Humor Me.

Dear Friends,

This isn't SPAM.  I actually wrote a poem in iambic pentameter and it won a "contest" and now it's been incorporated into a Christmas hotline and I'm so, so proud of it.  You should call and listen.

Just dial 855-HPB-FONE (855-472-3663) and press 2 for a reading of my poem.

Sincerely,

SEE

Hello, Goodbye

Dear Cowboy-

You are the only blind date I’ve never actually met.  I’m usually pretty good at first dates.  And second ones, too.  But you and I only had two conversations in us.  And we had those on the phone before we even met. 

During our first conversation, you told me you wore cowboy boots nearly every day.  But you aren’t necessarily a cowboy.  You’re simply self-conscious about your height.  I'm willing to overlook the fact that you are a man who wears heels.  And the fact that you’re insecure about your height.  Everybody has their issues, right?  Then you told me that you don’t leave home without a jug of water and a jacket in the car.  That’s quirky, but I could use someone who is generally more-prepared than me.  Then you told me that you don’t eat beef or dairy and you have a neuro stress test every year because you don’t want to wind up in an ambulance.  Ever.  But that's okay too, because healthy living is a good thing, right?  Then you told me that you hated to travel, were terrified of flying and avoided vacationing in the state of Florida because your great-great-grandfather was murdered there.  Whoa. 

So, I’m on the other end of the phone, trying to do the math . . . if I have two grandfathers and four great-grandfathers and eight great-great-grandfathers, and one of those eight was murdered in a different state, and I knew about it, maybe I would avoid that state too?  Maybe, but probably not.  But I don’t particularly care for Florida anyway, so that’s not a big deal.  Not traveling and refusing to fly seems like a deal-breaker.  But I’m single, and I’m tired of being single and I’m trying to be open-minded and how much time does a couple really spend traveling together anyway?  Maybe two weeks a year.  If they’re lucky.  That’s like . . .  less than 4% of a lifetime.  I could do it.  I could.

Then we talked again this week.  You had a terrible Thanksgiving because you walked inside and smelled duck.  You hate duck.  You can’t believe you drove all those hours to walk in and smell duck.  (You could have saved time by flying, but I didn’t say anything.)  You haven’t eaten duck since 1994.  Or maybe that was pork?  In either case, if you smell duck or curry  or spicy food, you get mad.  Because you loathe those things.  I’m trying to be a good sport, and I’m trying  to keep up. 

But then it’s my turn to talk.  I tell you where I went to college and how I spent 6 months studying in Paris.  You interrupt me to ask, “Why would you do a thing like that?”  You aren’t as good a sport and you can’t hide your scorn.  I take a deep breath and point out that some people enjoy traveling and learning and experiencing different cultures.  You go silent.  After you catch your breath, you say,

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who thinks you can take a train from London to Italy, are you?” 

Well, no, Cowboy, not exactly.  You’d have to get on the Chunnel in Waterloo station and then change trains in Paris, but then you most could certainly get to Italy.  If you wanted to.  Would you want to take a trip like that?

“Seriously?  You can’t actually believe there’s a train that goes under the English Channel?”

I don’t have to believe it.  I’ve been on it.  Twice.  From Paris to London and then back again.  The air pressure changes when you go underwater and your ears pop.  I promise its real.

Without masking your reproach you say, “You’re making it up.  There is just no way.  And even if it was true, I wouldn’t want to take a trip like that because what would I eat?  What if I got sick?  I don’t even have the slightest idea how to get a passport.  Because I don’t want one.”

By then, you’d lost me.  I may be willing to overlook your vertical challenges, your picky eating, your fear of flying, your compulsive disaster-preparedness, your insistence that the smell of duck cooking can ruin an entire Holiday, and even your refusal to obtain a passport.  But I have my limits.  I am not willing to be made to feel stupid for believing in the reality of a train ride that I personally experienced.  I’m not going to defend my passion for gathering up as many new experiences as I can.  I’m not going to feel ashamed of the stamps in my passport book.  Maybe a person only gets to spend 4% of their life traveling.  But you get to spend 100% of your life living. 

If I’m going to share my life with someone, I want it to be with someone who wants to live too.  For me, that means learning and traveling and reading and asking questions and exploring and soaking up as many positive experiences as I can find in the world.  I may be limited by laws and regulations and social constructs and financial realities, but I won’t allow myself to be limited by my partner's fears.  Call me selfish, but I want to share my life with someone who can make my world bigger, not smaller.  And that has nothing to do with height.

Best of luck to you, Cowboy.  I’m signing off now to plan a trip to Europe.  It’s too bad you can’t come—it’ll be a blast.

