Mah balance. I haz lossed it.

I blame NahNoMoFoMe.

It is just so hard to write every single day. I worry that I’m going to lull you into a state of unconsciousness. I worry that I’m going to lull MYSELF into a state of unconsciousness. And the more inept I feel, the less I want to write.

Between writing posts, reading blogs, commenting, fussing with my blog design, and twittering, I’m spending way too much time in front of the computer. I haven’t cheated and backdated any posts. But is it worth my brain disintegrating in a fiery hell of SUCK?

My Google Reader is so voracious, I can barely keep up with it. I haven’t cheated and ‘Marked as Read’ a single post without a least giving it a good skim, and at most reading then clicking over to comment. But is it really worth it reading until my eyeballs fall out and roll around on the floor picking up dust bunnies and/or my family has put my face on the back of milk cartons?

I’ve worked on my blog design for at least a few hours this month. At first I was just kind of sprucing up the place. Well, then it did actually crash once, and I never did figure out why. I had to deactivate every plugin and reactivate a few at a time, and then rebuild everything including the Tabbed Widgets as I lost all my text widgets in the crash. I like it better now than before the crash, but was it worth 47 days of my eyes being stabbed by those little drink swords crossed by code?

My house projectile vomited all over itself. Some of the laundry came up the stairs and tapped me on the shoulder and politely inquired as to when it might expect for an estimated time of washing. Coincidentally, Hunky walked up to me and announced that if a load wasn’t done tonight, he was going commando tomorrow. (Hint: He’s not currently enlisted in any of the Armed Services.) Then I opened the fridge, and either the boys have been doing more fancy science experiments than I ever conducted, or I believe it’s time to throw out some leftovers. My kitchen floor is so filthy, I can’t come up with hyperbole outrageous enough to do it justice. I’ve been slacking around here and it’s really not fair to Hunky.

I haven’t been giving my job hunt the priority it deserves. I’ve been applying for jobs, but not near enough. I’ve been temping, but it’s never a full week, and never more than I would get for an unemployment check. So by the time they take my earned wages off of my unemployment check, I’m making the exact same amount as I would have sitting my ass at home on the couch watching movies and collecting full unemployment. But my unemployment benefits are about to run out, and at this point, I have to start applying for shit I really don’t want to do to pay the bills.

I haven’t completed a single book in the month of November, and that is SO not like me. That’s like Martha saying, “I haven’t carved a single gourd into lovely… ” Turkey booties? I don’t know, honestly; I don’t watch her show.

I have at least three picture collage frames that I’ve bought but I haven’t ordered the prints to go in them. I rilly, rilly want to finish cleaning my basement so I can set up a place down there to have all my craft crap in one place, and a small rec area with TV, DVD, VCR, and PS2. I want to go out into the neighborhood and take more pictures. I want to kick Manual Mode’s superior, snarky, smarmy ass. I want to set up an Etsy shop for my photography. I haven’t done any sewing (unless you count me sewing that patch onto Kizzle’s hockey jersey) and I miss it. I want to cut out more squares for the boys’ t-shirt quilts, because they’ve actually been asking for them. Every time they outgrow a t-shirt they’re particularly fond of, they ask, “But I’ll see it again in my t-shirt quilt, right?” Well, yes, but at this rate, it may be your high school graduation gift, if we’re lucky, son.

I just want a magic pill that gives me an extra 12 hours in a day.

I saw a commercial for something like that, where this chick was just, like, on her hands and knees scrubbing her kitchen floor, obsessively lining up the throw rug fringe, and cleaning the bathroom tile with a toothbrush… What was the name of that stuff?

I wish I could remember…

Oh, yeah!

METH.

So, yes, I know they already make them and they’re called Methamphetamines, but I’ll pass, thanks.

