Sweet.

Dear Frances-

I’ve never dated a man with a child before.  When your dad first told me that he wanted me to meet you, I remember thinking, “This is a good thing.”  I enjoyed that for approximately 2.53 seconds.  And then I started to get nervous.

What if you weren’t okay with your dad dating?  What if my mere presence upset you?  What if I said the wrong thing?  What if you resented me immediately for dividing some of your dad’s attention?  What if I caused unnecessary angst in the life of a wholly-innocent 11-year old?  How could I live with myself?  And underneath all that concern about how this would affect you, there was also this overwhelming dread: what if you just didn’t like me? 

I did what I usually do when something scares me—I started reading.  I checked out everything the library had on the subject.  I read fourteen different books on stepparenting, blending families, and how not to be a stepmonster.  In the beginning, the books scared the beejeezus out of me. All of a sudden, I was aware that I could say all the right things and you would still hate me.  

I kept reading.  

Eventually, I was prepared for you to spit your gum in my hair, or steal money out of my wallet.  I knew all the warning signs.  Red flags.  Landmines.  The way kids can sometimes pretend to be charming and fun in front of their parent, and then be really hateful once their parent isn’t watching.  I tried to prepare myself for the (apparently) inevitable moment when you would tell me you hated my guts and wanted me to die. I practiced all the responses the book suggested: 

“It makes sense that you feel this way.”

“I’m so sorry this is hard for you.” 

“I know you hate me right now, but I’m trying really hard to love you.”

After several weeks of intense reading and line-rehearsal, I felt like I was finally prepared to meet you.  Even still, I was a nervous wreck.  I spent the day making brownies because I had to have something to do.  I took deep breaths and practiced more lines. When I got in the car to drive over to your house, I thought my heart might beat out of my chest.  I even thought of cancelling.  But I didn’t cancel.  And I didn’t go into cardiac arrest.

When I walked in your front door, I told you how excited and nervous I was to meet you.  You smiled and started telling me about your timeline of pets, beginning with the cats your parents had before you were born.  Your dad had to interrupt us to tell us it was time to go to the concert.  I think we talked most of the way there.  I know we talked all the way home.  It was a good start.

Since then, we’ve collaborated on the world’s longest Father’s Day.  And on the world’s biggest party-of-three birthday party.  Ever.  You’ve tried to teach me to play guitar.  I’ve tried to teach you how to make pancakes in the shapes of letters.  We’ve exchanged books.  And camp songs.  And tales of rescuing neglected cats and dogs.  We’ve played board games and card games and totally made-up non-games.  We’ve watched movies.  We’ve played basketball and air hockey and putt-putt golf.  For me, getting to know you has been a total blast.

One day last week, your dad had to work late and the babysitter had to leave at 6:30.  I was thrilled for the chance to take you out to dinner.  After we ate, we hung out and played games.  You commented that your dad was no fun at playing board games because he was too competitive.  And then you said:

“But, wait.  I’m not telling you that because I want you to stop liking my dad.  I mean, I like you.  So, like, I want you to keep liking him.” 

On the way home, I realized we’d crossed the alone-together threshold.  You’d finally been given an opportunity to tell me what you really thought about me.  Tonight was your chance to tell me anything without your dad cutting you off.  You had a pass to tell me exactly how you felt.  And you did.  You told me you liked me. 

Sweet girl, I like you too. 

Sincerely,

SEE

The Darkest Book.

Dear Ms. Greene:

I regret to inform you that your book recommendation privileges have been temporarily suspended.  Please be aware that this decision was not made lightly.  However, after your recent recommendation of The Orphan Master’s Son by Adam Johnson, I feel I have no choice but to set aside your other reading suggestions at this time. 

As you may recall, The Orphan Master’s Son tells the story of Pak Jun Do, a resident of a work camp for orphans.  As he grows up, Jun Do navigates the shifting rules, arbitrary violence, and baffling demands of North Korea in order to stay alive.  At the end of the first half of the book, Jun Do disappears into the jail system and resurfaces as a new character in the second half of the book.  Driven to the absolute limit of what any human being could endure, Jun Do rivals Kim Jong II in an attempt to save the woman he loves.  But, because this story takes place in North Korea, it does not end well . . .

