Invisibly Ill

To Those Who Don't Believe in Invisible Illnesses,

 
Forgive me if these thoughts are too raw, too painful, or too forceful to be let out now.  I am usually one who waits patiently for hurts to dissipate throughout my body.

Not this time.

Not this time, for you have reduced me to a pile of rubble.  A walking panic attack.  An indignant, yet defeated, individual.

Did God create you without a heart?  I have not heard you squeak like the tin man.  Likewise, you have never heard me roar like a lion; for I have no courage left to fight you.  Perhaps we were both born without brains.

I have internalized each hurt endured by your attitude of omission, but I now have a few things to say to you.  Depression is REAL.  Sjogren's Disease is REAL.  And anxiety, for me - right now - is VERY, VERY REAL.  How is it that you have decided to hurt me most when I needed you?  When I reached out for help? I used to have a name for you but it no longer applies.  I know not what to call you now.

• 

Dear People Who Write Wedding Vows

Dear People Who Write 
Wedding Vows,

I am shortly about to celebrate my 30^th wedding anniversary and admit that my memories of my wedding day may be somewhat fuzzy, but distinctly remember proclaiming the following vows:

I, A Mom on Spin, take you, Drip Dry

 to be my lawful husband,

to have and to hold from this day forward,

for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer

in sickness and in health,

until death do us part.

                        And that, my friends, was it.  With those few words I was hitched – tied to the man standing next to me for the rest of my life.  Oh yes, there was a statement of intentions before those vows and some phrases uttered with the exchange of rings, but in hindsight, those promises may have been a wee bit simplistic.

                        I have spent some time perusing wedding websites which encourage couples to compose their own vows.  And so I have decided to take their advice and rewrite my own:

I, A Mom on Spin, take you, Drip Dry, to be my husband.

I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad.

Please know that during the good times

you will find me laughing along with you,

but when the bad times hit

 I will be hiding my head in the sand somewhere.

I will be there for you through thick and thin –

even if I happen to be the one who becomes quite thicker with age

 while you remain as thin as this very day on which we marry.

I pledge to be your partner in sickness and in health –

especially because you’re one of those crazy health nuts

and I have a hunch I’m going to need all the help I can get.

I swear to be with you for richer and for poorer.

I realize that our yet-to-be-conceived children will cause the

 “poorer” part –

particularly if they turn out to be daughters who view the woman who gave birth to them as a mobile ATM machine.

I vow to stay by your side night and day;

until, of course, my future snoring forces you

 to kick me out of our marital bed

 and take up permanent residence in the guest room.

Oh yes, and I will love you and honor you all the days of my life,

that is, if you will still have me.

Signed,

a poor, snoring, autoimmuner

with her head in the sand,

Dear Makers of At-Home Pregnancy Tests

Dear Makers of At-Home Pregnancy Tests;

As a postmenopausal woman, I freely confess that I have not had the opportunity to use one of your products for more than two decades (although I have found your tests stashed away in my daughters’ drawers from time to time) but nevertheless I have a suggestion for you.  Instead of having a line system which simply offers the results “Pregnant” or “Not Pregnant” could you offer a few more options for your users?  You may be brilliant scientists but here’s a little secret for you:  The rest of the world does not think simply in binary terms like you do.

We’re complicated . . .anxious . .  .emotive .  . .

Let’s think about it, is there another product on the market that has the power to silently change a woman’s life within ten minutes?

So why don’t you mix it up a little?  How about lines which read “Surprise!” or “Whew!”?   What about a simple “OMG!”, “Thank My Lucky Stars!”, “Not Again!” or “Told You!!!!”  You could even consider adding, “Shucks!” or “Try Harder Next Month!” On second thought, I don’t think either of those last two would be quite appropriate.

What about some music to coincide with the results?  If we can add music to mere greeting cards, why not a pregnancy test?

Please understand that as women, we use your product for many reasons, and we await your results with many diverse emotions:  hopeful anticipation, trepidation, fear of failure, denial, or reluctance. 

You name it, I’ve been there.

Respectfully

and postmenopausaly

signed,

 

Dear Kasey

A Letter to the Family Dog (a.k.a. my favorite daughter)

Dear Kasey,

            I know that you and I have had many meaningful conversations though the years, but I’m not sure I ever told you that you owe your very existence to lupus.  Yes, I admit that you would have “existed” without lupus, but we would not have been lucky enough to have you as part of our family.

            “How?” you ask.