No, just a little pill that will grant me a spare half day, with no nasty side effects such as my teeth falling out of my head, over-obsession almost to the point of insanity, [;/'''reeeeeeeee Emma just walked across my keyboard and she wanted to share that] insomnia on steroids+HGH and vitamin supplements; oh, and an addiction more powerful than heroin. OOOooo, can you make them with no side effects and make ‘em taste like Mike & Ike’s? That’d be groovy, dude.

I just need to make the scale swing the other way. I need to spend less time in front of the Mac, and more time investing in my family. I want to complete the NahNoMoFoMe thing, then take a couple steps back and reassess to admit I’m not make sure I’m spending my time as wisely as I can. I know I can do better than I’ve been doing.

But we have a more dire issue presently.

Mah funneh. I haz brokeded it.

I’ve been looking over the last few months and for the most part, I’ve felt disappointed with the quality of the word dance I’ve pushed out onto my little stage here. I’ve wondered and pondered and obsessed and worried that I’d lost it. My voice.

I almost allowed myself to forget why I’m doing this.

I was reading writers way out of my league and starting to think that as good as they are, made me worse.

I was frustrated with throwing myself into trying to find my connections with the blogoshere and starting to think that as popular as they are, made me less lovable.

I was watching my feedcount a little too closely, and trying to figure what I might have written that would explain a drop from 25 to 9 in one day, and was starting to think that as fickle as they are, made me less interesting.

I was reading pro blogger tips and was starting to think that as successful as they are, made me more of a failure.

I caught myself starting to whine, “Why don’t I have H8Rs and Trolls and obnoxious Anonymousi spitting their venom all over my comments?”

Then I pulled my head out of my ass.

This is MY casa.

I reminded myself that the writer I needed to be comparing myself to, and constantly challenging, was myself. I need to push my own limits, and refine my own voice. I haven’t lost my voice; I’ve just suffered a little laryngitis.

I’ve got to write for first of all, myself; to dare myself to push my talent harder and longer and stronger. (That made me feel a little bit dirty just then, how about you?)

And second of all, all of you, my Innernetz Budz; to make you laugh a little bigger, forcefully spew a little more raspberry mocha cappuccino in your keyboard, think a little longer, feel a little more connected, and care a little more.

And if the big girl (and boy) bloggers never notice me, that’s got to be ok.

As small a world as it is, Dooce will never be my non-practicing lesbian lovah complete with matching decoder rings. Someone told me she was just a mythical hobbit, and I know she’s not, but she might as well be Angelina Jolie for all it will change my life. Ree will never invite me out to her ranch to work cattle with MM and the punks and give me one-on-one photography lessons.

I will try to write as strikingly as Black Hockey Jesus and as unabashedly as Avitable and as bitingly witty as The Bloggess; but if I never do, that’s got to be ok.

And damn the page views and subscriber count. I’m thankful for how much I’ve honed my writing talent to this point, and will continue to spin the mental Thesaurus and dig a little deeper. I’m grateful for each and every comment you guys grace me with, and will continue to enjoy connecting with you.

I hope I’m not blowing smoke up my own ass.

I hope you all notice the difference.

But if you don’t, as long as I’m doing my best, that’s got to be ok.

My cat is so stoo-pid.

[Audience choruses] How. Stoo-pid. Is. He.

He so stoo-pid, he chewed the cord on the LitterMaid, gave himself a pretty good jolt, and is now afraid of his own litterbox. In his feeble mind, The Potty Bit-ted Me On My Mouf.

A couple weeks ago, the LitterMaid stopped working with the pooper-scooper arm extended all the way across to the pooper keeper. I played with the cord a little bit, and discovered that it had been chewed and now had a short in it. If I fiddled with it, it would make a little connection and move about an inch and stop. It was now officially junk.

Meanwhile, one of the cats peed smack in the middle of our bed. We figured it was Elmer and that he was pissed-off [everybody groans] about something, maybe because I wasn’t scooping as often as the box used to (c’mon, I don’t care who you are, you can’t scoop every time 10 minutes after the cat leaves the box). We had to strip the bed and clean it which is a great big, pain-in-the-ass job and about as popular around here as a root canal and forgoing anesthesia for hypnosis.

