I'd like to occupy or to hover just off my flank in anticipation of claiming the spot I'm trying to vacate, thereby making it near impossible to vacate the space you want without knocking you into next week in the process.

Texting while driving is entertaining for all, it is best left to distracted teens with little experience behind the wheel.

Also, when the highway speed limit sign mentions a minimum speed, they aren't kidding. Maintaining a difference in speed of more than twenty miles per hour is fun, I know - we all love watching people slam on their brakes in a desperate attempt to keep from investigating the interior of another vehicle's exhaust pipe - but it's dangerous, and should be reserved instead for small, two lane roads with plenty of hills and blind curves for maximum effect.

Next time your friend breaks down on a small road with little clearance to either side at a well used railroad crossing, please consider carefully whether you really want to put your own vehicle into reverse and back into oncoming traffic, causing several of those approaching vehicles to take evasive action and several more to stop abruptly on those same railroad tracks with no way around you and unable to reverse off the tracks due to traffic build up. I know it's unreasonable, really, to hope you'd give it so much as a thought, but selfish as I am I cannot help asking that you not endanger me, my child, or my beloved Astro van like that again.

By the way, the added fun of the rapidly brightening train headlight was really very festive. I can honestly say I've never had such an interesting and illuminating drive home before. And when I rather rudely referred to some people being dumber than a bag of hammers as I eased onto the shoulder and around you, I assure you I meant no insult to those useful tools, so your gesture in defense of hammers everywhere was not strictly necessary.

In addition, I would like to point out that while I find the sudden need to use the brakes a stimulating test of my reflexes, perhaps you might leave more than a half inch between us when you rapidly change lanes on a dark, rainy highway because the truck in front of you is going two miles an hour slower than you'd like...especially when I am going fifteen miles per hour faster than you feel comfortable with. Next time, consider waiting until I have passed you and all that lovely, empty road behind me is yours for the taking. And? Really, it's best to leave a gap of at least two coats of paint between you and the vehicles around you. I have very good tires on my van, and they do their best, but my van and I both have large, heavy backsides, and sudden application of braking mechanisms causes us both to shimmy and occasionally fishtail, which may look like good times but really? Not so much.

Finally, please remember that the brightest setting on your headlights is well suited for signalling the mother ship or fooling wildlife into thinking the sun is suddenly up and brighter than usual...but is rather unpleasant in the eyes of oncoming traffic. Is it too much to ask that you dim the lights before my corneas are burned entirely out?

Thank you for your consideration. I wish you happy motoring...as long as I'm nowhere near where you're driving!

Letters

It's time once again for me to vent my spleen communicate with some of my fellow humans with sharp, pointy objects in letter form.
~~~~~

Dear Matron of a Family of Four-Hundred Standing in the Hot Dog Line at the Greek Festival,

I think it's wonderful that you were out as a family - I know that, with so many children of varying ages, it must be awfully difficult to find entertainment that the whole family can enjoy.

Lovely, too, that you ran across someone Greek! At the Greek Festival!!

That you then had to stop and chat with the nice young man, who seemed to know you quite well and was enthusiastically and in great detail telling you all about his latest fifteen years' of escapades, I understand. Who doesn't want to catch up with what may actually have been a distant cousin because you both have Greek last names? At the Greek Festival!!

I really don't blame your enthusiasm for the conversation, but I would like to know one thing...

Is it a Greek trait, or merely a distinct lack of courtesy in your upbringing that led you to halt your large numbers right in front of the line for hot dogs (a distinctly non-Greek food that my Evil Genius would have happily killed your whole family to get, because it seems I only feed him when out in public, which is rare. Seriously, he would have used the edge of one of those Greek potatoes to cut you if that hot dog wasn't forthcoming)?

I'm going with rude on this one.

You see, I wasn't hovering behind your hoard so I could listen in on your scintillating dissection of the young man's brother's behavior at a baseball game (although kudos to the lad for scoring a home run). And when I waited ten whole minutes behind you until you ran out of breath and had to suck in some oxygen or die and so rudely asked "Umm, excuse me, but are y'all waiting in line?", there was no need for you to cut me such a glare and snottily answer back "Tch, no!" like I was some kind of mammoth-family stalker or something, looking to snatch one of your offspring and feed it to my young...although one of them did look remarkable like a sausage and may have tasted delightful dipped in ketchup/catsup.

Really, I don't think I was unreasonable in my assumption that you were in line, since you were standing in front of the register...although, in hindsight, you were a whole eight inches away, and clearly I was in the wrong for presuming you were possibly seeking affordable sustenance for you brood - who, by the way, were delightful as they gambolled about, running into people, pushing other children out of the way, screaming and tugging at you insistently because they had! To go potty! Right now! Honestly, I think that puddle was there before.

I do appreciate that you eventually moved the herd out of the line and granted access to the rest of the festival-attending public - I know getting that many people to migrate is like planning troop movements, and you have my utmost respect for your creative use of threats of bodily injury...and murmuring commiserating comments about some people being so unreasonable and too lazy to go around? Way to give the troops a common enemy and deflect responsibility for your discourtesy!

Wishing you all the best in your continued hunt for awkward places to stop and have lengthy conversations,

K
~~~~~
Dear Sir or Madam (whom I've taken to referring to as Honky McHonkerson),

