Dear Television,

Most of my life, I forget you're there. In the corner. All alone. If you were a plant, you'd have died eighteen times by now. But sometimes, like tonight, I come home from work after a long day after a long weekend, and you give me something mindless to do before I go to bed. Just want to say thanks, TV. Thanks for not being a plant, and thanks for being mindless.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Friends,

Five bridesmaid dresses in my closet and approximately thirty-five wedding programs in my scrapbook suggest that, now that you're all married off, if you ever want to see me at a wedding again, you'd better start helping me find a guy.

Hugs & kisses,

B

Dear Trader Joe's,

Thanks for selling prewashed, ready-to-eat green beans that take zero effort to pull out of a fridge crisper and shove into my face while I veg exhaustedly on the sofa after a weeklongfeeling Monday. While I channel my inner e. e. cummings and make up my own words, you provide me with more nourishing foodstuffs than the rather more tempting jar of Nutella in the back of my cabinet or the potato chips that I neglected to purchase for my eatallthethings mood.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Mr. President,

Okay, so it wasn't all your fault.

Yesterday was the last day of an 8-day workweek. The first two days of that week, I went to my job without a voice and with a moderate-to-severe sinus infection that I'd had for 2 1/2 weeks. The fifth day of that week, I flew to Michigan, and the last three days of that week, I had worked 13-hour shifts, on my feet most of the time, the antibiotic for my sinus infection and the air conditioning in the hospital cracking my lips and drying out my eyes as I stared at computer screens and tried to help nurses understand their new software.

When I finally got into the Detroit airport and found my flight home to Madison listed on the monitors, you can imagine my distress to see that it would take off more than an hour late. Knowing, as I did, that you were in Madison yesterday as part of your last-minute whistle-stop tour to drum up political support in swing states, I immediately blamed you for the delay. "Surely it's the president's fault," I thought, "for shutting down the Madison airport to all flights but Air Force One, and delaying my arrival home."

I was even composing an open letter to you on the subject, something along the lines of disrupting people's lives in order to garner support for your own cause.

But then when I got on the plane, they said there had been mechanical problems back in Providence this morning, and that the flight had been off schedule all day. Nothing to do with you, Mr. President.

So I apologize for blaming you for something that wasn't actually your fault. I'm sure that, as a public figure, you're used to it, but on this day, when 130 million people or so decide whether or not you still have your job next year, I just wanted to say oops.

Dear That Sense of Rightness and Justice in This World,

Just want to say thanks. Overall, the world does not meet any of our standards for perfection, to the point that many of us give up on the hope that there must be something better out there. But sometimes, you show your face again, just for a moment, just a small glimpse, and remind those of us still watching and waiting for Better that it really does exist and is worth living for.

When two puzzle pieces finally admit they fit together perfectly, when after months of prayer I get to see two of my favorite people come together, it's nothing short of a relief. The Hebrew word shalom means peace, perfection, unity, and completion, the resolving major chord at the end of a cacophonous symphony. If such a small-scale event can bring such relief, I can only imagine what it will be like when you finally reclaim all of creation. No more pain, no more hurricanes, no more loneliness or barriers to love. May we all live and work and hope for the Better that lies beneath the surface.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Apple,

The reason I got an iPhone in December was for the public transit map information on your Maps app. And now, nine months later, you obliterate it with your own terrible excuse for a Maps app that doesn't even pretend to tell me the bus schedule? Really?

I'm not even kidding: where can I downgrade to the previous iOS so I can actually use the feature I got this phone for in the first place? I have it on good authority that Steve Jobs is ashamed of this whole affair, keeping tabs with his Ways My Company Is Failing Me app from the Great Beyond.

And this is just my personal public transit outcry; I understand that folks who use Maps for driving and other purposes are perhaps less stranded than those of us suddenly left without transit directions, but they're no less outraged at the faulty and downright dumb functionality of this new excuse for a "smart" application.

Okay, okay, barring a downgrade to the previous iOS, where can I get an Android? Yes, Apple. I just went there.

Shame on you,
B

=====
9:35 update: Upon initial investigation, I'm ready to tentatively say HopStop is a valid replacement, as least for the bus schedules, but I'm not sure what will replace the driving problems. Just one more good reason not to invest in a car.

Dear S,

That was AWESOME. All of it was, including, but not limited to, the following:

• Hanging out with you for three whole days in a row for the first time in YEARS.
• Getting a chance to know your fiancé husband better.
• Meeting some of your Tennessee friends finally.
• My shoes somehow (miraculously) not even smelling bad.
• Partying all day Saturday for the best reason I could ever come up with.
• Seeing your fiancé husband cry the minute he saw you walking down the aisle.
• Hearing a random stranger stop his golf cart and exclaim that you're the most beautiful bride he's ever seen.
• Getting to use a microphone to brag about how awesome you are to a room full of attentive wedding guests.
• Witnessing two super deserving people vow to be each other's others for the rest of their lives.