I scooped old-skool fashion for a couple days and Elmer peed on the bed again. I sent Hunky to the store for a new LitterMaid and a Bissell Little Green Machine. He cleaned the bed and the BLGM worked much better than rags and a ShopVac. I dismantled LitterMaid I (AKA LandfillMatter), set up LitterMaid II, and I declared “all good in da ‘hood”. But I kept checking the new box periodically and it seemed like the cats weren’t generating as much stinky stuff as usual. A week went by and the pooper keeper hadn’t even filled up yet. Elmer peed on our bed a couple more times, necessitating stripping and cleaning AGAIN. Well, you know I was about ready to send Mr. Elmer to Kitty Orphanage, because if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s for my house to stink like cat pee.

The proverbial last straw came when Hunky was having a lovely nap on the couch. Elmer had been enjoying his favorite activity, which is laying on the top of the couch, keeping watch over his front yard; the people walking by, and the birds and squirrels brave enough to venture into his territory. I saw him out of the corner of my eye as he rose and jumped down to Hunky’s lap.

As I watched first in confusion then in abject horror, manymanymany things happened at approximately the speed of technology.

Hunky’s eyes fluttered, then opened, and his eyes got rilly, rilly big.

He jumped up off the couch holding Elmer by the scruff of the neck, an arc of pee still streaming from Elmer.

He was yelling like a Tazmanian Devil. I couldn’t tell a single word he was saying.

I jumped up and yelled, “What do you want me to do?!” mostly because I had to yell over him to make myself heard.

He continued his Tazmanian Devil impression on the way to the basement door where he tossed the cat (he didn’t hurt him; don’t sic the ASPCA on us) down the stairs.

Doors slammed.

Cat mmmrrrOOOOWWWWed.

Much yelling and groaning and gnashing of teeth.

It wasn’t pretty. At all. By any stretch of the imagination.

Something had to be done.

In a last ditch effort, I bought a cheap, simple litterbox in a different color than the Scary Potty. I filled it up for him and showed him where it was, and right away he got in and hunkered down. Well, now I’m all, mentally high fiving myself and doing a little victory dance in my head, chalking up Dory 1, Elmer 0. But he sat there for over a minute, and I’m thinking, day-um, that’s a lot of peeing. But then he got up and walked away and there’s two tiny little drops for all of his effort. Now I’m thinking, ok, now he’s stoo-pid and broken.

Hunky took him to the vet. When I picked him up, the vet explained that he had a nasty bladder infection. Every time he tried to pee for about the week prior, it must’ve burned horribly. She gave me antibiotics and some special food that cost more per pound than a nice New York Strip steak. I ordered this cranberry medicine from 1-800-Pet-Meds to go in his steak/food. So now Elmer is on the mend, I guess. He’s still not peeing much yet, but his course of antibiotics isn’t finished.

So here’s my theory: when his Potty Bit-ted Him In His Mouf, he started holding his pee to avoid it, and consequently developed a bladder infection.

He’s still terrified of the litterbox, of course. We’ve tried a cardboard box filled with shredded paper shavings. We’ve tried holding him close to the new cheap litterbox and offering treats or scratching his neck just like he likes. But he still won’t use it.

Because his feeble mind, My Potty Bit-ted Me In My Mouf AND Has A Scary Mean Monster Hiding In It That Bit-ted Me In My Junk.

Too bad there’s no medicine for stoo-pid.

Where’s the research grants for that? Surely it’s as big a problem as erectile dysfunction.

I bet we all could think of a lot of folks that would benefit greatly from some IStoopidium DA.

I had to do something that I’ve never had to do before in my 35 years. I had to go sign a bail agreement.

A couple people in my family got in some trouble, didn’t follow through on probation conditions, and ended up in jail. Since I am the only name on our mortgage (I bought the house when we were separated) I had to sign papers saying that they could do something with my house (God only knows what - I didn’t read it, just trusted that Hunky would explain it later) if the In-Trouble kids didn’t show up for court.

