Dear Roxie,

I still love you.  You’re still my Scrumptious Little Punkin-Kitty.  But if you do not stop being such a PAIN IN MY ASS, I will sell you to the first bidder on Ebay, I swear to God. 

I know you’re just acting out, and I’m sorry for it.  But I told you before the baby was born that, once she was here, you wouldn’t be the baby anymore.  I’m sorry I didn’t send one of her blankets home from the hospital so you could get comfortable with her smell.  I’m sorry you don’t get 20 cups of water strategically placed around the house for your convenience anymore.  I’m sorry if there aren’t any laps for you to sit in whenever you want.  I’m sorry I don’t coddle you to the point of embarrassing myself anymore.  That’s life, cat.  I’m trying to keep another human alive now — I don’t have time to feed you bits of chicken from my dinner plate.

Look at Sam!  She’s dealing with the new baby, too, and she’s only slightly twitchier than she was before.  You could take a lesson from her.

Love, the mommy who used to give you little dishes of cut up filet mignon (just that one time, though)

Dear driver who pulled out in front of me today:

You, sir, are a bad driver.  You, sir, are NOT the only car on the road.  When you see me coming down White Oak Road, you will know that I am late.  You will know this because I am moving at a pretty good clip.  It would behove you then, sir, to take a moment before you begin the automotive equivalent of a mosey to observe my speed and wait for me to pass.  I advise you to do this now.  Get some practice in.  Because you will not always encounter drivers like me, who drive defensively and are aware of every car around them.  One day you will pull out in front of a driver who is, like yourself, an absolute moron.  This driver will not see you, for, like you, they think they’re the only car on the road.  You will then cause a wreck, which will back up White Oak Road, making me late for work anyway. 

Also, for future reference, if you do decide to pull out in front me, GO!  Do not poke along, braking arbitrarily all the way up to the intersection.  Please, for the love of all things holy, at least go the speed limit.  

Love, that crazy woman driver who just shaved three hours off her life while saving your stupid ass from a rear-end collision

Dear Security Guards at the county courthouse:

In a post-9/11 world, it makes me very nervous to round the corner of the breezeway connecting courthouse buildings and come upon you all but SLEEPING behind the conveyor belt of your metal detector/x-ray thingy.  Please stand up.  Please at least give the appearance that you could, like, provide security for your employer.  Also, please do not wave me through.  I want to put my purse and the folders I’m carrying through your x-ray thingy.  It makes me feel good.  It makes me feel like you require everyone to do it.  It’s your job! 

Love, the lady who just passed through with a purse full of files, blowtorches and homemade bombs 

Dear thirties:

I did some bad things in my twenties.  I smoked, drank, ate bad food and laid out in the sun.  Sometimes I did all of these at once.  Sometimes I used BABY OIL on my skin to get a darker tan and sprayed SUN IN by the bucketful on my hair.  I didn’t drink enough water.  I colored my hair at home.  I stayed up way too late watching That Seventies Show reruns.

Please forgive me, thirties.  Please be kind.  I’m so sorry.  I promise to do better.  I promise to use SPF every day and a good moisturizer at night.  I promise to eat more vegetables and stay a nonsmoker.  I promise to get more sleep and start exercising again.  Please don’t make me look like that woman I saw in Kmart today.  Please, thirties!

Love, the woman standing in the accessories section, staring at another woman with fried hair and A LOT of sun damage and frantically whispering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Dear twenties:

Stop calling me!  I don’t want to go to the bar with you and stay out all night.  And I’ve heard that band sober now — they’re not all that great.  Look, I did love you once, but thirties and I are together now.  You’re just gonna have to get over me. 

Hey, why don’t you call Maggie?  She’s in the last years of you.  She’d be more than willing to try for one last, desperate grasp at your fleeting strands of foolhearty youth.  Here’s her number.

Love, her big sister

Dear Maggie:

You’re in the blog this week, okay?  Oh, and expect a call.

Love, Me

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