Sincerely,

SEE 

Riches

Dear Ranier Maria Rilke-

I re-read your Letters to a Young Poet often. So often, in fact, that I have never shelved the slim volume.  It's been a fixture on my night side table since it was given to me in 2004.  I regret that you and I didn't live here at the same time.  (If we had, I would have pestered you with letters until you wrote one back.)  Instead, I read through your published letters and try to imagine that were addressed to me . . . just like I did last Thursday.

I spent most of Thanksgiving trying not to think about Thanksgiving.  Holidays always make me contemplative, thoughtful, uneasy.  I've been having a particularly rough go of it, and it's hard not to think about all the things I've lost over the past year and a half.  It's tempting to catalog the things I used to be grateful for but no longer enjoy.  But I don't want to be the kind of person that keeps an accounting of every personal grief or slight. 

I cracked open your Letters to a Young Poet. I was looking for a passage that I vaguely recalled but couldn't quite remember.  And there it was staring back at me in black and white:

If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place.

Touché, Ranier. The truth is that even though this has been a difficult time for me, it has also been a year full of unexpected kindness, generosity, mercy and love. 

Like the moment I unexpectedly saw my dad for the first time in nearly a year.  I'd imagined that if I ever saw him again, I'd punch him in the gut, antagonize him about every lie he'd told, and then kick him in the shins before proclaiming that I hoped he died poor and lonely.  But when I did see him, his head was hung low . . . so low, that he almost walked into me before he saw me.  I was overcome by an entirely different emotion than the rage that had filled me for so many months.  Somewhere, from some unknown place deep inside me, I felt overwhelming empathy for my dad.  Just for a moment.  But in that moment, I found the courage and strength to became a better person that I ever dreamed I was capable of being.  I gave my dad a hug.  There were no apologies. No justifications.  No questions and no denials.  There were no words at all, really. Just a single hug.  In that instant, we weren't two members of a family at odds with one another.  We weren't estranged adults battling out our contradictory version of the truth.  We were just a father and his daughter who suddenly remembered that before the year of hurt and pain and grief and sorrow, there had been decades and decades of love. 

 

There have been many not-so-dramatic, yet just-as-significant experiences like that in the past year. Times I loved, times I felt love.  This is the year I braved multiple tornadoes to rescue my sister from a midterm meltdown. This is the year my friends celebrated my birthday the entire month of August.  This is the year I rescued two little dogs and found them forever homes.  This is the year a friend's four-year old son called out to me as I was leaving the fair, "Miss!  Miss!  I love you!"  This is the year I made it to my little brother's out-of-town high school graduation.  (On a Wednesday afternoon.)  This is the year I received SIX separate Thanksgiving invitations. 

I continue to be reminded of how much I am loved, and of how much I can love.  So, I wanted to set the record straight.  This has been a hard year, but my everyday life is neither a poor nor indifferent place.  Not at all.  By calling forth the riches (and the richness) I have experienced in the past year, I can see that my life is full of grace and warmth and now, gratitude. 

Thank you for helping me out with that, Ranier. 

Sincerely,
SEE

Thanksgiving Break

Dear Family,

I can’t make it to Thanksgiving this year.  I can’t even come up with a reasonable excuse for why . . . I guess I'm supposed to tell you that I have to work this year?  Or maybe I should tell you that I can’t find anyone to keep my dog?  Neither of those things are true.  I don't have to work and I do have a pet sitter; I don’t have any excuses for not coming.  I can’t make it to Thanksgiving because I can’t.  I’m so, so sorry.  I’m not trying to punish anyone or prove a point.  I just don’t have it in me this year. 

The summer before last, Dad made a hasty (and hurtful) exit from our family. For several months, all any of us could talk about was Dad’s new girlfriend, Dad’s credit card bills, Dad’s ridiculous car payment, Dad’s more ridiculous claim for spousal maintenance,  Dad’s unemployment, Dad’s stupidity, Dad’s immorality, Dad’s insanity.  But once the shock wore off and the divorce negotiations were mostly finalized, our thoughts turned to the holidays.  We fretted and plotted and planned and decided that no more holidays should be spent at home.  Ever.  We planned elaborate (and expensive) trips away.  The strategy was to create so many new memories and experiences that no one would notice Dad’s absence.  If we just traveled often enough, maybe we wouldn’t miss our Dad?  Maybe we could even forget that we ever had a dad? 

As crazy as it sounds, it almost worked.  We spent an entire year coordinating plane reservations and rental car options and hotel locations.  There were group trips to Disney World, the State Fair of Texas, New Orleans, SxSW, Park City, Utah, and Montego Bay.  I traveled home at least one weekend a month (sometimes two) for minor events and milestones alike.  I spent countless hours of planning and coordinating the trips, packing and getting ready to leave, making the trip, coming home, unpacking.  After each trip, we’d exchange hundreds of digital pictures and then engage in heated debates about whether we had a single picture that could be used on the family Christmas card to convince everyone we know that we are just fine, thankyouverymuch.  It was like running marathon.  Run far and run fast . . . and don’t stop until you’re so far away that you can’t remember where you started.  And never, ever look back. 