So we’re sitting in the jail lobby waiting for the bondsman to meet us there. I’m sitting next to In-Trouble and making small talk, waiting for Mr. Bondsman to grace us with his appearance. In-Trouble2 is actually in the jail, waiting for us to get her out. In a by-the-by way, In-Trouble tells me that this bondsman was $800 less than anyone else he called and is coming from Des Moines. Looking back, this should have been a clue as to the possibility for a less than savory individual. Mr. Bondsman was supposed to be there at noon. At 12:15 In-Trouble calls him and gets voice mail. At 12:30 In-Trouble calls him, speaks for a minute, hangs up, and says, “He says he’s pulling up now.” Well, maybe he meant pulling up a half mile down the road, to pick up some Chinese take-out and scarf it on the way, because 12:45 hits, and he’s still not there.

Hit the ‘pause’ button - don’t worry, they’ll be fine waiting for a minute.

Now, never having been in this situation before, let’s just discuss exactly what I pictured Mr. Bondsman to look like. The only thing I have to pull from is Janet Evanovitch’s Stephanie Plum series and Dog The Bounty Hunter. So I figure, in the food chain, Mr. Bondsman is a notch above Mr. Bounty Hunter. I have a fuzzy picture in my mind of a guy in flat front khakis and a nondescript sweater or oxford shirt; if not clean-shaven, then maybe just a mustache and perhaps a goatee; probably olderish, 50s or 60s. Like a step down from a lawyer- sort of My Cousin Vinny -esque.

I could not have been more wrong. I could try; but I would not be successful.*

Ok - hit ‘play’ button.

In-Trouble and I are making small talk and he halts the conversation with, “Oh, my good Lord, I hope that’s not my–” and I don’t think he’s breaking commandment numbah three, because he sounds like he is seriously saying a prayer with his eyes open.

In the backlight, I see a silouette walk up and open the first door, and as he busts through the second door, he says in a louder, gravelly bass voice, “In-Trouble? Hi, I’m Mr. Bondsman, your bondsman.”

People - hit ‘pause’ and look closely at the screen.

Mr. Bondsman is in his late 30s, early 40s, with a beard like House, only a little bit longer. He’s wearing sunglasses with brushed silver frames and amber lenses and a pilled royal blue Drake University stocking cap. He’s got a grey Drake University sweatshirt, black windpants that snap on the side, and shiny black and royal blue basketball shoes. He’s got so much cologne on, I can smell him from 6 feet away.

Oh, and I’ve saved the best for last -

He is missing his two front teeth.

Seriously. I am serious as a friggin’ heart attack, people.

And to add trash to trailer park, he volunteers within the first 15 minutes of meeting us that he has absolutely no plans of correcting his dental misfortune.

*blink* *blink blink*

Normally, missing two front teeth is adorable, but that’s in a seven year old child, not a 45 year old man.

You see my point.

So I signed the papers, got In-Trouble2 out of jail, and everybody lived happily ever after. Well, except for the recurring nightmares of being gummed to death by a zombie bounty hunter.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. We thank you for riding with us on the EAC, and encourage you to remember us next time and every time for your transportation needs.

*Line shamelessly stolen from Friends.

Is actually scheduling time for blogging and housework and project time in my planner just too pocket-protectored, color-coded, anal-retentive? Because It feels like my To Do List always wins. I’m pretty sure he cheats, but I can’t prove it. One of these days I’ll invest in one of those Vegas Casino Security Cameras, but until then I’ll just self-flagellate. I suck ass.