To be clear, Ms. Greene, I am not partial to happy endings.  (In fact, on a five-star scale, I automatically deduct a star for any book that ends in a marriage proposal or a wedding.)  But I have my limits.  Professional kidnapping.  Militarized sexual assault.  Whaling.  Torture.  An infirmary where sick soldiers and the elderly are housed briefly until their blood can be drained from them for use by the military.  Brain washing.  Dog farms.  Enslavement (and death) of any suspected homosexual. Famine.  Suicide. Filicide. Parricide. 

My stomach is still turning.

Ms. Greene, next time you describe a book as “VERY intriguing,” please note that you are intrigued by violence.  And also, it would be helpful to know that you are not offended by gruesome scenes of torture and abuse. I recommend that you incorporate a simple disclaimer: 

Warning: This book is dark. And violent. You will have nightmares. You will be exposed to things you wish you could forget. You won’t be able to forget.      

While you consider the above recommendation, I will be reading light and fluffy books in an attempt to get over the trauma of reading The Orphan Master’s Son.  If that fails, I may seek psychological treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder. What I will not be doing is recommending The Darkest Book I’ve Ever Read to anyone I know.  In fact, I will specifically advise other dog lovers not to read this book.

During this moratorium on book suggestions, please review your reading lists and reconsider all other recommendations.  Upon receipt of your agreement to include a disclaimer on future reviews about novels containing unimaginable horrors, your book recommendation privileges will be reinstated. 

Sincerely,

SEE

Tripping, Update.

To The Universe

Attention: Deepak Chopra

2013 Costa Del Mar Rd.

Carlsbad, California 92009

Dear Deepak-

It worked.

To be clear, Dr. Mom does not read this blog.  She does not even know it exists.  And yet, only four days after asking, I received this invitation from her.  Is it a curious coincidence?  A sign from the Universe?  I don't know.  But thank you.  More, please.

Sincerely,
SEE

Tripping.

To The Universe

Attention: Deepak Chopra

2013 Costa Del Mar Rd.

Carlsbad, California 92009

Dear Deepak-

Yesterday after a meeting, my boss and I huddled to iron out summer work schedules. (It’s a necessity at a generous company that gives every employee 12-22 days of paid vacation per year in addition to 12 paid holidays.)  The conversation wrapped up like this:

Boss:  Well, I think we’ve got everything covered.  But wait a second . . . what about you?  When are you going on vacation?

Me:     I’ll be here.

Boss:  How can that be?  Don’t you take at least one or two family trips every summer? 

Me:    Not this year.  I’ll be at work.

Boss: Well, what is your family doing?

Me:    Uh . . . I’m not sure . . . I hear they’ll be spending a week in Park City, Utah.

Boss:  Oh, it would be so great to see your brothers!  You should totally go!

Me:    It would be so great to see my brothers.  Unfortunately, I haven’t been  invited. Actually, Mom has made it pretty clear that I am not invited. 

Boss:  I’m so sorry.  Families are like that sometimes.  I’m really sorry.  But what about your boyfriend?  What is he doing for vacation?

Me:    He’s taking his daughter to the Jersey Shore for 10 days. 

Boss: Oh, that’ll be a blast!  You should go up and meet them there, at least for a few days.  I hear it is really beautiful

Me:    I hear it is beautiful too.  But I haven’t been invited.

Boss:  Oh . . . That’s really tough.  I don’t know what to say.  

I don’t know what to say either, actually.  Aside from the two trips I have not been invited to be a part of, I've (unsuccessfully) attempted to crash a friend’s daughter’s wedding in Greece, my sister’s spring break trip to Spain, and a friend’s family vacation to Branson, Missouri.  In fairness, I don’t even really want to go to Branson, Missouri; I just want to go somewhere. 

So, why don’t I combine my 195 vacation hours and 75,000 frequent flier miles and take myself on a trip?  Because.  I want someone to want to go somewhere with me. 

I saw you speak a few weeks ago, Deepak, and you assured me that by meditating on the thing that I wanted, I would be able to communicate that desire to the universe . . . and that the universe would manifest those desires in my life.  You seemed awfully polished, suave, commercial . . . but I’m going to suspend my cynicism here for just a moment and see if this works . . .

Attention Universe:  This summer, I want to go somewhere with someone who wants to go somewhere with me. 