It all went by too fast, but I'm so glad I got to be the one standing by your side.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Weather,

Now that it's September, I think it's time we had a little chat. The thing is, I'm really kind of sick of trying to pick out outfits that look cute that I also don't mind sweating in. This 90° and 100° stuff you've been pulling since June has just got to stop. I don't want to sweat in my sundresses like they're athletic gear, but I don't want to wear ugly workout clothes all the time, either. Let's talk about moderation. Do you know what that means? Now that we're heading into autumn, I think it's a good time for you start practicing moderation in your temperatures and humidity. I think that if we work together on this, we can find a balance we're all happy with.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Madison,

Where else can I:

• make friends on the bus home from work?
• walk past the poshest restaurant in town, look in the window, and find one of the chefs (my next door neighbor) waving at me delightedly?
• spend the weekend biking, sailing, picking up my CSA, and attending a food and music festival downtown?
• fill my bike tires with a gratis air pump and fix-it station set up along the bike path by the city?
• always—always—get a smile on my face when I enter downtown because it's always just the right place to be?

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Time,

Where have you gone?

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear M,

Thanks for lending us a highchair, pack-and-play, and stroller over the weekend. I'm pretty sure the stroller almost went home with BFF (she liked it that much!), and I'm pretty sure my cat would have felt even more terrorized without the safety restraints provided by the pack-and-play and highchair.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear BFF,

That was the best visit in the history of BFFness. When I left for work yesterday, I was already missing you and your adorable daughter. When I got home last night, my apartment seemed so wide-open and empty without you two there. Five days were way too short, but I'm so glad we got them.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear God,

You positively spoil me, you know that?

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Last Night,

Thanks for being so much fun.

Hugs & kisses,

B

Dear Facebook,

A list of all the ways I miss you:

1.




Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear B,

I know you're exhausted. I know that the one thing you want from this weekend is to sleep and not go anywhere or be expected to do anything, that your body is collapsing from sleep deprivation and office furniture, and your mind is overwhelmed with planning, organizing, and learning.

But this isn't the weekend you get to rest. Neither will next weekend, probably, or the one after that. In other words, your days of rest are over. If you're going to hold a job that keeps you out of the house for 12 hours a day and get things done like shopping and post office visits, you're going to have to get used to the dizziness that comes from sleep deprivation, the piles of things-to-do on every surface of your apartment, the sink perpetually full of dirty dishes, and the closet full of old clothes you'll have to wear because you don't have energy to go shopping for new ones. This sounds crazy to you after your freelancer days, but it's perfectly normal. You may feel like the waking dead, but so do all the other 20-something full-time workers out there.

And just think. Half of them have kids.

Hugs & kisses,

B

Dear JH,

Thank you so much for giving me an air conditioner on Tuesday. With nothing but 95° highs in the forecast, that little box in my window will surely be what keeps me from dying in my upstairs attic apartment. And although one of the reasons I came to Wisconsin was to get away from summers like these, the kindness of friends like you makes it all worth the move.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Garlic Scapes and Kohlrabi,

How is it that you look so darn cool?

image from applepiepatispate.com

image from livegreentwincities.com

It's so exciting to open my CSA box each weekend and see what's inside!

Hugs & kisses,

B

Dear Cat,

I spoke too soon. Way to pee on the most expensive thing in my closet: the pair of satiny dress shoes I just got two days ago for my maid of honor trappings.

Boo & hisses,
B

Dear Cat,

I'm sorry I shut you up in my closet this morning so you were trapped in there for 12 hours while I was at work.

In all fairness, though, this is precisely why I yell at you whenever you venture into my closet in the first place. In any case, thanks for not peeing on any of my clothes or dying from the heat.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Logic,

I appreciate your efforts, I really do. But sometimes, no matter how much you present the reasonable side of things, it just won't make my emotions budge. I'll stay angry, depressed, bored, or ecstatic whether it's at all logical or not. The past week has been logically awesome, but my emotions can't seem to keep up. Don't stop trying to reason me back over to normal, but please don't expect me to always make sense. Sometimes I just only have it in me to be a Marianne Dashwood, rather than her sensible sister Elinor.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear 30-Second Segment of a Conversation on Monday,

For how brief you were, you made me sad and got me thinking for the subsequent 48 hours. Change, relocation, and answers to prayer: all of this was wrapped up in a short side comment as part of a larger conversation. I have what I want, and you, oh short little sentence, informed me that an old, fervent prayer for someone else has been answered. And even as I thank God for that answer, I'm realizing that I have to come to grips with the fact that just because God answers prayers we make for someone else, that doesn't necessarily mean we ourselves get to benefit from those blessings.