After a year of running full steam ahead, I’m exhausted.  I can’t make another trip right now.  It isn’t the traveling that wears me out—I actually enjoy traveling.  It’s the pretending that’s killing me. Sometimes, we pretend that we never had a dad.  Most of the time, though, we pretend that Dad was the shittiest human being in the world.  (To be fair, Dad really might have been the shittiest husband in the world.)  We pretend it doesn’t bother us when Mom recounts the story of how Dad left her to every flight attendant, rental car agent, and tour guide.  We pretend that Dad’s girlfriend is evil.  We pretend that Mom’s boyfriend is a godsend.  We pretend that our baby brother is doing okay, and we ignore his profound loneliness.  We pretend that one of our parents is incapable of making a good decision.  We pretend that our other parent is incapable of making a bad one.  We pretend not to mind that Mom can’t maintain eye contact or a conversation because she’s working her iPhone like a 15  year-old girl.  We pretend not to notice our our baby brother storming off (and slamming doors) when Mom’s new boyfriend calls.  We pretend that it’s okay that Dad signed away his parental rights.  We pretend it’s okay that Mom paid him for that.  We pretend that we aren’t hurting.  We pretend that we don’t miss our Dad.  We pretend that our family isn’t broken. 

We are broken, each of us in our own way.  And all of that pretending otherwise has left me depleted, exhausted.  I feel like a nub of a human being . . . worn down emotionally to nothing but my base.  I have no more reserves.  I have nothing to give.  And I simply cannot stomach two more days of pretending right now.  So, I’ve decided to stay home for Thanksgiving.  I hope you can forgive me.  Over time, I’ve no doubt that we’ll develop a new sense of family identity.  I’m counting on that.  But this year, I'm going to need to take a break.

Sincerely,

SEE

Lucky.

Dear Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton-

I woke up this morning and realized that today is Election Day.  I needed to vote.  I had to vote.  I had to remember to vote.  So, I do what I always do when its morning and something important needs doing:  I sing.  No, I'm not insane.  Its just that sometimes there are so many things to do that I make up sing-songs to remind myself of the most important tasks.  This memory tool can't possibly be unique to me--I'm sure psychologists and sociologists have studied the matter.  In any case, the point is that today being Election Day, I began singing the tune of one of my favorites songs from one of my favorite childhood movies, Mary Poppins. 

Votes for Women!

Votes for women, step in time,

Votes for women, step in time,

Votes for Women!

I sang that verse all the way to my designated polling location.  While I waited in line to vote, I read the lyrics of the other Mary Poppins songs on my iPhone.  Although "Sister Suffragette" wasn't my favorite song when I was a kid, it might be my favorite today:

We're clearly soldiers in petticoats
And dauntless crusaders for woman's votes
Though we adore men individually
We agree that as a group they're rather stupid!

Cast off the shackles of yesterday!
Shoulder to shoulder into the fray!
Our daughters' daughters will adore us
And they'll sign in grateful chorus
"Well done, Sister Suffragette!" 

After I submitted my ballot, I walked out of the poll feeling outrageously, blissfully lucky.  Sometimes I forget that voting euphoria, but it happened again today and I remembered that I'd felt this way before.  It's a subtle transition I go through every Election Day.  My stream of consciousness goes something like this:  I need to vote . . . I have to vote . . . Self, don't forget to vote! . . . I'm going to vote . . . I'm voting . . . I GET TO VOTE . . . I'm a lucky girl.  

I am lucky.  As you know, women living in the United States were granted the right to vote in 1920. That means today is only the twenty-fourth time American women have voted for president.  That's not very many presidential elections.  I'm so glad that I live in a time and a place where I have the right to vote.  And today, I'm particularly glad that you lived here too, before me.  I know achieving suffrage for women couldn't have been easy.  I'm sure each of you (and many others) made significant personal sacrifices.  But thank you . . and just in case no one's ever said this to you before, "Well Done Sisters Suffragette!" 

Sincerely,

SEE

Insect Infiltration

Dear Market Pantry-

Someone once told me that its good luck for a ladybug to land on you.  Is it also good luck if you bring home a ladybug in a bag of randomly-selected Market Pantry frozen spinach?  Probably not.