How is that, Deepak?  Will it work?  I hope so.  Since you and the Universe commune for several hours every day, maybe you could put in a good word for me?  I could certainly use the help.

Sincerely,

SEE

Birthday Wishes

Dear Emmy- 

You were born on a Sunday—Mother’s Day, in fact.  I stayed the night with a friend and Dad called early that morning to tell me I had a new sister. (I was relieved.  A little brother was out of the question because I didn’t want to share my room with Legos or G.I. Joes.)  I got dressed in a blue and white romper that had ties at each shoulder.  Grammie drove down from Austin to take me to the hospital to meet you for the first time.  

When we got there, Mom and Dad were still debating whether to name you Ashley or Taylor.  Your umbilical cord stump was alarming.  (My six-year old brain was convinced that you were born with an olive stuck to your belly button; Mom promised me it was normal.) You looked small, but I remember being surprised at how heavy you were.  With you in my arms on your very first day, I recognized that having a sister was weighty, substantive.  And I loved you. 

Curiously, I don’t have many memories of your infancy.  I remember that you grew into an adorable toddler and an enviable preschooler.  I remember that you would sing and tap dance for anyone who would smile.  I remember Mom trying to convince you not to talk to strangers and you declaring (emphatically) that “all the people in the mall aren't my strangers, they’re MY friends!”  I remember that you were charming and entertaining and effervescent.  As you grew up, it was clear you were also brilliant.  And happy.  And energetic.  And so many other wonderful things.

It’s a crying shame, I know, but it took me twenty years to appreciate the person that you are.  Now, on your twenty-fifth birthday, I want to tell you that I love you twenty-five million times more than I did when we first met, on your birth day.  I love that you are good-natured and patient and overwhelmingly, breathtakingly optimistic. 

Being your sister is substantive; knowing you has been a saving grace in the past few years.  I love you Sister, and I wish you all the best today and always.

Sincerely,

SEE

Missing Mom

Dear John Walsh-

Its official: my mom is missing.  She was last seen boarding an airplane in San Antonio on June 2, 2012.  It was a short trip to Atlanta—only two hours long.  At some point during the flight, my mom excused herself to use the teensy-tiny airplane bathroom.  Moments later, a highly-skilled mom-impersonator came out of the bathroom wearing my mom’s clothes and took my mom’s seat.  My mom simply vanished.

After landing in Atlanta, the mom-impersonator stepped off the plane.  The mom-impersonator—we call her M.I. for short—looked and sounded like my mom.  She knew our names and seemed happy to see us.  None of us suspected that the woman we were looking at was not our mom. 

The M.I. is a professional—she imitated our mom perfectly.  In the beginning, we noticed only small discrepancies.  Where Mom wouldn’t have been caught dead in a two-piece bathing suit, the M.I. had half a dozen of them.  Where Mom never wanted to be in pictures, the M.I. was single-minded in her effort to capture hundreds of pictures or herself.  Where Mom sunburned easily, the M.I. had a twice-weekly membership at a nearby tanning salon.  Those first few weeks, the changes were noticeable, but not alarming.   

Over time, the differences became more dramatic.  The M.I. suddenly wore liquid eyeliner, refused phone calls from family because she was updating her facebook status, and donned artificial fingernails and synthetic hair pieces.  She lost about a hundred pounds.  Most disturbingly, she took to dressing in princess costumes.  Her attention-seeking behavior was unmatched even by even the angriest of fifteen-year-old girls.   

The tone of the family script also changed.  When visiting home before June of 2012, conversations with Mom went like this:

Me:     Hey Mom.

Mom:  The dead has risen!  I'm so glad you're up! 

Me:     Me too.  What's for breakfast?

Mom:  Cinnamon rolls are in the oven.  Do you want your eggs scrambled or over easy? 

Me:      Over easy please, and then I'm going to move back home. 

Since the M.I. took over, the same conversation goes like this:

Me:    Good morning Mom.

MI:     I curse your father's name every morning at this time.

Me:    I see.  Hey, do you want to go grab breakfast together?  I'm starving.

MI:     I drank a protein shake for breakfast.  I won't be hungry all day.  In fact, I've lost so much weight that my stomach has eaten itself and I no longer feel hungry.  Ever. 

Me:    That sounds like you have an eating disorder.

