To the Lady at Walgreens Yesterday: I've donated to medical research of one kind or another three times in the past two months. My husband is a Type I diabetic. After I politely decline to donate a buck at the checkout, you don't need to ask "Are you SURE you can't spare a dollar for diabetes research?" Especially not when the tone so clearly says "You obviously don't care a whit about diabetics, you sugar-swilling, cold-hearted bitch, you."
To the Lady I Usually See at Walgreens: Thanks for not doing that. Also, you sounded sincere the other day when you said "Have a nice day." That's pretty frickin' rare. Thank you.
To My Husband: When I said "I really don't do the married thing," I was trying to illustrate how much I love you. I mean, if we hadn't married each other, we wouldn't have married, I bet. Because we really kind of suck at the whole wifey/husbandy thing.
To My Son: You danced with abandon under a mammoth skeleton the other day. I can't express how cool that was. Also, you're in first grade. So cool. But at the rate you're growing, you'll be sixteen by tomorrow morning. Stop that.
To the Folks at Verizon: If you knew I was getting a new phone; and you knew my old one was stolen; and you are in possession of my physical address, e-mail address, other e-mail address, land line phone number and husband's cell number (you recited them all to me so I know you are): Does it really make sense to call me ON MY VERIZON CELL to tell me you couldn't deliver my Verizon cell phone?
To My Fellow Gophers: When I checked my messages today there were three messages from three different friends from Goucher. It made my afternoon. Y'all almost make me wish I was going on another semester. Almost.
To My Sometime Editors: I sure hope I haven't turned into persona non grata in my mad, out-of-contact rush to finish my manuscript. I hope I hear back from some of you. Because I really have some good material ready.
To My Son: I heard about another child abuse case last night and it made me want to come get you out of bed and hug you nearly in half. I love you so much, it really seems excessive at times. But I really do. Then, you woke me up at four this morning, covered from your hairline to shoulders in nose blood and from your waist down in pee. I still love you, and just as much. But I'd really rather you not do that again.
To My Cat: You woke me up at 4:30 this morning, licking my ears. I love you too. But 4:30? Are you kidding? Plus, you snore. Since when do cats snore?
To My Husband: You woke me up at 5:10 this morning, snoring and pushing me up against the wall. You know I love you. But if you do that again, I may have to put you in our son's room, with the cat, and barricade the three of you in there until at least 6 a.m.
To My Readers: This is me, getting back into blogging. Bear with me. It'll get better in coming days.
To the Lady Who Puts Out the "Early Release Today" Reminder Sign As We Drop Our Kids Off Wednesday Mornings: You've saved my ass from being late on more than one occasion. I'd feel really terrible about that. So thank you.
To Whatever Genius Put Pro Wrestling on the Sci-Fi Channel: WTF?
To My Mom: You are really super-amazing. I don't ever tell you that, except when I sign a hokey card for some occasion. And if you read this, you'll surely brush it off. But it's true. Even all those things I used to hate you for doing: Thanks. I'm starting to get it.
To the Guy in My Complex With Apparent Hypertrichosis: I understand not shaving. Really. But what's with the hot pants and no-shirt policy? And what clothes can you possibly be washing all the time?
To Paris Hilton: I defended you several times (I know, I surprised myself) over the past few weeks. I would've blogged about you, except I'm a lazy ass and several, several people beat me to it. But well said.
To the Person Who Said to Me, "We need to get someone to run this country for Jesus.": You do realize that would be a theocracy, right? Which you're against? Faith can't be mandated. It's kind of not faith any more.
To My Kitchen Cupboard Doors: I know you're cheaply made, but can you stop falling on my head? I darn near got a concussion last time.
To the Apartment Repair Staff: When you put my doors back on, you put 'em on backward. But I don't care. We won't be here much longer, with any luck. So nyah nyah.
To the Jehovah's Witnesses Who Visited Yesterday: When you heard me shout to my son "No, I'm going to beat you!" and he retorted with "I'll beat you harder!" and I retorted with "I'll beat you so hard!" we were talking about Monopoly. Sorry about that. Also, you should know I hardly ever read the Watchtowers you give me. I read part of yesterday's, but only because I was on hold with the geniuses at Verizon. I tried to tell you this, but you give them to me anyway. I might read them at some time, but things tend to get lost around here. Sorry. You really are very nice.
To My Son, Husband, Mom, Sister, Brother, Friends, Colleagues, Mentors and Countless Others: Thanks for sticking by me these last couple of years, even when -- especially when -- I've been a neurotic pain in the ass. I don't know how accomplished I am or will be, but it's thanks to all of you.
To My Readers: Thanks for sticking with me. And sorry about the whole ending-on-a-sappy-note thing. It's a bad habit. I promise the next entry will have 33 percent more bodily fluids and fart jokes, or your money back.