            You see, I never thought I was a dog person and certainly never envisioned a big hairy fur-dropping canine living in this little house.  I deemed myself, instead, a cat person for reasons which may not be obvious to you.  I have a personality resembling that of a feline.  I like peace, quiet, and solitude.  I only want to be around humans on my terms – otherwise I just may run away and hide.  I like to sleep, don’t like to go for walks, and find the destruction of mice and other rodents heading my list of priorities.

            So how is it that you came to steal a place in my heart?  How does your presence in this house owe itself to lupus when the very name of this disease stems from the word “lupine” which means having a wolf-like appearance?  Yes, this lovely metaphor comes from the hallmark rash that lupus brings (now more graciously termed the butterfly rash.)  If I had wanted a wolf-like dog I would have adopted a german shepherd, not the likes of you – my beautiful labrador retriever.

            The answer is simple.  You are here because of Megan’s overwhelming yearning for a dog in the midst of a sickness which found me heartbroken.  (Now if she had really had her way, you would have been a St. Bernard, but I wasn’t THAT heartbroken!)  And yes, we had to go through a tragic series of three other canines before you at last came to rest in our home, but I quickly learned that the fourth time is a charm.

            And so, with your leap-frog growth due to doggie years, we have grown old together.   You breezed through your teenage years without so much as doggie prom or needing a “pet-a-cure”.  You would never declare yourself a vegetarian.  You have no need of expensive clothing, boots, or handbags.  In fact, you wouldn’t even dream of setting foot in a mall without sporting a leather harness, and me a pair of dark sunglasses. 

            You, my favorite daughter, have brought joy to a house which has often been saddened by sickness.  Although you took no vows upon joining our family, you have been there for us both in sickness and in health – happy to lay by your adoptive sisters’ side as she lay sick and hurting on a couch.

            And I thank you for that.

                                                                                                                        Signed

your loving mother,

Dear Life

Dear Life,

We persevered despite your setbacks.

 

Are you surprised? Did we foil your plans? Were you astonished to find that we danced over your hot coals and came through on the other side? (Or thought we did???)

Oh yes, we were a little battle-scarred and a whole lot wiser, but we thought we had you beat.  Besides, we had much bigger fish to fry in our household.  My daughters had entered their teenage years.

Talk about battles!  Do you remember what you were like before the word “unlimited” was used in conjunction with cell phone plans?  Do you remember Megan’s 4,032 texts messages in one month at ten cents a text? Do you remember underage drinking?  Unauthorized use of credit cards?   Curfews, concerts, and college applications?

 

And how about the introduction of “adhesive breast forms” (or “sticky boobs” as I used to refer to them?)  Was it the dog’s fault that she happens to be a retriever and loved to store them away in the back of her crate, leaving them filled with pet fur when my daughters wanted them?  I applauded her efforts – at least I wasn’t the only one who wanted those girls to dress modestly from time to time.   If the outfit wasn’t big enough to accommodate a regular bra, it plainly shouldn’t be worn!

Do you remember the first time I found a leopard print thong in the household laundry; knowing with certainty it hadn’t been spawned from my old lady granny panties overnight?  Or the time when I determined an astute laundress could hang a whopping 26 thongs from her pinkie?

Yes, those were the days, my friend. And my daughters lived them to their fullest.

Signed,

a very tired and grateful,

 

Feeling Sabulous . . . a letter to The Sandman

Dear Mr. Sandman,

I have one simple question for you:  Are you a work-a-holic? 

 The reason I ask is that something seems to have gone haywire in our relationship.  In fact, you are quite overdoing my nightly sanding.


Now I know that some people think you're just a mythical figure . . . sneaking along at night to sprinkle sand in the eyes of little children to make them sleepy . . . but I believe in you.  In fact I'm quite sure you exist because I feel the results of your gritty mischief each and every night.  And I don't know how to break this to you . . . because the primary task on your job description is to make folks sleepy . . . but, with the constant fatigue I already feel, no enhancement is needed on that front.


Now, Sir,  it wouldn't be so bad if you just stopped at my eyes.    Why do you feel it your duty to move your desert-like presence on to my mouth, throat, lungs, nose and sinuses - causing me to wake up like I've been through the wringer?

And as to the dreams you're supposed to bring????  Who, in their right mind, could dream pleasant dreams when they're practically gasping for air all night?  I'm convinced your over-zealousness in the sanding department is causing me to wake each night - the victim of horrible nightmares and panic.