I'm so sorry to irritate you with such a trifling matter. really, I know I'm just unreasonable, out of line, going beyond the pale in this, but I feel the need to share my distress with you. I'm so selfish that way.

I know your time is precious. I know it's awkward an annoying when you have to hang up your cell phone or use it to call the house you're parked in front of. I'm certain it's far too much to hope you might actually get out of your vehicle, approach the front door, ring the bell, and wait for someone to answer.

Really, I know, it's ridiculous I should even suggest such a thing. What am I thinking.

Of course it's better if you pull up in the neighbor's driveway and honk. Really, it's perfectly understandable that, when no one runs from the house in .064 seconds, you honk again, twice for emphasis. When no one has flung themselves from the house to answer your summons, I think you are showing the height of restraint to only honk twenty or so more times. Such patience! Such reserve!!

I wonder, though...do you think you might consider that your horn isn't directional, and so all of us who dwell in these environs will hear it? And...oh, I know, really, it's too much to hope...maybe you could consider that some of us may be a wee jumpy, and loud noises upset or offend us? Also...I'm certain no one has mentioned this or you would never continue the practice...but it's rude to simply drive up and honk. In this age of cell phones, you can call while turning onto the street, or into the driveway, although that might mean hanging up on your BFF and his/her dissertation on the latest office gossip (I know! How could I even think it??) Even better would be a polite knock on the door and greeting the parents who have been allowing your child to play with theirs. Oh, but wait - you might have to hang up and actually leave the vehicle. It's madness, I tell you.

Thank you, dear friends, for providing an object lesson for the Evil Genius, who has seen his mother wakened from a sound nap by your gentle reminder that you're waiting there. He now knows that the mother of whatever young lady he may choose to call upon will always have the opportunity to greet him at the door, because HIS mother will tan his ever-lovin' hide if he ever uses his horn for anything but a warning of danger to fellow motorists.

Rest assured, I plan on discovering where you live and returning the favor in some fashion. Your kids wouldn't need a lesson in how to remove acetone from a car's finish, would they??

Yours in cacophony,
K

Begging Letter

Dear Internetz,

Hi! My name's Rook. It was Socks, but Someone (the Lady Human says I'm not allowed to say who) said I looked like a Rook, and the Lady Human thought that was fine, since she thought Socks was kind of...ordinary...and I'm no ordinary kitten!

I had a Wolf Worm. It was uncomfortable, and I couldn't talk or swallow or breathe right. The Lady Human took it off me, which was kind of gross and wriggly and squishy and weird, but a big relief. I thought The Lady Human was amazing. She put me in a little brown box and we went very fast in a big red box to a place where they told her what the squishy, wriggly thing was and how to make sure that I was took care of OK.