You showed me that God is good, and that I still have a lot of growing up to do.

Hugs & kisses,

B

Dear Past Four Years of a Freelancer's Schedule,

Please don't make the New Job impossible for me to adjust to. I know I've gotten used to waking up, carrying my breakfast to my desk, and working half the day in my pajamas before I bother to brush my teeth. I know I'm used to breaking in the middle of the day to go do my laundry while the 'mat is practically empty or get groceries before the post-5:00 rush. I know I'm used to biking to a coffee shop for a change of scene when I need to jog my brain in a new direction. And even though I know I won't be able to do any of those things anymore at New Job, I'm trusting that your four years of freelancer habits won't completely ruin me on my first day tomorrow.

I'll miss you, freelancer's schedule. Perhaps we'll meet again someday.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear 48 Hour Film Project,

It has killed me the past two years to not participate in the weekend of crazy, sleepless, creative, ridiculous movie-making. It's not too late this summer, though. If I wish very hard, maybe I'll meet someone at New Job who can wield a camera and knows the ways of post-production software. Until then, please continue to be kind to the team I left behind me on the East Coast, even if (or maybe because) they don't have me as their screenwriter and script supervisor anymore. It has killed me not to participate, but maybe it's the best thing for them!

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Jules Verne,

How can your characters be 35 leagues below the surface of the earth and have 1,500 leagues to go until they reach the center, when the earth itself has only a 1,150 league radius?

(35 + 1,500 > 1,150)

Sometimes when I think too much about your books, I'm reminded of the person who once said that science fiction is often not very good fiction, and usually rather crummy science. I could say you were writing two centuries ago and could be forgiven the inaccurate data, but come on, Jules. Eratosthenes was a few hundred centuries before you, and even he wasn't that far off.

Still, your books do give us a lot to think about regarding the way we approach, trust, and depend on science even today. For that, you deserve to remain on the shelves and reading lists for years to come . . . not to mention the silver screen.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Toes,

I get it. We're happy. And I know that you've wiggled whenever I'm happy since the summer I was born. Still. Today's joyful toe-wiggling is getting a little fidgety.

Okay, fine, you're right. I don't mind at all. When the first news I have in the morning is about a dear friend's engagement (and subsequent welcome request to be in her wedding too!), and the sun is shining and the air cool, and the sewing machine I bought second-hand over the weekend works, and I reach the half-way point in the project I'm writing, and ... well ... this day happens ... the most appropriate thing in the world is for my toes to wiggle out of control.

So wiggle away, dear ones. Wiggle away.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Kids Who Live Downstairs,

Thanks for recruiting me into your water battle this afternoon. I confess: I had fully intended to plant my geraniums on the balcony and go inside for a nap, but combining my watering can with your battle against your dad (a.k.a. my landlord) was something akin to brilliance.

Of course, I do have reservations. Aiming a water gun at my landlord seems, shall we say, counterintuitive. He seemed okay with it, though. At least, I think that's what the dousing I got meant.

Now, though, I'm really tired, but the nap is much more earned, at least.

May we have many more of these in the summer days ahead!

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Eleven Years of Driving-a-Car Habits,

I have driven a car three times since January, getting around instead by public bus and personal bike. It's my bike especially that confuses me sometimes in regards to your long-standing habits ingrained into my head. For example, when I'm getting ready to leave a place, why do I still look for my car keys? When I'm seated on the bike saddle, why do I still look for my seatbelt?

Next thing you know, I'll start looking for my helmet and kickstand whenever I drive a car.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Sweet Potatoes,

How is it possible that I ever thought you were disgusting? Your rich, earthy taste straight out of the oven, the ease with which your skin peels off the vibrant orange center ... with a touch of salt and pepper, you're amazing, but you don't even need that. You're perfect just the way you are.

Maybe that's why I used to think you were awful; I had only ever tasted you dolled up and coiffed until you didn't resemble yourself at all. Add marshmallows or breadcrumbs and you're no longer the root vegetable that I know and love. I met you in disguise.

You're sort of like salmon: fresh salmon, slightly baked or grilled, with just the lightest sprinkling of lemon. Nature did most of the work getting you to be tasty. We just have to add some heat.