Please excuse any personal insult, Mr. Sandman, but from your picture up there you appear to have achieved a ripe old age.   And perchance you have grown a wee bit confused or hard of hearing in your golden years.  And I ask you:  Have you mistaken the word fabulous for sabulous?  Because I used to feel fabulous upon waking in the morning, but instead I now feel sabulous (that's right, old Sandy, it's a real word which means sandy or gritty.)

And I miss the days of feeling fabulous.

So, without further ado, I am ordering you to skip right over my bed tonight - and every night henceforth.  Consider this fair notice that I am barring my windows and doors against you and going to bed in full combat gear.  I have sprayed and swabbed the inside of my mouth, moisturized my eyes, jelled up my lids, and neti-potted my sinuses.  I have even employed my cool mist humidifier so that if you even dare to show yourself in my room you will be vaporized in no time flat.

Please don't take this personally, Mr. Sandman.  You know I hate to break our long-standing relationship, but it's really much better for both of us.  I get a reprieve from your over-sanding; and you get a chance to rest.

Yes, rest.  Take a vacation.  Relax and ride the waves on the beach where you gather your sand.   Or better yet, retire altogether and spend the rest of your days in the Sahara.

Leave all that nightly flitting to the tooth fairy.  She's much younger than you are.

And she brings money. . .

Let's face it. . .if she took your job, Mr. Sandman, I'd be a millionaire by now!

A Letter to the Brain Stealer

 Dear Alzheimer's Disease,

There are a number of different diseases for which I have developed a dislike, but I have to tell you right now that you top the list.   And for good reason.  You have taken a brilliant, loving, devoted man like my father and left him putty in your hands. 

And because of this, I believe I'm entitled to ask a few questions of you:

• Why do you have to be so cruel?  Is the sheer degradation associated with the normal aging process itself not good enough for you?  Or do you have to feel like the big man stepping on the feet of mother nature?
• If you feel the need to take away my father's mental abilities, could you just do it for God's sake?  Don't leave him remembering that he used to walk but forgetting that he no longer can.  Find some way to let him realize these new limitations you have imposed on him.
• If you feel the need to change people's personalities, why not make them all happy and serene in this state of delusion?   Why anger?  Why nastiness?
• And what about acceptance? If you're going to continue to be the brain-stealer you are, could you not incorporate a little acceptance into those brains you invade?
• Why are you so resistant to change?  Do you have to be so secretive about what makes you tick?  What are you holding out for?  The rest of us are waiting for a cure.
• Do you have any kind of heart?  Why can't you provide some reward for the overwhelmed caregivers?  Could you not provide a moment of release?  Of tenderness?  Of happiness?  Of respite from this neverending burden?

Oh, Alzheimer's, can't you take a break for once?   God knows, the rest of us need one!

Respectfully submitted,

realizing my own future may be 

in your hands as well . . .

A Tissue Lament

Oh Mr. Kleenex!  Why did you stop selling your designer tissues?

Why, instead of this elegant, subdued, and I-dare-say-oh-so-slighly-exotic tissue box, am I forced to blow my nose into a run-of-the-mill tissue?  From a box that matches neither my mood nor room decor? 

What will happen to my c'hi, Mr. Kleenex, when - in the middle of a good cry - I shed my tears onto a facial cloth pulled from the depths of a flowery tissue dispenser which looks like it was designed for housewives of the 1960's?

Let's face it. . . I need a good productive cry and it won't qualify as "good" as long as I'm consumed with worry about clashing decorative patterns.  Is the very item whose sole existence is to provide me comfort and solace destined always to fight with my draperies? 

Who wants to stare at gaudy flowers when they're at the height of their misery?  Is the box supposed to cheer the afflicted?  Lift sagging spirits from the doldrums?  Relieve swollen eyes and aching head by screaming bad taste?

Misery loves company, Mr. Kleenex.. .

Misery loves company.

So please send back my tissues to me. 

In utter haste.

 Like now. .  .

Penned a panic-stricken

and dejectable. . . 

Can We Talk Tofu?

Dear Tofu,

I want to like you. Really I do.  But the truth of the matter is that my vegetarian tofu love is just not happening at the rate at which I would like.   And it's not for lack of trying, mind you . . .

Oh, I have squeezed you.

Sliced, chopped and cubed you.

Seasoned, dipped, slathered and marinated you.

 And then I've sauteed you. . . blended you. . . baked you. . . grilled, broiled and pan-fried you. 

ALL TO NO AVAIL !!!