Because if you waited until the last minute to make your spinach dip, which I did, it means Target is closed and you can't go exchange your contaminated spinach.  So, it means you go to another supermarket where you have to buy another bag of frozen spinach.  And this time, you strain it without looking because you are tired and you don't want to know what you might find in this bag of frozen spinach.  While you're focused on not-looking, you realize that you're missing the edge of the sink and dripping spinach water down the cabinet and on to the floor.  You sop up the spinach water with paper towels, and dump the half-strained spinach into the sour-cream-soup-mix dip.  You're tired and trying really hard not to think about the bugs that you probably eat everyday without noticing.  You decide to go to bed and get up early in the morning to clean the kitchen. Which you do.  Except now there's a colony of ants that have moved in.  They thought spinach juice on the floor was an open invitation to bring all their family and friends over.  It wasn't.  So now you spend an hour cleaning up wasted spinach, spinach dip, spinach juice, 10,000 ants, and one frozen ladybug. 

Dad used to remind me that "Some days, you're the bug, and some days, you're the windshield."  But that's really leaving out a whole category of people.  Some days, you're the frozen ladybug.  Some days, you're Market Pantry and you get people to buy contaminated food.  And some days, you're the sorry customer who buys the contaminated food, but is lucky enough to find the frozen insect before serving the spinach dip to co-workers at the annual Halloween luncheon. 

All in all, I'm pretty sure it is bad luck to find a ladybug in your food.  But at least I wasn't the ladybug. There's always that. 

Sincerely,

SEE

Fare Thee Well

Dear Scrappy-

I only met you on Sunday night . . . It was dark and you were darting through traffic. I pulled into the shoulder of the road and turned my flashers on and got out of the car.  You jumped up on the median, and came just within my reach . . . But each time I tired to scoop you up, a car would pass by and you would get scared and run away again.  I was certain I would stand there in the grass and watch you come to an untimely end. I'm not always good at handling near-disasters, but I took a deep breath and reminded myself that in the history of my life, no animal has ever run away from me. Not once. Not ever. At that point, I sunk down on my knees and opened my arms and you came running to me. 

Thank you for trusting me.  It might be the smartest thing you ever did.  You probably don't understand this just yet, but you've got a great home coming.  You'll be loved and nurtured and fed.  Your forever family will take you for drives and let you sleep in their bed . . . they'll probably even smile when you lick their faces.  

Anyway, I just wanted to say that it was nice getting to know you.  You are a squirrely little guy, but I enjoyed having you around and I wish you all the best in your new happy life.   

Sincerely,

SEE

P.S.  I'm really sorry about that neutering thing, but they'll give you great pain medication. Please forgive me!!

New Rule: No More Disp

Dear Bill Maher-

I like you a lot.  You make me laugh at least once a week and that's more than all of the other men in my DVR.  You are intense and intelligent and laugh-out-loud funny.  You also use your hands when you talk, and that's cool.--it makes you appear animated and involved.  But here's the thing.  I recently saw your show for the first time in HDTV and ohmigosh!  I noticed that your face and hands are not the same color.  At all. 

I thought about this predicament and decided it needed a new word.  So I made this one up:

Disp:     noun, 1. disparity or discrepancy between coloration of face and other parts of the body; 2.  make-up that doesn't match your natural skin tone.

Because I like you, I’m letting you know you’ve got a bad case of disp.   I'm not a make-up artist, but I'm thinking your face make-up might be called ivory bisque.  Maybe your hand make-up would be called rosy beige?  I don’t really know.  But what I do know is that your show is smart and funny and your make-up shouldn’t distract anyone from that. 

Hands down, you are still my first choice for receiving campaign coverage.  (Pun intended.) But maybe you could go to Sephora and get some help with your make-up?  Tell them you’ve got a new rule:  no more disp!

Sincerely,

SEE 

Power to the Preschooler

Dear E-

I just want to let you know that I'm on your side.  Sometimes, it's not easy to be a five-year old.  And Sunday School isn't really as fun as all those churchy grownups like to pretend it is. Your mom told me that after the Sunday School lesson on Moses, you refused to participate in the coloring activity because you were very scared about bushes on fire.  I don't blame you for that.  Burning bushes are scary.

It doesn't seem right to go around starting fires just to get attention.  In fact, if you ever start a fire to get someone's attention, you will go to jail.  So, don't do that.  But also, don't worry about bushes on fire.  It only happened once, thousands of years ago.  I'm pretty sure God realized that wasn't a very good idea because he never did it again. 

Anyway, I just want to tell you I'm proud of you. Standing up and refusing to do something that makes you uncomfortable is brave. Thanks for reminding me of that. You are one cool kid. 

Sincerely,

SEE

Mission Impossible?

Dear Tom Cruise-

You seem pretty crazy, but you’re the only person I can think of that might be able to provide some insight right now.   It all goes back to that jumping-on-the-couch incident.  I'm not sure you ever got over it.  I know I haven't--it still creeps me out.  Not to be rude, but it looks like you scared Oprah too . . . and she's seen just about everything.

