Open Letter to the Three Douches Sitting Behind Me Tonight.

Really, guys? You pay $18.00 each to watch a pro hockey game and can think of nothing better to do than converse loudly during the Whole. Game???? Really?

I mean, normally, I might be slight entertained to overhear about your great sex life since you've been pregnant and all your various and sundry opinions about life and finances and general Stuff That Does Not Pertain To My Life In Any Way Whatsoever. Normally.

But when you insist on dropping the F Bomb with ridiculous intensity and accuracy in the very near vicinity of my 7 year old son, I tend to, hmmmmmm.... NOT APPROVE. Really, people. Is that necessary? Is it some sort of required linguistic compulsion fostered in the trash bin you grew up in?

Cause I really don't see the point. I mean, beyond the sheer ridiculous tally of curse words you managed to fit into your steady stream of annoying conversation -- a number which, alone, boggles my mind -- I am left agog and amazed at the levels of self-absorbtion you all managed to wallow in.

And the irony. My good Lord, the irony of you sitting there blustering with pride over how you have managed to incubate a baby for all of four months and the steadfastness with which you already proclaim to know all about babies and parenting as though you were the Immaculate Incarnation of Parental Perfection, yet remained entirely oblivious to the very cute and very impressionable product of my SEVEN FREAKING YEARS OF PARENTING was an astounding marvel of incomprehensible vapid obtuseness.

If I were a different person, you surely would have merited a solid dress-down of the sternest kind, not to mention a punch in the throat. But, you may count your lucky stars that I really am a pussy and therefore just sat there and fumed and imagined little stabby darts being hurled at you each time my ears blanched with your repeated assault. And called you "Douche-bags" in my head. Repeatedly.

I hope that your child is graced with the most grating, wretched, whiny voice.

I'm sorry. But I do.

Open Letter to Mother Nature.

Seriously Mother Nature? Can we not be less Original with the weather, lately? I mean, we've kinda set -- I don't know -- a precedent or something over the past millenia and us creatures of the earth have come to appreciate and expect a certain cycle, so to speak. Generally... spring follows winter, which is then followed by summer. Remember that little rhythm? See, so do we. So, when you start getting all Creative and splishing and splashing Random Days of Snow into what should be WELL into Spring-like weather? The people round here get all jumped up and, Mother Nature?... I'm not sure the collective spirit of humanity round these parts is really feeling the love for you right now. In fact, you may have a mutiny on your hands.

I get that sometimes it's fun to F around with the big thermostat in the sky... I imagine I might be tempted to do the same, were I ancient and allpowerful and mystical like yourself. But I'd like to think I'd have the good sense to call that junk off when the humor of the situation has done run it's course. And, just so you know? So done.

So, if you don't mind, I'd be happy to recommend a few weather options to get us back on track. Just a starting point, mind you. But something you may find useful to have in your back pocket for those days when you're having some kind of cosmic hot flash and are considering turning on the fan and dumping ice on the whole joint.

1) More sun. This is really the backbone of a good spring routine and should be the foundation and starting point of each day you plan, really. Trust me.

2) Less wind. Please, for the love of all that's good and holy and true... much less wind.

3) Rain. Just some ground rules about rain. It is needed. Agreed on that point. But, try to throw it in along with the sun and less wind. (please kindly refer to points #1 and #2) People will be much, much happier, I promise.

4) Seasonably warm temperatures. Try revving the engine a bit and bring things up at least 10 - 15 degrees. We're a bit behind on that aforementioned cycle of things, here. You need to kickstart that puppy a good one.

5) No snow. Absolutely, completely, without any shadow of doubt or question... NO FRAKKING SNOW. We should be beyond that crap, OK? Simple rule. Learn it. Love it. Live it.

There. I think that should get you well on your way. Simple things, these... but I realize that everyone needs a little push in the right direction from time to time. Just glad I could be around to help out a friend. Cause we are friends, Mother Nature, aren't we? I think I may just be the only one around here still talking to you.

Open Letter to Rocket, My Beloved Civic.

Dear Rocket,

You are many things. Fast. Fun. Sporty. Even sexy. I relish every one of your endearing qualities; even the way your upholstery disguises the crumbs left behind by the kiddos. (Sorry about that, by the way.) I look forward to a long and enjoyable relationship with you, Rocket.

But, there are some things we must discuss. I sense that you are having a bit of a identity crisis, perhaps a bit of vehicular angst has gripped you with the onset of winter and the troublesome condition of Fluttercity's streets. And, while I have attempted to go along and ride this little bump in our relationship out, it appears that you and I need to have a little chat.

I'm going to say it and say it straight.

You are not, I repeat... NOT Kurt Browning.

You think I can't feel your nimble little tires trying to line up a triple axel? You think I don't KNOW that you're daydreaming of that camel spin? Who do you think you're fooling? Not me. Uh uh. And I'm not having any more of that, Rocket. This is not the Winter Olympics and I am not going to be your little Twizzle partner dressed in a tarty little flouncy skirt and nasty opaque tights that tie under my shoes... and I'm losing my train of thought, here.

The point is, that no matter how much you really, really, really WANT to be a little figure skating car... Rocket, it's not possible. Simply not possible and certainly not advisable. There are other vehicles on that ice, and, well I'll just say it. They're going to laugh. They're going to laugh Rocket. And call you names. And get their nose all up in your business about just what it is you're trying to do out there.

Is it close-minded and intolerant? Yes! I feel your pain. No one wants their dreams dashed against the rocky precipice of Reality. They're pricks, those other cars. Grotty, unwashed PRICKS that can't stand to let another vehicle outshine them. But you and I, Rocket, we live in their world. We drive on their ice. And I really need you to hear me now, when I tell you that we gotta play by the rules of that Prick-owned ice.

So, get your head on straight, boy. Put some lead in those loafers and keep it in the game. No more wibbely-wobbely-tipsy-turvy stuff out there on the road. We're keeping it locked down, right? Right?

So, do we have an understanding, Rocket? Good. Now, Hug it out.

Open Letter To My Hormones.

I realize and appreciate the great effort you've gone to during the previous years of my life to keep things orderly and timely. You have had an important job to do and have done it well -- probably better than I could do myself, truth be told.

We've had some good times, you and I. You quickly rose through the union ranks with your work on the Great Complexion Project of '89 and while I wasn't crazy about the whole Time of the Month Endeavour, it was a brilliant marketing ploy to throw the Girls and the Butt in on the deal. We've had a pretty easy-going work relationship and I took for granted that you didn't crack me out on the PMS train each month. I always appreciated that you didn't jump in on the water retention trend. Maybe I never told you that. I was especially proud of you when you revamped the Girls that first pregnancy. That was sweet.

I know we've had some rough patches. Hair and Nails wasn't your forte and there were a couple times you were, uhhh, late for the party and stressed me out a bit. But, you know... we communicated. We moved on.

I thought we were a team.

So, what I really need to know is... what's the dealio with the gazillion blemishes you've been letting in the gate? We have Standards up in this place. And me looking like a spotty troll is not on the agenda last I looked. I know you are capable of doing Better, little hormones. I have seen it with my own eyes and have the yearbook pictures to prove it.

I've got my eye on you. Year end review is coming up and I may just have a mind to outsource this job. Buck up, cowboys.

Open Letter To Wal-Mart.

November 12th is WAY TOO EARLY to be playing Christmas music in the stores. You will make your shopper's ears BLEED before the 25th arrives if you keep this up.

That's all.