And so I have a few simple questions to ask:

• Must you always be such a blockhead?  I'm sure your pressed goodness could conform to any mold they put you in so how about trying to look like a pineapple . . oreo. . .candy corn?
• Do you have to be so wiggly?  Even when I buy you in your extra-firmness mode?  'Cause I don't usually like my dinner to have the texture of . . . well. . . Jello . . .
• And how about taste?   Did you ever think of adding a little?  It doesn't suit you to be so unsavory all the time. . .
• What's so silken about you? Do you think that adding that one little adjective will make you more exotic?
• Are you cold-blooded?  Why am I required to change your water more frequently than water in a fish tank?
• Why does Drip Dry not want to eat you simply because he's afraid of growing man boobs?  I usually can pass anything I don't like off on my husband but he seems to be holding fast on keeping his testosterone levels out of your estrogen-ridden clutches.

and last but not least, Mr Tofu,

• WHY DON'T YOU COME IN EXTRA CHEESE FLAVOR?

Oh I know that I, too, tend to be a stubborn-wiggly-washed-out-inelegent-estrogen-ridden biddy at times. But I always try to smother myself with cheese, my friend.

I'm convinced the cheese part is key. . .

A Pithy Reply to My Garage Door Opener

Dear Garage Door Opener (hereafter known as GDO because I've promised to be pithy.)

I thank you for your recent correspondence regarding the comings-and-goings of my college-aged daughters.  And, in response, I have a few words of wisdom for you. .  .

THIS TOO SHALL PASS!!!

Now GDO, you're welcome to employ a little coping mechanism that Drip Dry and I have found to be most useful throughout the course of this tumultuous summer:

KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN AND DON'T SAY A WORD!

In fact, Drip Dry and I hardly speak at all anymore while in the house. . , because we know that Ponzi and Trigger are trying their hardest to employ the old tactic of Divide and Conquer.

No, much better to keep your eye on the prize and say as few words as possible.

Only motivational phrases like,  Three more weeks. . . or, Two more days. .  .are allowed.   These phrases, of course, refer to the DATE OF DELIVERY. . .  the day that PONZI AND TRIGGER RETURN TO SCHOOL.  Every other musing or answer to a random question could be misconstrued, misinterpreted, misquoted, and mis-attributed.

And so, my old friend, GDO . .  I caution you to say nothing. .  . but you may want to creak a little louder when you open for them. . .  or perhaps hit them on their hineys as they duck in late and you swing down. .  .

And, above all, wait for it to pass. 

For I promise it will.

soon. . .

A Letter from the Garage Door Opener

Dear Mom on Spin,

I know that you're usually the one composing letters to those in charge, but please allow me the liberty of taking a page from your book (so-to-speak) and writing this letter to you.

You see, there's something very important I need to call to your attention.

As I recall, you and Drip Dry moved into this house right before Veggie came tumbling onto this earth.  And if my memory serves me correctly, that was somewhere around 24 years ago.

Yes, for 24 years you and I have co-habitated without so much as a cross word between us.

I've also seen the birth of both Trigger and Ponzi. .  . I've witnessed those three adorable girls grow with each passing year and I've overseen their comings-and-goings  (sometimes even more than you, I dare say. .  .)  I've been proud of their accomplishments and sad when they misbehaved.  I, too, shuddered when they got their driver's licenses.  I, too, waved them off to college from the driveway.

But I need to tell you something.

I'M MAD AS HELL AND I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!

The hours that Trigger and Ponzi keep now that they're home for the summer would make any decent opener cringe with apprehension!  What are they doing 'til all hours of the morning?

Trigger leaves early in the morning and rolls in at 3 or 4. . .  a.m.!!!

Ponzi leaves in the early evening and many nights doesn't even return home!

Now I ask you. . . How's a respectable door to get some rest???

I'm not getting any younger (I notice that the same holds true for you) and I need my beauty sleep. but THESE GIRLS ARE WEARING ME OUT!!!

Please tell me. . .  WHEN, OH WHEN, WILL THEY BE RETURNING TO THEIR RESPECTIVE COLLEGES?

'Cause I need things to return to their nice, quiet "normal" around here.

Respectfully submitted to

 

Do Your Booths Hang Low?

Dear Mr. Owner of that Pricey Steak and Seafood Restaurant,

Let me just open this correspondence, Mr. Owner, by informing you that I have enjoyed an excellent meal in your establishment on many an occasion.  But never-the-less I have a two-part question for you:  1) Why are the seats in your booths so darn low?   and . . . 2)  Do you have boobs?