Anyway, the point is that while you were couch-jumping, we were all rolling our eyes, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  And it did drop.  It took a little less than six years, but your marriage failed.  As it turns out, couch jumping antics don't prove true or everlasting love . . . I can't say that I'm shocked.  It was painfully obvious that you were insanely driven to feel in love, which is not the same thing as actually being in a successful, meaningful relationship.  I'm guessing you were probably motivated by your own feelings of loneliness and insecurity.  Those are powerful feelings, but they are also temporary.  It’s too bad you didn't have the self-awareness to see that.  You jumped off Oprah's couch and headed straight into the deep end of your third failed marriage.

I'm writing you today because my mom is presently engaged in the same kind of I-think-I’m-in-love ridiculousness and I don’t know how to help her stop.   Last week I learned that Mom is planning on marrying Lieutenant Tan in Las Vegas.  I’m not invited.  It is apparently of no concern that Mom has only known Lieutenant Tan since June.  Mom also isn’t bothered by the fact that Lieutenant Tan hasn’t met her children. According to Mom, you can know everything you need to know about a potential spouse after 2 hours on a plane, 200 hours on the phone and 400 emails.  (Presumably, these e-mails include the pictures mom has wallpapered everywhere featuring Lieutenant Tan holding various military-grade assault rifles.)  

Mom tells me that Lieutenant Tan will take care of her and she feels safe with him.  (How anybody could feel safe with all those assault rifles sitting around is beyond me.)  Mom assures me I would love Lieutenant Tan because he’s like a big golden lab. “He smiles and wags his tail and will curl up at your feet.”  (Do Labs where camo and carry grenades and Facebook fan Bill O’Riley?  I think not.)   But here’s the real kicker:  My mom wrote me an e-mail and told me that “in fact,” Mom’s deceased mother and Lieutenant Tan’s deceased mother are sitting up in heaven orchestrating this match.  That’s right.  Mom’s new relationship is sanctioned and approved by the dead. 

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond to that.  Mom seems determined to make a fool of herself just like you did jumping up and down on a sofa. So I’m just wondering if there was anything anybody could have said that would have made you stop and reconsider?  Would it have made a difference if one of your kids had put their arm around you and said, “Dad, I think you need to slow this train (wreck) down?”  Would you have listened?  Could anyone have convinced you that going off the deep end always results in failed relationships?  I’m guessing not.  But since you’re Tom Cruise and you're crazy and you specialize in impossible missions, I thought I should at least ask.

Sincerely,

SEE 

Lawyers for Better Lawyer Movies

Dear Hollywood-

I saw the movie Arbitrage last weekend.  It's an interesting enough premise.  I'm no movie critic, but here's a summary to refresh your memory:

Robert Miller is a guy who's juggling too many balls at once.  While he appears the portrait of success in business and family, he's really  in over his head.  Robert Miller is desperately trying to complete the sale of his hedge fund empire to a major bank before his fraud is revealed. Oh yeah, and he's also trying to keep his affair with a French art dealer on the down low.  Under immense stress to complete the sale, Robert Miller convices the French art dealer that they should take a roadtrip getaway.  You know where this is going.  Robert Miller gets in an accident that kills the French art-dealer.  Unwilling to call police and compromise his reputation (and therefore, the sale), Robert Miller places a call to family friend Jimmy Grant. The phone call raises suspicions at NYPD, where detectives there are as corrupt as . . .  well . . . their New Orleans Police Department counterparts.  

I remember thinking that the first half of the movie was well-cast and well-acted.  Presumably, the second half of the movie was too, but I was so distracted by the glaring errors in criminal procedure that I failed to notice much else.  I know you aren't a lawyer, so I'll make this brief.

The Constitution of the United States of America has a Fifth Amendment.  You should probably read it sometime.  It says that no person can be compelled to be a witness against himself.  That means the unfortunate Jimmy Grant wouldn't have been be in a grand jury room testifying against himself. He would have "plead the Fifth," which means that he would have exercised his right not to testify against himself.

There are other legal problems too:

• If Jimmy Grant had testified before a Grand Jury, his attorney wouldn't have been present.
• If Jimmy Grant's attorney neglected to tell him that he had a right not to testify against himself, Jimmy Grant's attorney would have been committing professional malpractice.
• Robert Miller wasn't apprehended at the scene of the accident so there is no proof that he was intoxicated.  That makes it virtually impossible that he would be charged with involuntary manslaughter because no one could have proven that he was acting recklessly at the time of the French art dealer's death.  Car accidents happen all the time.  People die all the time.  The people who caused the accidents aren't criminally liable unless it can be proven they were under the influence at the time of the accident.
• The New York Penal Code imposes a sentence of 3 to 15 years for involuntary manslaughter.  Robert Miller's attorney told him he was facing 10 years.  Lying to your client because you're too lazy to look in the Penal Code also qualifies as malpractice.
• The evidence concocted by the NYPD still only proves that Robert Miller left the scene of an accident without notifying police.  That is a crime, but it's a pretty minor traffic offense.  In New York, leaving the scene of an accident carries a fine of $250 and a maximum sentence of 15 days.   