MI:     I'm very happy.  I've never been happier.

Despite her training, the M.I. is clearly not a convincing substitute for our mom.  Worse, the M.I. is actively revising the positive memories I had of my mom.  Two months ago, for example, the M.I. indicated that her children (including me) had never brought her any joy.  When asked what did bring her happiness, she confessed, “Well, I just got an iTunes account and I’m discovering that I really enjoy music.”

Only an M.I. could make such a ghastly statement.  I know the M.I. is doing her best to be our mom.  I try to be appreciative.  (I even sent the M.I. an iTunes gift card for Mother’s Day.) But when someone who looks like your mom and sounds like your mom, tells you that iTunes makes her happier than you do, it’s hard not to get upset.  It’s even harder to remember that it isn’t really your mom talking. 

I’m tired of all of it.  The M.I. is not my mom.  My mom did enjoy her family. I have thirty years’ worth of birthday cards and letters and pictures to prove that we gave her some measure of joy.  The M.I. is not working out.  She’s not happy.  We’re not happy.  We just need our mom back.  

If my mom had run away on June 2, 2012, I don’t think anybody would have blamed her.  It had been a hard year for her.  Perhaps more than anyone, she was entirely consumed by trying to compensate for the glaring absence of another missing family member. So, maybe Mom needed a break?  That’s fair, but she’s been gone nearly a year now, and it’s time to find her.

Since Mother’s Day is around the corner, I thought this could make a timely sort of news story you might be interested in.  My mom isn't America's most wanted.  But she's my most wanted.  And if that's ever enough for you or your show, please call me.  We have to find our mom and bring her home.

Sincerely,

SEE

Letter to a Young-ish Writer

Dear Brant Coleman-

In 2004, you gave me a copy of Letters to a Young Poet.  I read it and I still read it—it’s become a frequently-relied upon companion over the years.  It’s so highlighted and marked up and annotated that it reminds me of a used college textbook.  No matter, I love it.  Here is one of my most-underlined quotes: 

This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose...

I’ve thought a lot about this over the years.  I’ve asked myself over and over again if I have what it takes to try and say what I see and feel and love and lose.  There have been rare times when I think I can; there are more times when I think I cannot. So, must I write?  I don’t know.  But in those silent hours of the night, what is clear to me is this: Brant should write.  Brant must write. 

Unfortunately (for both of us), I can’t sponsor your first book.  I can’t make you a writer-in-residence in my 700-square foot apartment while offering you free room and board. I can’t put a pen in your hand and then wrap my hand around yours and make something beautiful appear on the page.  I can’t even tell you the story you should write.  But if I could, I would, Brant.  That’s how strongly I feel about this. 

You must write, Brant, if for no other reason than this:  I insist. 

Sincerely,

SEE   

Freelance Translating for Free!

Dear CNN-

You’ve got entirely too many reporters covering news of the Vatican and you’ve got approximately NO ONE following the Mormon Church. With 14 million members worldwide, that’s a glaring hole in your news coverage.  No worries though; I’m on it. 

On March 1, 2013, the Mormons (led by 3 very white men pictured below) announced the release of an updated version of the Mormon scriptures. 



May the next Mormon presidential candidate be more male, more white and more Republican!

The official release cites advances in historical research and printing technologies. In typical Mormon doublespeak, the Church statement wholly neglects to mention the substantive additions to its scriptural canon.  In fact, Church members are specifically told that they are not expected to obtain a new set of scriptures as a result of the updated version.  That’s because it’s easier to sneak in the changes when nobody is looking. 

But CNN, I am looking and I intend to keep you fully-informed of the latest developments.  The biggest news is the crafty new introductions for official declarations, which can be read here.   They are highly-technical and that makes it easy to overlook the communication that is actually taking place.  Fear not!  As a 20-year scholar of Mormonism, I’m fluent in Mormonspeak.  And I'm happy to volunteer my translation services to you.  For free. 

Translation of Declaration 1:  Stop calling us polygamists!

It’s all God’s fault. God told women that if they didn’t participate in polygamy, they’d go to Hell. (See  Doctrine and Covenants Section 132:4.)  While polygamy may have been bad for women, it was even worse for publicity. So, after the practice was declared illegal, God promptly let the Mormons know that the polygamy thing should be discontinued.  Stat.  The Mormons (mostly) obliged God. But if anyone should be blamed for polygamy, it isn't the Mormons.  It’s God.  The Mormons were simply following the rules.   