The reason I'm asking, Mr. Owner of the Pricey Restaurant, is that  last night my husband and I went to your restaurant because. .  .well . . . because today is my birthday and I had a gift certificate.  (You see, I never actually pay for my own meals in your restaurant , Mr. Owner, 'cause you're far too expensive for me, but I quite often find myself there at the behest of other people.) And as we were oh-so-graciously escorted to Table 166 by your Maitre d', I could see that we were heading to a beautiful booth in a corner of the main dining room.

A dream come true, you might say. . .

Now, in all fairness to your employees, the Maitre d' cleary motioned that I should sit on the side in the further-most corner (for no doubt he was already aware of the peculiarities of this particular booth) but you know me, Mr. Owner. . . always thinking of others. .  . so- birthday or not - I immediately decided I would give the better seat to my husband and proceeded to shimmy into the other side of the booth like a lamb to the slaughter.

The first red flag should have gone up when I hit my knee on the table leg in so-doing.

And when I came to a complete stop and the Maitre d' tried to put my menu in front of me, Mr. Owner, it became painfully clear that there was no place to put it.

That's right, the distance between the back of the booth and the beginning of the table totaled somewhere around eight inches. (That's equivalent to about 20 centimeters for you readers from foreign countries.)  And the distance from the seat bench to the table was. . .well, I'm not going to bother running and measuring the distance from my derriere to the bottom of my boobs in both inches and centimeters right now . . . but let it just suffice to say that the table was exactly breast-high.

Now A Mom on Spin has been accused of being many things, Mr. Owner, but I have never been accused of being petite.  Or flat-chested.  Or slight.  Or thin.  Or, better yet, concave - which was what a female sitting on this side of the booth needed to be. . .

And there was Drip Dry on the other side, sitting comfortably with room to spare.

A quick measurement of the paneling on the wall confirmed my suspicions that the table was clearly not equidistant to each side of the booth.

A quick shake of the table confirmed my suspicions that it was firmly anchored into the floor.

And a quick glance at the look on Drip Dry's face confirmed my fear that my problem was evident for all to see.

You see, as fate would have it I was wearing my Victoria's Secret Incredible Bra. . . the one Trigger measured me for when she worked there this summer ('cause it's a bra for like large-breasted women, Mom . .  . ) so my top-secret-pushed-up-incredible-boobs (their word, not mine. . . ) were all-but laying on the table like the first course in a five course meal.  And to make matters worse, Mr. Owner, because your establishment is so elegant I wasn't even given a second to adjust myself, for suddenly the waitress, the sommelier, and the - I don't know what you call him, but the - water-filler guy. . . all swooped down on us like vultures on fresh roadkill. 

Sacre maroon!

What to do?

Luckily for you, Mr. Owner, my knee-jerk reaction when faced with any emergency is to head straight for the wine, and so your fleet of employees was deftly dispatched - leaving me a nano-second to put my problem-solving skills to work once more.

And so it was that by the time the waitress returned with that wine, I was comfortably seated on the other side of the table enjoying the view of the dining room.

And Drip Dry?  Although he may not have been quite comfortably seated, he at least was able to view his menu.

Is that Poop on the Floor or Are You Happy to See Me?

 

Dear Mr. (or perhaps, Ms.) President of PetSmart PetsHotel,

I know you may be surprised to hear from me again so soon again after our last correspondence, but I could not let another day pass without apologizing for the scene my favorite doggie daughter made in your store yesterday. I would have called you on the Bone Booth to offer my apologies in person had I not been so ashamed.

Now before I go any further, Mr. President, I have a question for you:  Do you actually take your hotel guests outside to. .  .well, you know to. . . do their "business" while their owners are away?  Especially the "Big Business" part???

And, assuming the answer to the first questions is Yes, I also have another question for you:  Why is it such a long walk from your hotel lobby to the great outdoors?

The reason I'm asking is that a most unusual thing happened as I was retrieving Kasey after my big weekend in Cleveland for my nephew's wedding.  Instead of being all tail-wagging happy to see me, she seemed to be fixated on sniffing the floor of the hotel.  And before I knew it, a turd of unknown origins had appeared on the lobby floor.

Oh my stars!  I declared, Is there another dog around here?

No, only your dog . . .  the pet concierege politely replied as she went to grab my sister's dog, who I was also bringing home.