I know, I know.  It can be confusing for Hollywood directors, even the ones who aren't sitting around snorting substances and seducing women.  But you're in luck.  Young lawyers are starving right now.  The market is saturated as older attorneys postpone retirement and law schools are increasing enrollment to boost their bottom line.  Look it up online, just search “Is Law School a Scam” and you’ll see that new lawyers are willing to work as administrative assistants, barristas and house cleaners.  You could hire one of those young lawyers for $20 an hour . . . and after a $60 or $80 investment, you could make a movie without so many distracting errors. 

In other words, you could make a movie even a lawyer would enjoy.

Sincerely,

SEE

Campaign Assistance

Dear Mitt Romney-

I'm heard that the first eight months of 2012 were the hottest ever recorded in the continental United States and the summer period of June, July and August was the third hottest ever.  I know you're trying to run a campaign here, so I just wanted to give you the head's up. 

When it's hotter than hot outside, smart people don't wear dumb underwear.

Sincerely,
SEE

LUV Lost

Dear Southwest Airlines-

The gig's up.  Please stop sending me free drink coupons.  I appreciate the gesture, but no amount of alcohol could help me forget last week.  Waking up at 6:30 am to your text message from that said "SWA Flight 11 at  9:30 am is cancelled" is just . . . well . . . its no way for a girl to wake up.  You didn't even say "Good Morning."  Or "I'm sorry."  You should know that breaking plans by text message is not acceptable.

I'm embarrassed to admit it now, but my first response (after stumbling out of bed) was to check online to see when you would be available to take me out again. You weren't available until 11. That's wasn't any good since I had to make an appearance in court at 1. For my job. So, I called you and plead my case.  I explained that I HAD to get on an earlier flight. For my job.  You told me that the earlier flights were booked and that my aircraft required routine maintenance. That's right, after making plans with me, you broke them so you could perform routine maintenance.  That's like cancelling a date so you wash your hair. 

The soonest you could get on a flight to Houston was at 11.  In a sugary-sweet, patronizing voice, you asked me, "Will this be okay?"

No, this is NOT okay. 

You promised to give me a ride at 9:30 in the morning.  You knew it was important for me to get to Houston.  I paid you an agreed fare and you promised you would be there for me at the agreed time.  Then you cancelled our plans by text. 

I know what it's like to have routine maintenance.  Sometimes my eyebrows need plucking.  Sometimes my hair needs a trim.  Other times my fingernails need filing. My makeup always needs refreshing.  But I manage to make it to appointments--personal and professional-- on time.  Texting my boss and to let her know that I will be three hours late for "routine maintenance" isn't really an option-- I would be fired on the spot.  

But that is exactly what you told me last week.  And somehow, you think you can get away with that.  You can't.  I'm disappointed in you Southwest.  We've gone a great many places together, but I can't rely on you to get me where I need to be for work.  That's really too bad for you because I fly for work at least once a week.  I'll still use you when I don't have anywhere I have to be . . . but as for business travel, you're fired.

Of course, I don't think you'll miss me much--I've read that book called "He's Just Not That In to You."  You should read it too, because canceling a date is the most effective way of communicating "I'm just not that in to you."  I'm off to find an airline who is in to me.  Or at least one that compensates my time lost with frequent flier miles.  I'm just too old for airlines (or men) who have to liquor me up to maintain a relationship.  Keep your coupons--I deserve better.

Sincerely,

SEE

My First Threesome

Dear Match.com-

I have mixed feelings about online dating in general, but I'm trying to be a good sport.  I bought a three-month membership and answer e-mails in a timely fashion and I rate my daily matches . . . well . . . daily.  I'm a good match.com citizen.  But there's a glaring omission in your profile questionnaire and I think it would be helpful if you added it in the "About Him."

This all came about during my first sleepover with James*. To give you some background, James is educated, intelligent, wants kids, doesn't smoke, works out regularly, pays for all our dates and is genuinely a decent human being.  Friends asked me what was wrong with him, and I really didn't have anything to say.  (Just so you know, that's rare for me--I always have lots of things to say.)  So, last weekend I agree to go back to his house after a fun night out.  James and I head upstairs, and before we even pull the comforter back, he is hunting for the remote control.  I change and brush my teeth and touch up my make-up (which is the opposite of removing my make-up) and climb into bed with James.  And Rachel Maddow.

There's nothing that screams “Welcome to the 21^st Century!” quite like crawling into bed with a guy from the internet and a TV personality.  Granted, Rachel wasn't actually in the bed.  No, she was fussing about life on a 60 inch high-def television only two feet from the end of the bed.  I’m pretty sure her head was bigger on that screen than it would have been in real life.  (At least, I hope her head isn’t that big in real life . . .) 