When I checkmark something complete, I feel a tiny little *bing* of accomplishment. It’s like one *bing* in a 50 gallon drum full of *bzzzzzzzzzzt*. Maybe I’m expecting too much of myself. Maybe I’m trying to cram 50 pounds of flour in a 10 pound sack. But every day, no matter how much I did get done, To Do List, with an insolent roll of his eyes, flips me off defiantly. So anyway, I need to do something to totally pwn him and bring him down to his knees. Should I kick him in the nuts? Too harsh? Well, before you answer, consider this. I have items on him that I’ve had for literally years. Like finishing the vector rebuild in illustrator of my linear perspective picture from Drawing I in 2004. And scanning all my film negatives into digital files. And finishing the Sister Scrapbook I started in January 2006. And finishing the toy train montage in photoshop that I started in 2005. Some are just months old, like re-designing my other website with my online portfolio. And tagging the pics on my hard drive with people’s names so I can search easier/faster. And cleaning my basement. And gathering all those hastily scribbled post-its and backs of bills and bar napkins with friends’ new addresses and numbers, and getting my address book updated.

Hey, you remember the Friends & Family plan that MCI had in 1995ish? Just in case you don’t, that’s the long distance calling plan that worked like this: half of America called MCI and gave them the numbers of everyone they knew to get a .0271% discount off their long distance calls to them. The other half took the first half behind the barn and pounded on them a little bit with a weathered 2×4. While America was engaged in mortal combat over telecommunications, MCI telemarketers instantly had in their sales arsenal a tool that has been wielded since the first time Adam spaced off Eve’s birthday; that’s right, pack your bags, we’re goin’ on a guilt trip!

“Hi there, I’m interrupting your dinner tonight to share with you some very exciting news! Cousin Thelma has added you to her Friends & Family list! But, wait… I see here on my computer that you haven’t added her to your list. What on God’s green earth did she ever do to you to make you hate her so venomously? I don’t want to have to call her and tell her how much you apparently despise her very existance… she might cry. You really need to add her to your list or she’s liable to drive off a cliff and you don’t want that on your conscience, do you? Oh, waaait, you don’t have a list because you’re not an MCI customer. But if you’d like to sign up with MCI, you can put her on your list and she might forgive you for the time you put a baby garter snake down her parachute pants at the 1987 Jones Family Reunion! Wow, that was a close call! Get out your phone book, whaddya say?”

Yeah, that was awesome. I just loved being a corporate pawn in MCI’s little game. The customer would call in, recite the number and then invariably they would ask, “Now what’s the discount again?”

And I’d reply, “Can I interest you in a lecture in quantum physics instead? It might be a tad easier to understand.”

And they’d give me a derisive snort and hang up on me.

I loved hang ups. They make your stats look phenomenal. And after all, isn’t that what being an Inbound Customer Care Representative is all about, the stellar stats? Some pie-in-the-sky dreamer once said it was about doing what’s right for the customer, but they were sadly mistaken. I know this because all the supervisors cared about was our numbers. I can even remember one of the goals… AHT (Average Handling Time, i.e. the length of the call) was set to 213 seconds at one point. Man, I took the abuse from the customers for four loooong years; first, three years at MCI then another year at McLeodUSA. I can tell you that now because neither of these companies exist any longer. Well, that, and it’s my blog, and I’ll tell you anything I want to.
Ahhh, that’s back in the days I could still use a phone with an amp. Then I finally gave up my cell phone about a year ago because I was so frickin’ tired of the business-like “Pardon?” or the impatient “What?!” and the hopelessly resigned “Sorry, say again?” and then finally, “Here, just a second; tell Hunky and he’ll tell me.”

It was quite entertaining for me when some unsuspecting victim would ask me, “Hey, can I use your phone real quick?” then dial the number and hold it up to their ear. Two seconds later, they’re holding it at arm’s length and asking, “Wholly Crap, how do you take it off speakerphone?! I think my ear’s bleeding!”

“It’s not on speakerphone.”

[uncomfortable moment]

“Oh.”

We kept the phone for emergencies (it’s even bright red!) and (ok, and because those Sprint brother-duckers said they’d charge me a $200 early disconnect fee) the library calls it every time one of my holds become available. I keep forgetting to change the number on their records. Imagine that.