Translation of Declaration 2: We aren't racists anymore.

The Book of Mormon teaches that non-white skin is a curse that can be removed by righteousness.  (See 3 Nephi 2:15 if you don't believe me.)  For 100 years, the Church relied upon the Book of Mormon to deny the priesthood to male members of African descent.*  Because God had not yet spoken about the ills of bigotry, the Mormon Church instituted race-based discrimination as a prudent and precautionary measure.  Thankfully, God made an appearance in 1978, and “revealed” that Africa and Africans were pretty much okay after all.  (It is unfortunate, but the Mormon Church can’t un-do it’s own idiotic decisions until it receives God’s express consent. Regrettably, it takes God approximately 100 years to respond to low-priority e-mail messages from Salt Lake.)  In any case, the Mormons haven't been practicing racists for, like, 35 years now. 

CNN, you need me. I promise you won't find a better freelance translator of Mormonspeak than me!  (Especially not one who works for free.)  And besides, you really ought to be paying attention.  These new introductions are obviously NOT the result of developments in "historical research and printing technologies."  On the contrary, these changes are the result of old-fashioned political angling. The Mormons aren't simply distancing themselves from their history; they are attempting to mollify minority voters for the next election. You should be watching. I should be translating.  Please be in touch.

Sincerely,

SEE

*  The Mormon church still denies the priesthood to female members of African descent.

Love-ly.

Dear Oprah-

I can’t remember the last time I watched your show, but it made me cry and then I was depressed.  At that moment, I realized your true genius—you make people think about things that make them sad so that those same people have to tune in the next day so you can tell them how to overcome their sadness.  I’ve got your number, Oprah.  I’m on to you.  And anyway, I have absolutely no interest in all that that you-are-loved and love-is-freeing rhetoric.  Especially not when it comes from a stranger on cable TV.

Nevertheless, I thought of you on Tuesday, February 12, 2013: Valentine’s Day (observed).  Sam treated me to a lovely dinner and we watched the State of the Union Address together. As the evening wound down, Sam leaned over and told me that he liked me.  I told him that I liked him too and that it was a lovely Valentine’s Day (observed).  He smiled and then he said something game-changing:

“Maybe because its Valentine’s Day (observed) and maybe I’m feeling overly-sentimental, but there’s another L-word rolling around in my head right now.”

To be clear, if Sam had told me he loved me, I might have excused myself to go to the bathroom and then climbed out through the vent for the exhaust fan and run home barefoot.  In my experience, love is a time bomb that could break your heart into a million tiny pieces at any moment.   And since I haven’t found a bomb squad that can help me disengage before the bomb detonates, I generally avoid love like the plague. Or the norovirus. 

But Sam didn’t tell me he loved me.  (Thank Gawd.)  By stating there was an L-word bouncing around in his head, Sam simply suggested that he was capable of being in love with me.  And if someone is capable of being in love with me . . . that means I must be loveable. 

It was a revolutionary thought, and one that I hadn’t properly considered before.  (After all, I was very, very busy not getting attached and not letting anyone get attached to me.)  So, while I may have seen myself as smart(ish) and fun and sometimes funny, I’ve never really identified myself as falling-in-love or being-loved material.  Now Oprah, I will acknowledge that you’ve been telling me I was worthy of love for my whole entire life.  But you say that to everyone—it’s like, your job.  And anyway, you don’t really know me.

The point is that now someone who does know me has declared me loveable, and I’ve decided he’s right.  But Oprah, you were right too.  Feeling loveable is outrageously liberating.  It means I can stop fretting about The End.  It means I can quit making lists of reasons not to get attached.  It means I can stop planning escape routes.  It means I can stop trying to convince others that I’m All Wrong.  It means that I can enjoy the butterflies and fairy dust and laugh-out-loud moments of getting to know someone.  It means I can embrace the uncertainty of relationships because I trust that I’m still a loveable person.

In that sense, it was the best ever Valentine’s Day (observed) gift. I don’t know if things with Sam will work out or not.   Fortunately, feeling loveable is a little gem of awareness I’ll take with me no matter how the relationship ends.  But if it ends badly, Oprah, and I need any help overcoming sadness or disappointment, I promise I’ll tune in--I’ve got your channel.