Excuse me. I have a plate of sweet potato sitting beside me that begs me to return.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Email Inbox,

I imagine that going from 115 emails to 48 in a week would feel, for you, almost like it would feel for me to go from 115 to 48 pounds. Do you feel lighter now? Carefree? Impatient for me to reply to or act on the remaining 48 emails?

Don't worry. I won't rest on my laurels just yet. But you're welcome for finally paying more attention to you these days.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Wind,

If I had wanted to pedal and pedal and pedal without getting anywhere, I would have bought a stationary exercise bike.

(Oh, but you do smell good blowing in off the lake!)

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Creative Writing,

Seriously, you're being so kind to me lately that I can barely stand it. Get ready for greatness!

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Monona,

Thank you for being located so close to my laundromat. With a bike, I can zip over to your gently lapping shores while my clothes wash and dry, and I can enjoy the relaxing undulation of the floating dock, rising and falling like some large (stiff) creature breathing. What could be more pleasant than an hour of hard working laundry so pleasantly passed gazing over the water's surface, changing with each breeze like a fickle child. This is life: the smell of lake slime on the distant rack of canoes, the sound of ducks honking as they pass the time of day, the feel of sun on my neck and weathered dock wood on my legs.

And then a great blue heron glides across my vision, its overlong legs and neck so awkward, but its wings so graceful as it just skims the lake surface on the downbeat, crossing to land on the opposite shore.

It has been four months since I arrived here with a moving truck full of hope, and yet I remain in daily disbelief that this place is really my home.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Cat My BFF Convinced Me to Adopt Five Years Ago,

This morning, your plaintive and insistent meowing could have been heard for at least a block around. Pacing across my face, meowing in my ear, all but tearing down the window blinds, and for what? For breakfast that's an hour late?

Which is to say thank you for being obnoxious this morning. With a late night behind me and an alarm clock that decided not to go off this morning, I would have slept through my morning work shift had it not been for you.

And an indirect thanks to my BFF for bringing this cat into my life in the first place. Little did we know how useful she would be beyond her fluffy cuteness and playful disposition.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Landlord, Landlady, God, and Timing,

Thank you so much for deciding to let me stay here. I didn't want to sound petulant and childish, but the idea of moving this fall—for the fifth time in six years—made me want to cry. It, in fact, did make me cry. Especially after seeing some of the apartments available elsewhere in the city within this price range, I couldn't bear the idea of leaving my garret, this neighborhood, or your family. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Woman Who Cut My Hair Today,

Okay, you're not my hairdresser from home. That goes without saying. And my hair was in such a state of split ends and disarray that—barring a Sinead O'Conner shave—you could probably have done anything to my tresses and it would have been an improvement after 6 months away from the shears.

But it really does look nice. And our conversation was good. The price reasonable. The haircare tips helpful. You don't hike or have a granddaughter, but you have two dogs and enjoy movies, so I think maybe this might be a relationship to nourish. I'm looking forward to it.

And boy does my hair feel better.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Landlord,

Thanks -- deeply -- for greeting your pets the way you did when you got home from work today. You may not have realized I could hear every word, but nevertheless, it delighted me. Your high-pitched voice, your endearing nicknames, and your general jubilee worked together to send me into silent paroxysms of laughter upstairs. I try so hard to act normal so you don't think you have a crazy tenant, but then again, maybe I should just relax.

Thanks to your kids, too, for standing outside my window and holding a conversation with your cat consisting entirely of variations on "meow." I don't feel nearly as nuts now for talking to all the animals I see each day.

Hugs & kisses for pets & kids,
B

Dear Readers,

I'm still here. It looks like you are, too, based on my stats tracker. I just haven't had much to say lately. Thanks for faithfully checking in, and I'm sure that I'll have some more open letters up here before long.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Creative Writing,

Sometimes you're so terribly rewarding that I wonder why I don't spend all day writing.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Head Cold,

You're underappreciated, so let me take this opportunity to say thank you for attacking me this week. I needed a good excuse to stay in bed for a few days and ignore responsibilities, and you fit the bill. Next week when I'm trying to catch up on everything I didn't do this week, I might not be so cordial, but for now, I view you as a blessing.

Noncontagious hugs & kisses,

B

Dear Antonio Lotti,

Thank you for this rich, liturgical composition.




Crucifixus pro nobis, et passus, et sepultus est. Laus Deo.

Amen.

Dear Bank,

I'm sure that from your perspective it makes comPLETE sense to have no easily findable "report a lost or stolen debit card" option on your website or monthly account statements, but for my part, I can't think of a good reason.

Seriously. Card. Missing. How do I tell you?