And suddenly there was another.  

Turd, that was, not dog.

And that was the moment my little dim-witted brain kicked into high gear. . .

Safe toilet syndrome.  

Now Kasey has been known to suffer from the ravages of safe toilet syndrome at times when we take her with us to the shore, but never did I dream that her vacation constipation would rear its ugly head so close to home.  And the Pawgress Report the concierge gave when I checked her out stated that - along with being a Party Animal - she had Taken Care of Business while she was a guest in your establishment.

But it soon became painfully clear, Mr. President, that my little doggie daughter had not taken care of nearly enough business while she was on vacation.

Because once I left the lobby of your hotel I found myself pulled forward like a musher through the Alaskan tundra while juggling two newly-sprung dogs and their belongings on a race out of the ginormous PetSmart store.  And my unique perspective from the behinds-area allowed me to see, Mr. President, that she and I were about to lose the race for the door.  

And we did. 

I am ashamed to say that this musher lost  the I-Did-a-Poop.

Yes there, in the center aisle of your PetSmart store, my dog took care of an additional  full quarter's worth of business on the spot.

At which point  I found myself faced with a terrible dilemna.

I had seen a display of doggie bags upon leaving the PetsHotel (indeed, that was how the concierge had taken care of the previous two - at this point we'll just call them - mole hills of doggie poo) but how was I to leave a mountain of dog poo sitting unprotected in the center aisle of a superstore on a busy Monday morning to go and retrieve a clean-up bag, with two dogs and a suitcase full of their toys, food, and belongings no less?  But since it was painfully clear that the mountain was not going to move to the bag, I needed to quickly devise a plan to bring the bag to the mountain.   

Should I flag down the nearest customer and ask her to watch my poo while I dash to the bag display?   Do I enlist the help of the employee cleaning out the gerbil cages and tell him I have a more-urgent task for him?  Do I cup my hands, make a pretend megaphone and call out, Clean up in aisle four! and make a run for it????

Now A Mom on Spin has been accused by her daughters of not being many things, Mr. President, but no one has ever said that I am not resourceful. . . 

And so it was that I left the suitcase of belongings on the floor of the store right in front of the poo to mark its place. .  . kind of like a Caution, wet floor sign. .  .and ran quickly to get a bag - tripping over the paw of my sister's poo-ly behaved dog in the process (and don't you think I felt bad about that, knowing all-too-well what it's like to have piggies who wished they had stayed home. . . ) and returned to the scene of the crime just in time to clean up the evidence.

Only to discover that Kasey's hind-quarterly output had been more than one mere bag could comfortably contain.

Holy Crap!

At which point I - along with two newly-sprung dogs, a poo-stained suitcase full of toys, food, and belongings, and a five-pound bag of doggie poo - quickly mushed out of the store . . . leaving only the faint smeary traces of evidence that we had ever been there.

And when we got home, Mr. President?

Well, after the dog had relieved herself two additional times. .  . I happened to read the following under the Happy Homecoming section on the back cover of Kasey's aforementioned Pawgress Report:

After you leave the PetSmart PetHotel and before getting into your car, allow your dog the opportunity to relieve himself.  Even if he just went in the PetSmart PetsHotel before you picked him up, the excitement of seeing his Pet Parent will probably prompt him to go again.

and again. .  .

and again. .  .

But I ask you, Mr. President. . . isn't it nice to be loved?

Banned from the Bone Booth

Dear Mr. (or perhaps, Mrs ) President of PetSmart PetsHotel,

Do you have bedbugs?

I have burning need to know.

You see, my favorite daughter is scheduled to take up residence in your establishment tomorrow and I'd like to know in advance if you have bedbugs.  (Not you - personally, Mr. President of PetSmart  - I don't really care if you scratch your insides out, I just need to know if your special hypoallergenic lambskin doggie beds are infested with bedbugs.)

I'm feeling a wee-bit perturbed that I couldn't afford to put my favorite daughter up in the swanky  Animal Inn while the humans in the Spin Family travel to Cleveland for my nephew's wedding. . . but this wedding is already costing us an arm and a leg and we didn't have an extra paw left over to pay for doggie swank - especially because those paws developed allergies, causing an unplanned trip to the vet yesterday.

And because I already had to shell out $200 on paw allergies, I need to know if I'm going to have to face the horror of doggie bedbugs when I return.