Don’t get me wrong, I like Rachel Maddow, and I've no doubt she's one of the more intelligent people on TV.  But I don't want to go to bed with her.  Or Bill Maher.  Or any of the dirty, hairy men featured on Game of Thrones. I’m trying to be okay sharing my bed with one other person, but am I really expected to share the bedroom with one person and all of cable network's talking heads?  I hope not.

So, my complaint is that you neglected to include sleeping rituals in your profile questionnaire.  Since people spend one-third of their lives sleeping (or trying to sleep,) I think sleeping habits are really important in determining compatibility. I'm sure you're overworked and underpaid--who isn't?--so I've done the work for you.  Here is the question you should be asking, along with the most common answers:

     How do you fall asleep at night?  (Select all that apply.)

1.  I have no idea.  I take Ambien every night and I can't remember what happens after 9pm.

2.  I read a book or magazine.

3.  I watch Netflix on my iPad so as not to disturb my roommates and/or cat.

4.  I watch TV for at least an hour.  If you try and turn it off, I wake up and rewind the programming, subjecting you to the same half hour of television you already saw while waiting for me to fall asleep so you could turn off the TV. 

5.  I drink until I pass out on the couch/barstool/floor.

If you had asked this question (and James had answered honestly), he would have told you he requires TV to fall asleep.  I might not have gone out with James at all.  And if I had gone out with James, I would have been better prepared for my first threesome.  Instead, I spent my first night with James and Rachel Maddow.  And that’s just not cool.

Now I've got to have a conversation with James to see if there's some room for negotiation.  I have my doubts.  James was pretty emphatic that he could not fall asleep without the TV, and he didn't seem too eager to try.  In the future, you should send him some matches with similar sleeping habits.  As for me, it looks like I'll be needing a new match too.  Or a prescription for Ambien.  Or maybe both.

Sincerely,

SEE

*Named changed to protect the identity of the man who not-so-jokingly refers to the remote control as his pacifier.

College Advice

Dear Baby Brother-

Going out-of-state for college is a genius move and I’m excited for you.  Being so far away from home will be terrifying and thrilling.  You will encounter new ideas and different kinds of people and your brain will grow and learn and develop more in the next four years than it did in the past eighteen years.  I know you'll do fine, but since I'm the oldest (and the bossiest), I couldn't let you leave without giving you one last list of instructions:

1.              Stay in touch with your big sister.  She loves you and thinks the world of you.

2.              Don't pick your best friends or your girlfriend or your study buddies the first week of school.  It's mind-boggling, but the prettiest, most talented girls who starred in all the high school musicals won't be very popular in college.  (In fact, they'll probably drop out and become property managers or hairdressers.)  High school jocks don't do very well either.  Because its all so topsy-turvey in the beginning, just sit back and watch.  Give it a couple weeks before you become enmeshed with any one person or group. 

3.              Don't do anything irrevocable in your early twenties.  Hands down, this was the best advice anyone ever gave me, and I'm passing it on to you.  No tattoos, no weddings, absolutely no getting anybody pregnant.  Don't join a church or quit a church.  Don't accumulate credit card debt.  Don't write anybody off.  Don't put naked pics of yourself (or anybody else) on the internet.  You're changing a lot right now and you'll stunt your growth if you lock yourself into anything irrevocable before your 25th birthday. 

4.              Call Mom every Sunday.  She's paying the bills and she deserves it.

5.              Go to classes.   Even if your professor doesn't speak understandable English--and many of them won't--it gets you in the habit of showing up.  It will seem like a waste of time, but go anyway.  One day you'll have a job and you'll be glad you've already mastered the skill of showing up for meetings that seem like a waste of your time. 

 

6.              Always wash your whites first.  That way, if a roommate used bleach in the load before yours, it won’t ruin your other clothes. 

7.              Don't fall in love with the first girl (or boy) you meet.  You are an amazing guy and there will be many more down the road.

8.              Don't marry the first person you have (safe) sex with. (Safe) sex is new and fun.  But (safe) sex isn't the same as love.  And a happy (safe) sex life won't necessarily make for a happy marriage or civil union. 

9.              Safe sex is the only way to go.  Don’t rely on a girl (or a boy) to make it safe.  Girls (and boys) are people, and sometimes, people lie. Whatever you choose to do in your free time, make sure you are responsible for keeping it safe.

10.          Remember that your job is to study.  You aren’t working full-time; you’re going to college.  You should be spending at least 40 hours a week in class, preparing for class and studying for exams.  Study hard and do great things!

In the end, you may never use the information you learn in college--lots of people don’t--but you will be able to rely on each of the tools you'll develop there.  So, take advantage of this time and cultivate useful skills and healthful habits.  And stay in touch with your sister.