She said she couldn't put me outside again - I needed to be clean and dry to get better, and anyway she didn't want me adding to the population next year, because us yard cats breed like bunnies, she says.

The Lady Human tooked good care of me and now I'm healed up and the fur is growing back on my chest, which is a relief because even though I'm a girl kitty, a hairy chest is a good thing.

She tried to find me a home. She askeded all her friends and even you, Internetz, if anyone could please take me and love me, because she already has three big kitties who growl at me but then twitch their tails and invite me to play, only I'm not allowed to on account of I have fleas and the Lady Human doesn't know if I have any kitty plagues and she doesn't think it's right to give fleas and kitty plagues to the other kitties here.

No one has come to get me, though - I guess there are a lot of kitties out there and not so many homes for them to go to.

So mostly I sit in the pen and play by myself, and meyowl when I'm lonely and sometimes the Lady Human picks me up and cuddles me and I purr to tell her I like it, and she plays with me and doesn't get mad when I maybe scratch her a little with my claws, and she found a dot for me to chase which is FUN! I chase my tail a lot, and sleep a lot, because there's not much else to do in here.

The Lady Human says she will not put me outside. She says she's keeping me, that she'll give me a home. And she says she hates to keep me penned up. She says a kitten should have room to run and play and places to hide and get under foot and generally it's wrong to keep anyone locked up in a tiny space like that (she said something about the prison system and epic failures, but I didn't understand all that). She frets because she can't take me to the vet and get me tested for plagues and get de-flead (which would be nice because I don't have many, but they're itchy), so she has to leave me in the pen most of the time.

So, Internetz, I am asking you for help. Please, can you help me get out of this pen? There's a button over there on the side bar, up at the top. It says PayPal. Can you spare a dollar or nine-thousand to help get a poor little kitten housed, fed, and vetted? Puhleeeeeze??

Thank you,
Rook (formerly Socks)

Food for the Road and a Letter

When driving long distances, I like to enjoy the scenery, enjoy some music, enjoy the journey...but I don't like to stop. At least, not for meals. I'll stop for a giant ball of twine or the world's largest rubber-band collection, but to eat? Meh.

I usually pack a cooler full of water, fruits and vegetables, and maybe some cheese. Laughing Cow cheese is quite possibly the quintessential road cheese.

Sometimes, though, all that healthy stuff just isn't doing it for me, and I have to stop for the unholy quartet.

I bet you have one...an unholy quartet (or trio, or duet, or...you get the drift).

The combination guaranteed to pare a month off my life? Vault soda, Bugles (original flavor), Slim Jims and Whatchamacallit bars.

Feeling a little green, yet?

It may sound horrid, but I can get by on it for a few days before my innards rebel.