Do you have daughters Mr. (or perhaps, Mrs.) President of PetSmart, Inc.?    'Cause if you do you'll know how expensive it is for an entire family to attend an out-of-town wedding . . . especially when two of them have to be flown in from different parts of the country.   And did I mention those little airport shuttle fees?  Can you keep a secret Mr. President of PetSmart?  ('Cause I know a Mrs. President would be blabbing already . . . )    Don't let  The Husband-formerly-known-as-Drip-Dry know, but Ponzi's transportation to-and-from the airport is costing us more than her airfare.

Sacre Maroon!

Do you have a husband Mr. ( I guess with this question I'm  hoping you really are a Mrs.) President of PetSmart Inc.?  'Cause if you do, you would also understand the financial pressures I am under here.  For instance, I would have loved to have put Kasey up in one of your fabulous hotel suites with 24-hour pet-centric t.v., or enroll her in  your doggie day care, or ordered her the Bizzy Bundle, or some sort of individualized turn-down service  . . . and God knows I would love to call her each day on the PetSmart Bone Booth just to hear her reassuring  little woof . .  .

But no.   I had to settle for an Atrium room with no amenities.

That's right. . . no snack kongs. .  .no treat times. . . no personal training camp. . . if you can imagine, the poor little dog can't even be groomed for success!   And can you keep another secret, Mr. President?  Don't let on to Drip Dry, but I'm going to splurge and bring the paw medication with me even though it costs an additional $3 a day to administer. But if  he discovers that I have signed up for any of those expensive add-on  fru-fru services, Mr. President, I fear that The-Husband-Formerly-Known-as-Drip-Dry would quickly become the Former-Husbandly-Known-as-Drip-Dry!  (And hey . . . the way things are going around here the night before our big departure, he may destined for that moniker yet,  Mr. President . . . I think he may just become that yet. . .)

So please take care of my precious daughter this weekend, Mr. President, 'cause sometimes I'm convinced that she's the only one who really loves me around here.  You can call me anytime tomorrow from the bone booth.  Thanks to Drip Dry's newly enforced budgetary restrictions, I'll be staying in a flea-bag hotel somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania.

Oh . . and seeing that I might be of the single persuasion as early as next week, Mr. President, I would like to ask you another question:   Do you have wife?  'Cause if you don't I'm thinking that you might have enough money to let me - and my favorite daughter - live in the style to which we've previously become accustomed. . .

Dear Mr. President of Sticky Boobs, Inc.

Dear Mr. (or perhaps Ms. - but a woman would have known better) President of Sticky Boobs, Inc.,

Despite the fact that there was no acknowledgement to my previous correspondence last January,  I find that I am once-again at your mercy. . .  begging you to take some action on my behalf.  And, yes, the reason for my correspondence does have to do with the stickiness of your product. . . but not in the manner of which you and I spoke last year. (Well, I spoke.  You never saw fit to reply. )

This time I would like to simply ask the following question:


If your boobs are so sticky, why - then - do they not stick around?

Wait.  Let me state that more succinctly. Why do your sticky boobs not stick around where they belong?

For, Mr. (or perhaps, Ms. - but a woman would have known better) President of Sticky Boobs, Inc., it appears that whenever your sticky boobs are needed by one of my three daughters, they are no where to be found.  Sadly, it seems,  those little rascals are often carelessly left at a friend's house after a big sleepover. . . buried deep in the recesses of the dog's crate (Don't blame her. She's a retriever!) . . . or - as is most-often the case - smushed in the closet or suitcase of another daughter.  And guess who it is who ends up having to shell out yet-more money on her daughters' boobs, Mr. President?

That's right.  Me.

Case in point. . .

Just the other day I was forced to leave my sick bed in order to drive Ponzi to the corset shop so she could spend a whopping $48 of my money on a set of your push-up-enhanced sticky boobs. (Yes, I know Ponzi has her license, but the Spin Family has been short a car ever since Veggie's accident - may Percy rest in peace - and all of my daughters refuse to drive my 1999 minivan, but I guess that's a story for another day . . .)  When I inquired as to the whereabouts of the countless other boobs I had purchased for Ponzi in the past, I was informed that Trigger took all of the good sticky boobs back to college with her, Mom!  And, although Trigger may have left some bad boobs behind in the wake of her departure, no decent mother worth her salt would entrust her teenage daughter's decency at a rock concert in the heart of New York City to a pair of bad (or shall I say sticky-challenged?) boobs!

So I ask you. . .  .  Should it be my fault if Trigger has sticky fingers in the sticky boob department?

I think not.