Sincerely,

SEE

Tips On Meeting My Mother's Kids

Dear Lieutenant Tan-

I thought I was fully prepared to meet you.  I knew that you wouldn’t be like our dad, you wouldn’t love us, you hardly know our mom and you’d all but moved in and taken over.  But I guess I thought you’d understand it was a tough situation and you’d do your best to demonstrate how much you were NOT interfering with our mom’s relationships.  You certainly failed at that.  Nevertheless, I can acknowledge that meeting someone’s kids is tricky.  And  since my little sister is coming home to meet you this weekend, you get a second chance.  Here are some pointers:

1.     Learn the script.  You are supposed to feign interest in your girlfriend’s kids, at least at the beginning.  So, when my mom asks me to tell you about my job, you’re supposed to listen.  Then, to show interest in what I’m saying, you’re supposed to ask a follow-up question about me or my job.  You are not supposed to  interrupt me to ask my mom if she received your e-mail forward about the anarchist’s cookbook.  You are not supposed to cut me off and exclude me from the dinner conversation my mom was purposely trying to include me in.  If you’d read the script, you’d have known that, Lieutenant Tan. 

2.    Get real.  Any man over six feet tall should not drive a Mazda Miata.  You are too big for that kind of car and every time you fold yourself inside, I think of a giraffe bending over to take a sip of water.  You are not a giraffe.  You are a grown man.  And you look like a fool cramming your oversized self into a miniature car.  So, ditch the silly sports car and get something with a backseat.  Make room for my siblings and me—we’re a package deal.

3.     Avoid landmines.  Jokes about breaking in and stealing my little brother’s cat are not funny.  It’s nice that you like the cat, but quit making jokes about stealing it.  My little brother got robbed of damn near everything in my parent’s divorce and all he has is his cat.  If you paid any attention to my little brother, you’d know how much he loves that cat.  But since you don’t pay attention, you’re going to have to trust me on this one:  leave the cat alone.

4.     Be generous.  Sending my mom a free online e-card for her birthday is not impressive.  It would be better to go to Target and spring for a $4 Hallmark greeting card like a normal person.  I know $4 cards are a rip-off, but our mom is worth it.

5.     Listen.  It’s rude to interrupt another person when they are talking.  Especially if that person is me.  I tried not to take it personally, but then I heard you interrupt my mom as well and I wanted to gouge your eyes out.  Or stuff a dirty sock in your mouth.  Maybe both.  (Lest there be any confusion, please note that shouting out the make and model of a military aircraft flying overhead is not a justifiable excuse to interrupt or talk over anyone in my family.) 

6.    Don’t compete.  When mom told you that I was going to New Orleans next week, you’re supposed to say, “Wow, what a great trip!” or “I’ve always wanted to go there.”  You are not supposed to say, “Well, I’ve been to Toronto.”  We’re not competing about who is cooler.  (But if we were, I would win.)

7.     Spit out your gum.  Lieutenant Tan, I’m sure you can’t help it that you are a LOUD gum chewer.  But my brother (who has a 30% hearing loss in each ear) can hear you smacking bubble gum all over the house.  And it’s highly irritating.  Swallow it, spit it out, flush it, or make a sculpture out of it.  I don’t care what you do with your chewed gum, but for God’s sake, take it out of your mouth.

8.     Know when to make yourself scarce.  You’ve been around for 31 days.  I’ve been around for 31 years.  Its polite and reasonable and courteous to allow someone to visit with their out-of-town guest privately on the last day of their trip.  You should have had the wherewithal to know that I’d want to spend my last morning home with my mom.  Without you.  If you didn’t know, you should have asked.

9.     Drive responsibly.  When you run over a curb and hit a fence in my mother’s car, it is appropriate to stop and inspect the car for damage and then to apologize profusely.  It is not appropriate to shout out, “No guts, no glory!” and continue driving full speed ahead.

10. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.  You have a GPS and an iPhone and you are a grown adult.  If you can’t find Papa Murphy’s, you should call Papa Murphy’s.  You should NOT call my mom and ask her to call Papa Murphy’s to get their exact street address so that she can call you back and you can put the address in your GPS and wait to see if it can find the Papa Murphy’s so that you can find the Papa Murphy’s so that you can bring pizza over even though we just ate breakfast and we aren’t hungry.  My mom and I live in different cities.  And if you’re badgering her with phone calls and texts every time she’s away from you, it makes the time we do spend together impossibly frustrating.  You can get lost and hound my mother with phone calls and texts any day of the week.  But when I’m in town, maybe you could respect me enough to exercise a little more discretion? Please, Lieutenant Tan, this is important to me.

I don’t know when I’ll visit next, but let’s not do this again.  I’m a good kid and I deserved better. 

In the meantime, please make more of an effort when you meet my little sister.  She’s the most open-minded of our bunch and if you can’t win her over, you may as well pack up and go home.  I’ll help you move.

Sincerely,

SEE

On Going Home

Dear Airline Industry-

I’m flying “home” to meet my now-divorced mom’s boyfriend/fiancé and I’m a nervous wreck.  I’ve looked all over the internet for tips on how children should approach meeting a parent’s new significant other.  So far, all I can find is an episode of Sabrina the Teenage Witch, and how-to guides for parents on making sure introductions go smoothly.  (For the record, my mom has already broken all the rules.) Since the internet has failed me and I can’t track down any armchair psychology that will make me think I have the tools to handle this, I need you to help.

I recognize that for many lucky individuals, going home is a treat.  I used to be one of them.  But when your parents are acting out in ways that make you hope you were switched at birth, there is absolutely no feeling at home about going “home.”  You recognize that your home doesn’t exist anymore, and that’s downright depressing.  Then you realize you’ll have to pretend you’re happy that your mom and her new boyfriend are happy . . . even though it means your life will never be the same and you’re decidedly unhappy about that.  And that makes you apprehensive and anxious, because what if you’re not up to the task?  For anyone has to travel “home” under these (or other) profoundly unpleasant circumstances, I don’t think it’s outrageous to expect the airline industry to make reasonable accommodations.

For those of us who have to use quotation marks every time we use the word “home,” I’m proposing we be assigned Traveler Under Pressure Status.  As a Traveler Under Pressure, I should be able to see a doctor at the airport who will give me a Xanax IV-drip to prepare me for the trip.  TSA should forego the usual man-handling in favor of a bear hug.  (Because really, who doesn’t need a real hug before they are greeted by a family that is no longer familiar?)  I should be allowed to pre-board the plane to minimize my time standing around waiting with seemingly-happy families. Once seated, vodka or whiskey or scotch should be brought to me by a social worker who can guide me through deep-breathing exercises.  Or a hypnotherapist who can convince me that I am going to see someone else’s family so there’s really no reason to be upset.   With Traveler Under Pressure Status, I should be allowed to recline my seat before takeoff because I’m attempting to relax and you’re attempting to help me.  Flight staff should recognize me as a Traveler Under Pressure and all the other passengers should erupt into applause to facilitate my courage.  I should be allowed to get off the plane last so that I can enjoy a few more moments before being confronted with the reality of so much change.  On my way out, the flight crew, social worker and hypnotherapist should express warm wishes and assure me that that I’m fully equipped to make the most of this trip “home.”  (The Xanax and alcohol and deep breathing will have taken effect by then, so I will believe them.)  Finally, with Traveler Under Pressure Status, I should be able to make changes to my return ticket without penalty.  Because you understand what it’s like to go “home,” and you want me to know I always have a way out.

 

I’ve traveled a lot, you know, so I feel like I’ve seen just about everything.  I know you make accommodations for children and for the elderly and for people with assistance animals and for people with oxygen tanks and people who can’t walk. I’ve seen you work around canes and pacemakers and wheelchairs and cross-dressers and pregnant women and drunks.  You accommodate people who lost their ID, who accidentally threw away their boarding pass, who inadvertently boarded the wrong plane or who mistakenly got off before their final destination.  I know you try to be accommodating, so I’m just bringing it to your attention that you’ve neglected a whole class passengers with a profound disability—the inability to go home.

Sincerely,

SEE

Nobody's Book Award - 2013

Dear Jan-Philipp Sendker-

Congratulations!  After careful evaluation of novels published last year, it is my privilege to inform you that The Art of Hearing Heartbeats has been selected for the 2013 Nobody's Book Prize! 