There's a problem, though, with the unholy quartet...read on, friends, read on...
~~~~~

Dear Con Agra (makers of the miracle food Slim Jim),

Allow me to open by saying I adore your product, Slim Jim original flavor. I've seen some of your newfangled flavors, but I'll stick with the classic, thanks.

Since my youth, I've enjoyed this spicy meat snack, even going so far as to turn it into a favorite redneck hors d'oeuvre by making a little bed of Cheez-Whiz on a Pringle and placing a piece of Slim Jim on top. Yum!

I do have a small complaint, though.

It's a little thing, really - I'm almost embarrassed to bring it to your attention.

You sell your delightful collations in convenience stores so that folks like me, on the road, may enjoy them at any time. Kudos for your thoughtfulness! To facilitate opening the package, you make a little score in the wrapper, a slit that should allow the consumer to tear open the plastic and devour the slender sausage with gusto.

Alas, Con Agra, your opening gambit is a fail.

Imagine a driver toodling down the road at something close to the speed limit, perhaps a wee over. She has been on the road for some time, is more than a little caffeinated, and in need of something fatty, meaty, and spicy to help steady her nerves. Hands still on the wheel, she attempts to open her Slim Jim using the pre-cut plastic, but she is denied. Instead of tearing neatly down the side and allowing access to her meaty treat, the plastic tears jaggedly off to the side, leaving her no way to get at her snack!

She is a wily consumer, though, and merely flips the Slim Jim over to try from the other end...and has the same result! Now, Con Agra, she has a Slim Jim that she cannot safely get into while driving, and she is loathe to pull off the road to wrestle with it.

While tempted to fling the offending sausage snack out the window to languish, unloved, by the roadside, she opts to gnaw her way through the plastic wrapper, a method sure to amuse her fellow motorists and give her dentist fits.

Determined, she finally wins through the sheathing to her prize - a flavorful, heart-attack inducing snack treat!

Con Agra, please consider changing your packaging - not the cheerful red and yellow colors, nor even the shape and size...but perhaps you could consider the easier pull-n-peel method of opening? I know it may shorten the half life shelf life of your fine product, but a few hundred years less preservation is a fair trade for ease of dining, don't you agree? And think of the motor vehicle accidents you'll prevent!

Thanks for your time and attention, Con Agra, makers of the Slim Jim, perfect road food of discerning drivers all over the world.

Shade and Sweetwater,
K

Dear Target...

Dear Target,

I've been a customer of your Target photo lab for a number of years, now - the prints I make for cards and framing come from your machines, and until last evening, I can honestly say I've never had a complaint, and indeed, have been more than happy with your products and services.

Last evening, however, I must admit to leaving one of your stores in a somewhat less than gruntled state, Target.

I entered the Target in Buford, Georgia, at 6:25 PM, intent upon printing some photographs. Granted, I usually use another store, but I was in Buford and really wanted the prints to mount last night so I could ship them in the morning. When I approached the Target photo lab, the woman there informed me that the one-hour service I was hoping to use was closed. It closes at seven, she told me.

Umm...

OK...

But...it's six-thirty.

And, she said, I have to shut the machine down and it take a little while so I started it now so it would be shut down by seven.

Uh-huh. So I'm thinking, the sign should read that the service closes at six-thirty, then. I just sigh. She goes on to say that I can do instant printing if I want. It costs a little more, but it's still open, or I can leave the order to be printed tomorrow.

Instant print it is. I slide the disc in and select the prints I want to make, go thorough all the choices I need to make, and start the printing.

Hurrah, I think, I will be able to mount and mail these babies before the weekend!

Umm...not so much.

The prints were horrible. Not in a "Oh, I thought the picture was a good one, but look, it turns out I can't photograph worth a damn" horrible but more like "These looked fine when I had them printed before, but now they look blurry and washed out like the machine's been on a bender and can't be bothered right now" horrible.

Hmm.

And the photo maven has conveniently disappeared. Oh, wait, there she is, hiding behind some carts.

She ever-so-cheerfully asked me if the prints looked OK.

No...no they did not, I replied. They look washed out, blurry, pixelated and generally awful and I can't use them.

Oh, she replied, yeah...she really didn't like using that machine because it printed like an ink-jet printer and not a real photo machine, and prints usually turned out looking a little funny.

Well, gee sugar, could you have maybe mentioned that before you wasted my time and this paper? Thinking, not saying...

She went on to tell me that she wouldn't charge me...which I thought terribly generous of her seeing as how I couldn't use them in the first place...

I thought about being angry...annoyed, even, Target.

I mean...am I unreasonable, Target, to expect that, when your own sign says a product or service is available until 7 PM, it actually will be available until 7 PM, and not until six-thirty PM so it's shut down by 7 PM? Am I out of line, here?

Is it wrong, Target, to expect your photo lab employees to have reasonable knowledge of the differences between processing methods, and that when they're informed that high quality prints are desired, directing a customer to a piece of crap printer that is no better than one at home is probably not the best course of action? And then, telling that customer that they are magnanimously allowing the customer to keep the useless prints will not likely engender feelings of warm fuzziness. I'm just saying, Target...I'm just saying...

Yes, I though of being angry...but then I laughed, target. I laughed. Because, Target, I realized that, while I didn't have my prints, and would now be delayed in finishing and shipping them...I had something just as good.

You, Target, provided me with blog fodder!