Sincerely,

SEE

West Nile Blues

Dear Bloodsucker-

We need to talk.  Two weekends ago, I was in New Orleans celebrating the best birthday of my life.  As best I can tell, only you had more fun than me.  I came home with 24 mosquito bites. (To be fair, I think the term "mosquito bite" is a gross understatement.  These were half dollar-sized welts that made me want to rub my legs on a cactus. Because words are important to me, I want to be accurate.  And in the interest of accuracy, these were not mosquito bites.  These were mosquito-gorging lacerations.)

You selfish bit-h. 

The CDC website tells me the incubation period for West Nile Virus is "thought to range from 2 to 14 days, although longer incubation periods have been documented."  Just yesterday, I was thinking how much I was looking forward to hitting the 14 day mark West Nile Free.  But last night I went for a walk . . . and I came home with 4 new mosquito-gorging lacerations.  That's just not cool.

So, now I've got another 13 days to worry about fever, headache, disorientation, memory loss and personality change and death.  Seriously.  If I get a new personality, I'm hoping for one that's a morning person. But in the meantime, while I can still remember who I am and what you did to me, I just want to tell you that you suck.  Literally. 

Sincerely,

SEE

P.S.  On a positive note, the CDC says I live in a blue state. Its about time.

To My Mom's New Boyfriend

Dear Lieutenant Tan-

Mom brags about you quite a bit.  She says you make her laugh, and we're grateful for that--she's had a rough year and she deserves to laugh.  Mom gloats when she tells us that you have a pension and a retirement. (You are 62 years old, so its not really that remarkable.)  Mom also gushes that you do your own laundry.  (Again, you are 62 years old, but I guess we're glad you wear clean clothes.)  You're probably a nice enough guy, but we need to talk.  

Let's start at the beginning.  You met Mom on Saturday, June 2.  You were headed to some war-torn country, Mom was on her way to family vacation.  The two of you exchanged e-mail addresses and became penpals.  We thought it was cute.  Within two weeks, you were speaking by satellite phone. We were happy that Mom had a new friend. 

You sent Mom flowers on July 2 to celebrate your "anniversary."  We were a little surprised and a little embarrassed, but we all carried on about how pretty the flowers were.  Then, a little more than one month after your chance meeting on a flight, you started using the L word. We were horrified.  You began soliciting bikini pics of our 52 year-old mom and she obliged.  That's right--my sweet brothers took camera phone pics of their own bikini-clad mother in the backyard swimming pool to facilitate your sexts.  They were mortified; I was livid. 

On August 2, you sent Mom flowers for your second "anniversary." Not wanting to encourage bad behavior, we didn't say anything to Mom about the flowers.  (Just so you know, baby's breath went out of style in 1996.)   Shortly thereafter, Mom started bragging about the fact that you speak to each other on the phone "morning, noon and night." We thought that was insane. Recently, we heard that you've already discussed how you'll split the bills after you're married.  We think that is bat-shit crazy.  Yesterday, I looked at the phone bill and discovered that you called Mom TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOUR times last month.  Yesterday, you called Mom at 12:56, 12:56, 1:03, 1:11, 1:11, 1:17: 1:17, 1:18, and again at 1:18. That's right, you called NINE times in 22 minutes.  Its time for an intervention.

You only met Mom once, so there are only two possible explanations for this kind of behavior: 

1.  You are a stalker; or

2.  You are really a sixth-grade boy.

Either way, we're not very impressed with you.  We've had enough crazy in our life and you seem to be compounding it.  While you obviously know an awful lot about assault rifles, I'm afraid you don't have a clue about healthy relationships.  (Neither does Mom, apparently, but this letter is to you.)  

Anyway, I'm writing to tell you that this could be your big opportunity.  You'll never be a hero in the Middle East, but you could easily become the hero in our family. All of us are desperate for reliability and stability and I'm asking you (begging you) to man up and take the lead here.  Please.  Since she's the only one we've got, maybe you could help Mom be a better parent?  Maybe you could could avoid calling repeatedly?  If that's too much to ask, then maybe you could just stop calling between 6-8 so that my brother can get through homework and dinner without becoming resentful about all your interruptions?  Maybe you could tell Mom you're thinking about her but insist that she spend as much time with her kids as she spends on the phone with you?  Maybe you could be a little less demanding and not call after 1 am so that Mom could sleep?  (She'll have more energy to give you and us if she isn't sleep-deprived.)  Maybe you could be the guy that shows my brothers how to treat women with respect?  Maybe you could help us see that stable, healthy relationships do exist? 

I know its a tall order, but a little self control would go a long way here, Lieutenant. Just stop making a fool of yourself.  And please, please stop making a fool of our Mom.  Shape up and we'll all be there in January when you come home.  We'll even give you a hero's welcome. 

Sincerely,

SEE  (and her siblings)