In fact, I think it's your fault Mr. (or perhaps Ms - but a woman would definitely have know better) President of Sticky Boobs, Inc.!  Yes, it's your fault for not having some sort of elaborate locking mechanism. . . or security-encrypted packaging. . . or, better yet. . .  . voice-activated adhesive . . . attached to your boobs.  That way they could actually stick around and be available to the rightful boob-owner when she needed them.

Could you work on that for me?

Tell you what. . .  I won't even charge you for the intellectual properties associated with the voice-activated idea if you would just market the product.   Having the correct boobs at my daughters' disposal when they need them would be payment enough.

Signed, one of your best customers (albeit, reluctantly)

Oh. . .  and I still think you would make a killing in the sticky thong (ouch!) department. . . .

One Poor Correspondant

Dearest Veggie,

I'm sorry to be a meddling parent, but I have a quick question for you.

ARE YOU ALIVE?

The last time we spoke - which I believe was somewhere around Halloweenish - we discussed making a reservation for your flight home from the U.K.  And I can't help but notice that Continental withdrew a large sum of money from your bank account in early November.  And I do remember you said something about visiting Prague . . . and Dresden. . .  and Berlin before leaving Europe.  Oh yes, and you also said you were going to squeeze in one last trip to the Old Sod . . .

But could you possibly give me the date of your return?

Or just drop me a little line to let me know you're alive?

Keep in mind. .  .because you're no longer using your U.S. debit card, I have lost my only means of knowing where you are.   Little did I think I ever miss the days of my virtual vacation - piecing together your life on the continent by watching account withdrawals - the fish and chips in London. . .  . sweater in Dublin. . .  pub in Paris. . . I felt like I was right there with you.

And to be brutally honest, Trigger's new life at college is not nearly as interesting as yours.  From the looks of her spending habits, it seems she only goes to tanning salons and drinks coffee. B-O-R-I-N-G!

So, you know I don't like to be a buttinsky . . . nor do I wish to meddle in your affairs. . . And it's not like I'm  asking you if you've eaten your vegetables or gone to church or anything. . . .I just want to know that you're alive.

And, assuming that you are, I'd like to know when you're coming home.

'Cause I'll have to give up my blogging room.  And I want to know when I have to move out all my stuff.  Like the elephant.  But perhaps you'll like the elephant and find yourself wanting to keep it. .  . and the fake orchid. . . I bet you'll like that. . .and the photo of the lotus blossom. .  . in fact, you may find you want to leave the room exactly as it is until you move back out of the house again.  (And do you know when - exactly - that will be?  'Cause if you do, I'll like to know that too. .  .)

p.s. Your return home comes just in time.   Ponzi is growing frightfully bored being an "only"child.   She's forcing me to get pedicures and go out for sushi.  I've tried to pawn her off on your father, but he says real men don't get pedicures . . . or put on little goggles and go tanning.   Wimp.

You'll have to take over for me.

Dear Mr. Police Officer Who Dared to Give Me a Ticket Last Year. . .

Well what do you know?

We meet again!

I know that when I wrote that letter of complaint to the Mayor and cc'd the Police Chief of Florham Park, N.J., I was still going to be expected to pay the fine.

And that was. . .well. . . Fine!

But I wanted them to know that police officers like you were making Florham Park, N.J. a very unfriendly place to shop, lunch, or visit.

Now I won't go into the whole sorry episode - although I still believe that sitting behind the steering wheel of a running car at 8:00 a.m. in the morning waiting for a teenage daughter to exit Dunkin' Donuts did not constitute "parking".

But let's move beyond that eighty-five dollar fiasco, shall we . . .

Don't you think I didn't recognize you this afternoon. . . approaching those cute young girls standing outside of the local grocery store giving out free samples and coupons of Ciao Bella gelato . . .
Did you not get it? They were making people happy! Yes, happy!!! End of summer + pink and yellow + cute little van + free gelato = HAPPY! Just because someone higher up their foodchain didn't apply for a permit for "soliciting on the sidewalk" didn't mean you had to swagger your sorry ass over to them and shut down their operation.

I have one word for you Mr. Police Officer Who Dared to Give Me My First and Only Ticket Ever Last Year. Or perhaps it's two words. . .

Kill.

Joy!

For more fun correspondence, go visit Kat. . . 'cause she's where it's at!




I'll be away for a few days. . . soaking in the last rays of summer. . . but don't y'all worry. . . I've left a few things for you while I'm gone. . .