The Nobody’s Book Prize is reserved for the best under-the-radar book of the year. It means your novel was outstanding, and that the ratio of publicity to quality writing was grossly disproportionate.  Although the Nobody’s Book Prize is less prestigious than the National Book Award or the Man Booker Prize, it is no less earnest in its efforts to recognize a significant achievement in the craft of writing. 

The purpose of the Prize is simple—to increase awareness and promote reading of a remarkable piece of literature that has been largely unnoticed in the past year.  Although your book may have gone unseen last year, please be assured that in awarding this Prize, we are committed to the tireless promotion of The Art of Hearing Heartbeats. 

Congratulations, again on being the first-ever winner of the Nobody's Book Prize.  We wish you all the best and look forward to your future success.

Sincerely,

Nobody’s Book Prize Panel*

*This year’s judge is a spectacularly-popular blogger with a devoted readership of three.  She has relentlessly pestered other readers (and successfuly convinced her little sister) to read The Art of Hearing Heartbeats. 

We can't all be Ann Romney.

Dear Dallas Arboretum Board of Directors-

Hands down, you’ve got the best outdoor space in Dallas.  I’ve been to the Arboretum several times and I can honestly say it is every bit as beautiful as Central Park in New York City.   I even like the mission statement on your website’s homepage:  “to build and maintain a public garden.”   That's a lovely goal and I applaud your efforts.  Nevertheless, I regret to inform you that I will not become a member of the Dallas Arboretum this year.

I love parks and gardens and walking trails and flowers and anything that adds nature to a big city.  So, it wouldn't be hard for me to love the Dallas Arboretum.  But then I remember that you are only open from 9-5 . . . Unfortunately, I’m not independently wealthy. That means I have to work.  Five days a week.  From 9 to 5.  I realize that a job is a terribly inconvenient thing to have, but that job is what allows me to contribute to public spaces in the first place.  Regrettably, that same job means I only have access to the Dallas Arboretum on the weekend. 

I’ve been to the Dallas Arboretum on three separate weekends over the years.  It’s always a zoo.  Finding an empty parking spot is an exercise in frustration.  There are lines to buy tickets and lines to get in and even lines to get in the bathroom once you’re inside.  You have to navigate around hundreds of people and their wagons and strollers and ice chests on wheels.   You find a beautiful patch of grass, but you can’t sit down without injecting yourself into someone else’s family/engagement/Christmas picture.  In three weekend visits over four years, I’ve never been able to walk down this tree-lined path:

I wish I could have taken this picture myself, but there were brides (plural) getting photographed there during each of my visits.  And those brides-to-be with their families and wedding coordinators and photographers will give you the stink eye for daring to walk anywhere near them.  In a “public” space.  In a “public” garden.    

I recognize that you can’t do anything about the crowds. I know parking has been an on-going battle and you’ve faced fierce opposition every time you try to create additional lots. I assume you get some financial benefit from opening the space to photographers and that means you probably can’t afford to do anything about the bitchy brides.  But you could make the Arboretum more accessible to the public.  More specifically, you could make the Arboretum more available to the working public.  We can’t all be Ann Romney, you know.  There are a lot of us who have to work.

The fact is that a garden is only as public as it is accessible.  You’ve already precluded a significant portion of the Dallas population who can’t afford to spend $25 to get in.  By closing every day at 5, you relegate the majority of the gainfully-employed public to weekend-only visits at the Dallas Arboretum.  And let’s face it-- the Dallas Arboretum isn’t as enjoyable on the weekends when the amount of people inside seems to exceed the number of flowers there.  By opening up the Arboretum in the evenings, you'd allow those of us who work 9-5 to experience the beauty of the gardens after work, which is probably when we need it most.  Plus, there's a good chance that by allowing garden-goers to visit in the evenings, the Arboretum might be a more pleasant (i.e., less crowded) place on the weekends.

What I’m asking for isn’t outrageous.  The Fort Worth Botanic Gardens are open daily from dawn until dusk.  If that won’t work, then maybe you could follow the lead of The Dallas Museum of Art?  It closes every day at 5, but it stays open on Thursday until 9 pm.  Perhaps the Arboretum could remain open one weekday evening a week, just until sundown?  Stated differently, maybe you could make your public garden a little more public?

Sincerely,

SEE