Upon the highly respected recommendation of City Girl (who I am beginning to fall a little bit in love with in a totally non-lesbian sort of way), I picked up gods in Alabama by Joshilyn Jackson, and it was fabulous! I absolutely shiny crimson heart her voice; it’s dry and sarcastic and sassy and all “Girlfren’, pleeeeeeze!” complete with neck roll. I’m looking forward to reading more of her books, but first I’m gonna read Devil in the Details as recommended by Ali. I’ve found that I like finding a cushy chair and reading through my lunchtime.

I’m not so much in love with being back in the rat race. I haven’t seen Hunky for more than five minutes at at time (except, well, duh, sleeping next to each other for a few hours) since last weekend. I miss my Hunkeroo. By the by, if you have a minute, give him a comment to encourage him, because between the part-time job and part-time internship and full-time school, his candle is so burnt at both ends you can’t even hold it without burning your finger off. And also because when I told you it was his birthday, he didn’t get any comments and he tried to act like it was no big deal, but he was bummed out. (bags… guilt trip… *ahem*)

Crap, where was I?! *blinks* *shakes head*

Ah, yes; back in the rat race. I’m working on a PC again for the first time in four years, and then when I get home on my Mac, I Ctrl-V to paste and it doesn’t work. Then halfway through a rip-roaring good tantrum, I sheepishly realize I need to Apple-V. Because it’s like speaking Russian to a Aussie.

And I totally abhor getting up early. That alarm goes off at 4:30am and I sit up, die a little bit, hit snooze once, and doze back off. When it goes off again, I force my lazy ass up outta bed and get ready. Then from 6am-2:30pm I type stuff . At 3, I pick up the boys from school and for the rest of the evening, I keep like a running countdown in my head. Only 4 hours til 9 … Only 2 and a half hours til bed… Crap, it’s 9pm and I forgot to put out clothes and lunch for tomorrow! etc. etc. and on and on and I try to cram as much into the time as possible. I hate it. I don’t get things accomplished like I want to do, so then I beat myself over the head with “How does everyone else do it? Blogging and housework and projects and quality time with the kids? What the hell is wrong with me?” et al.

Which brings us back ’round to…

Maybe I should put it all on my never-ending, cheeky, openly taunting, impertinent To Do list. And then knee him in the nuts.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. And [in meandering southern drawl] Thank You Again For Your Support.

I am alive!

Wednesday morning I got the call that Grampa died and have been immersed in that.

From Thursday night to Monday afternoon, I had been in the car for 20 hours. We did leave the kids home with Hunky’s mom, so they got to spend a long weekend at Gramma’s house. They got to spend time with Gramma and I got to not listen to two quarreling children for 20 hours in a cage with wheels, so everybody goes home happy. Elli stayed with Mom on the farm in Coldwater while I was in Midland and did farm dog stuff; rolling in and eating disgusting things, investigating horses, etc.

I’m not sure how deeply I want to dissect the last few days, because I’m just exhausted; physically, emotionally, and mentally. So we’ll break it down in a safe, distancing, I Use Humor as a Defense, sort of way. Ready… Break!

Dear Toll Booth Operator in Chicago on Thursday night at 11pm,
Thank you for making such a fuss over my dog. I think that made both our nights; yours and mine.
Cordially,
Dory

Dear Almost-Ex-Sister-in-Law,
It was absolutely totally inappropriate for you to show up at my brother’s grandfather’s funeral. I don’t care if the divorce isn’t formal yet. Contrary to your erroneous belief, you are most decidedly not still part of the family. You rejected him, you don’t like us, we don’t like you. Why in the name of Bob would you even want to subject yourself and us to the awkwardness of your presence? Why can’t you just act like a normal woman instead of a stupid psycho bitch from hell?
Scornfully,
Dory

