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)

Birthday Bliss

Photo courtesy of Sister

Dear Grammie-

I had the most wonderful birthday weekend in New Orleans.  It rained almost the entire time we were there, but no matter.  I ate my weight in seafood and beignets.  I bought a beautiful copy of To Kill a Mockingbird at William Faulkner's house-turned bookstore.  I ate at Irene's Italian Cuisine.  Twice.  We listened to jazz music at Preservation Hall.  We even made it out to Dr. Bob's art "studio" where I picked out a hand painted sign.  Everything there was quirky and whimsical (including Dr. Bob himself!) and you would have LOVED it!

The rain broke for a few hours and we took a bicycle tour of the city.  The tour guide was so enthusiastic about our familial connection to New Orleans that he incorporated your house into our tour.  (Cheers to Confederacy of Cruisers!) We pulled up at at 4123 Royal and got off our bikes to take pictures.  I told everyone about the Catholic orphanage across the street and how your grandparents were called on at all hours of the night to stand is as godparents for the christening of every single orphan that came through the door.  I told them how you used to walk to the dock of the Mississippi River and beg the sailors to take you on board. (They never did.) I even told them about your favorite prank--hiding the roll of toilet paper from the ten adults that lived in the four-room, one-bathroom house during the Great Depression.  After we got back on our bikes and pulled away from your house, the tour guide turned back to me and said, "You should keep telling Grammie stories while we ride."

I had to smile.

Telling Grammie stories on a single-speed Schwinn bike . . . the wind blowing through my hair . . . taking care to avoid pot holes, Tarot card readers, pit bulls and Jesus freaks.  Could a birthday be better spent?  I think not.  It was exhilarating and joyous, and given the break in the otherwise constant rain, downright miraculous.

Thank you for Grammie stories.  And thank you for giving me so many reasons to love New Orleans. 

Sincerely,

SEE 

Domestic Enemy

Dear Stephen Hawking-

I know you probably already know this, but extra-terrestrial aliens aren't taking over the world.  And neither are illegal aliens, just in case you were wondering.  What's really taking over the world is this:  STUFF.  If you don't believe me, I've got proof.

I moved into my home five years ago without a single glass vase.  Shortly thereafter, a friend sent me a small bouquet to celebrate my new digs.  I remember exactly which vase that bouquet was in, too--small and round with frilled edges.  I didn't exactly know what to do with the glass vase but it seemed like a good thing to save just in case.  Recognizing that I would need that little vase rarely (if ever),  I put it in the inaccessible cabinet above the fridge and forgot about it. 

Over the weekend, I cleaned out that same totally inaccessible cabinet above the fridge and look:

That one vase morphed into nine.  (I think they call that prolific asexual reproduction.)  I am not a hoarder and I've never taken, borrowed or otherwise acquired a vase for free.  I can also assure you that I have never, ever purchased a vase.  Finally, I can attest to the fact that I have not received flowers at home nine times.  (I may have gotten flowers at work, but I leave those vases in office kitchens--I don't want to bring any more STUFF into my house.)  So you see, there are no other explanations. Alien invasions are just a distraction while STUFF is taking over the world. 

So Stephen, I know you spend your time solving the mysteries of the universe but if you ever get bored, maybe you could figure this one out?  In the meantime, I'm taking these to the glass recycling station.  I don't want to be responsible for anymore unsafe asex taking place in my kitchen.

Sincerely,

SEE

Birthday Wish

Dear Fairy Godmother-

I need your help. Prince Charming and Nordstrom's are conspiring to have me killed.  Seriously.  Just look at this shoe:

As you know, my birthday is next week.  Prince Charming thought it would be nice to treat me to a shopping trip to Nordstrom's to buy a pair of shoes.  I thought it would be nice too, until I had to wedge my fat foot into this shoe. (To be fair, I have wide, flat feet.  Think: Fred Flintstone.)  

It took about 1.3 seconds to  realize that  the shoes were uncomfortable.   Unfortunately, it took even less time to forget just how much they hurt my feet.  I got caught up in the moment and the excitement of having fashionable, trendy, sexy shoes.  Prince Charming promised to valet park whenever I wore the shoes . . . and I caved.

Okay, okay.  It's my fault too.  Prince Charming and Nordstrom's aren't entirely to blame.  But its my birthday and I want to be fashionable and trendy and sexy.  Just for one night.  So, if you'll get me through a nice dinner without breaking an ankle, sprouting a bunion, tearing an ACL or suffering any other shoe-related bodily injury, I promise to leave BOTH shoes at the steps of the donation station on the way home. 

Sincerely,

SEE

P.S.  If you're planning one of those if-the-shoe-fits-Cinderella moments, please give me a few days before sending my One True Love around for the shoe fitting.  My feet will be blistered and swollen and I'll need a couple days before I can get my fat foot into that God-forsaken shoe again. 

Ode to Jo*

Dear Jo-

I know you were a lot of things—

Devoted mother,

Crossword-puzzler,

Antique-hunter,

Civil Rights fighter,

PBS watcher,

Dr. Seuss lover,

Proudest grand-mother.

I don’t want to minimize any of that;

But to me, you were just a fellow reader.

A bibliophile. 

A compatriot,

From the country where,

Holy Days are celebrated by a feast

on Literature, of Literature.

Histories and mysteries,

War stories and spy novels,

Memoirs and novellas,

Essays, short stories

Historical fiction. 

For you, reading was a joyous affliction. 

The last time we met, you inquired

In the 72 books you read each year

For at least as many years . . .

What had you overlooked?

What other experiences should you read?

What other authors? What other books?

Were waiting for you

To become part of your library.

To become a part of you.

As though our recommendations were over due

You scribbled away, furiously

Insisting that you wanted to

Read Everything.

Experience Everything.

You added to your list to read,

Your list of books to check out,

Your list of books to wait for,

Notations about what to borrow.

A separate list for what to lend.

For me, your Life’s Lesson was this, then:

Search and read and then

Learn and read more and then

Experience some and read some more

And share a little (or a lot).

Then read a little more. 

But probably a lot more.

And read, and read,

And read.

Until the very end.

With heavy hearts, no new book club could mend,

I’m not sure what you’d say to us,

But I do know what you’d recommend:

Reading. 

Voracious Reading.

Staying-up-all-night, getting chills-down-your-spine, laughing and crying reading.

We will read on

Willing the books will see us through this loss,

But we will think of you each time we find something good,

And we will miss you all over again.

Jo, thank you for being my good book friend.

My life is better because I knew you.

My library richer,

My lists of books to read longer,

My love for reading stronger.

Sincerely,
SEE

*Disclaimer:  I am not a poet.  At all.  But given her love of all things literary, I thought Jo deserved an elegy.