Dear Gramma’s Friend,
Thank you for letting us stay with you Friday night. And for saying I’m cute. And for letting me have the only cigarette of the weekend that was warm and relaxed. Being the only smoker in the family, the rest of them were alone and outside visibly shivering in below freezing temperatures.
The memories you shared with us gave me a glimpse of Grampa I never would’ve had. I’m so thankful for that.
And? You have smoked in your house for about 40 years and maybe I will quit smoking soon. Again. We’ll see.
Gratefully,
Dory

Dear Catholics,
Why, oh why, do you beg and plead with God to accept the dead person into His welcoming arms? It’s already a done deal. Is the dead person saved? Yes - dead person already there. No - dead person is not there and no amount of begging, pleading, and cajoling is going to change that. God’s rolling His eyes at you. Re-read His instruction book for His rules. He explains them fairly clearly.
And directing your comments directly to the dead person, by name, towards his open casket? Really spooked me out. He’s not there. That is his shell. He is, as I already mentioned, up in heaven partying with God and stuff. He heard his name, and you distracted him from his party. Knock that crap off.
No, there is absolutely no way that I am sharing one wine glass with 50ish other people with 50 jillion cooties. Nuh UH. Nope. Not happening.
Also? I’m not understanding what all the liturgy does for you. I’m just me, but it makes God seem farther away. Why would you want that? I’ll take God in extreme close-up when I’m all, like, contemplating my own and everyone else’s mortality, thankyouverymuch.
Sincerely,
Dory

Dear Inventor of the popular card game Spades,
I love you. You make good family memories even better. But why do you make scoring your game require math? It’s entirely too hard to do and makes me feel stupid, so I don’t play when my dad’s not there to keep score. How about instead of playing to 500 points, we play to, oh, I don’t know, chartreuse? No? I love you anyway.
Fondly,
Dory

Dear Gramma,
I cannot even begin to imagine what you’re going to be facing the next couple weeks. Or months. Or years. I ache for you. I am already putting together a care package that seems stupid and meaningless to me and that won’t even put a nick in your pain, but I can’t think of anything else to do to show my, well, care. So, care package it is.
Love,
Dory

Dear Horses on Mom’s Farm,
I got some really great pictures of you, but mostly frames full of snotty nostrils because you were so interested in what I was doing. That was awesome. And incredibly, painfully, achingly cold. Your portraits will be up soon on my blog; Mom and I are creating that post together. You’ll love it. Thanks to the wonders of Wi-Fi, Mom may even bring it out to the barn to show you. Or not.
Oh, and about my dog? She didn’t mean to startle you; she just isn’t used to horses. Thanks for cutting her some slack, and not stomping her into the frozen ground.
Best Wishes,
Dory

Dear Mom’s Friend’s Dog out in the barn,
Why in the name of anything would you actually growl and fight over a frozen horse turd with my dog?! It’s a poopsicle, for pete sake! There is no word or phrase that I could possibly concoct that would have the power to begin to describe how sick and wrong that is.
Supremely Repulsed,
Dory

Dear Green Bay Packers and especially Brett Favre,
You’ve broken my heart in a way that may be irreparable. I’m shaken inside to my very core. I don’t know if the damage can be undone. It may take long-stemmed red roses. And some pretzels and a keg on tap. And a signed jersey.
It’s the least you can do.
Broken,
Dory

Dear Toyota Avalon driver near the I-56 exits on I-80W,
We couldn’t figure out if you were telling off Hunky, or car dancing. So, either we’re very sorry, or incredibly entertained. Wait. Both.
Warm regards,
Dory

Dear Elmer and Emma,
See? I told you Mommy and Daddy always come home! Yes, I brought That Damn Furball back home with me. You should have figured out by now, almost two years later, that she’s here to stay. I can’t believe you have the nerve to act surprised.
The least you could have done is pretend to be glad we’re home. Furry little finks.
Bitterly,
Mommy

Dear Grampa,
I miss you already, but I’m so happy for you. See you again, someday.
Love,
Dory