I suppose I could send an email, but that feels a little too much like this episode from IT Crowd.

Maybe someday you'll make your emergency number easy to locate. Until then, don't allow any debit charges from my account. Please? Somehow?

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Creative Writing,

Sometimes you're so aggravatingly impossible that I wonder why I even bother trying.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Students Who Are Always Asking for Grammer Help,

Here's a tip: grammar is spelled with an a at the end, not an e.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Bare-Chested Man Wearing Your Shirt On Your Head Who Hit On Me at the Bus Stop on State Street Tonight,

Thanks for the sound advice regarding what to do with guys who aren't, like, totally into me (, man). Thanks for the sight of the compelling tats across your ribs. Thanks for suggesting we celebrate the night (even though I -- rats! -- had to go home and finish some work). Sorry about your girlfriend whose name you overlooked in the canine descriptives you lobbied in her direction. How could anyone not go for a perfect 10 like you, a regular machine gun of profanity?

Above all, thanks for giving me a good story, and for entertaining all the others at our bus stop. Well worth the price of admission.

Hugs & kisses (or rather ... not),
B

Dear Large Corporation That Took Two Months to Interview Me and Lead Me On,

Thanks for hiring me. I hope I like you as much as I'll like the paycheck.

Hugs & kisses,

B

Dear Apartment,

I still love you.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Crotchety Old Wives Who Say "Three Times a Bridesmaid, Never a Bride,"

HA! Thwarted again!

You thought you had me, didn't you, with the last wedding I was in? And you thought you SUPER-had me with this fourth one in September. I know you did, because you're old wives who want to ruin the happiness of youth with inane sayings based in lies.

But I'm looking at two times a bridesmaid, two times a maid of honor, and that is not the same thing. Instead of indicating I am destined for spinsterhood, it shows, instead, that I am, in fact, REALLY good at developing relationships, deepening bonds and staying true over a long period of time. Two times a bridesmaid for friends I've had since birth and first grade. Two times a maid of honor for friends since ages 11 and 12. Two times a bridesmaid, two times a maid of honor: I am a prize for any guy who values loyalty and commitment.

Never a bride? More like building up a curriculum vitae that proves I'll rock as a wife.

(Anyone interested?)

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Coffee Shop Patrons,

You there, giggling loudly over board games on a Tuesday morning.  Do you see me?  Nursing three books, my computer, and a sugar-free latte?  Head tucked down, hair falling into my eyes, trying to think?  It's hard work, this thinking.  But you, you laugh about your game and your free schedule and your happy brain sighs in relief.  What then should I do?    

Love,

A

This guest letter brought to you by my dear friend A.

Dear American Girl Magazine,

When I was seven years old and reading your articles about how to set up a lemonade stand, what to keep in my tree fort, and how best to decorate sidewalks with various shades of chalk, I always had a vague sense you were writing to a different audience. No one in my neighborhood would bother to buy lemonade, and I never had a tree house. The nearest sidewalk was at least a mile away. Did that mean I wasn't an American girl? No, I never questioned my citizenship or cultural status, but I did believe your world was fictional.

Then I moved to Madison. In this place, families ride their bikes together, and children walk home from school in safety, and I passed at least two lemonade stands when I was out for a walk yesterday (a walk on sidewalks, no less). People play frisbee in the park and have tree fortresses in their backyards and jump on pogo sticks in their driveways. Even the streets are crisscrossed like an apple pie crust.

I officially live in the fictitious neighborhood you always assumed I lived in two decades ago, and I'm happy to see children living out the American Girl ideal, but there's something still a bit unsettling in seeing what I had heretofore assumed was fictional suddenly come real.

Does its reality imply that subrural east-coasters bereft of sidewalks, tree houses, and lemonade stands aren't as American as their midwestern counterparts? What does your magazine say today, I wonder. Do you write for all American Girls, or just the ones who live where you do? It's no surprise to me that you're based in Middleton, WI, just six miles or so from Madison. What of the country girls? The suburbanites? The inner-city dwellers? What about the American Girls living abroad with parents who are missionaries, ambassadors, or teachers?

I'm delighted to find myself in a lovely neighborhood today, but living this out has made me wonder what you're up to now as a magazine. Maybe I'll dust off Molly (yes, I'm from the era when the dolls were all from a specific "back then") and pick up the latest copy of American Girl to see whether anything has changed.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Prospective Jobs,

Here's a tip: if you require applicants to complete more than 1 page beyond the requisite résumé and cover letter, you're being ridiculous. Those of us who need jobs don't have time to spend three days on a 15-page application. We will be happy to fill out your application after you review our résumés for an initial fit, but requiring the completed application before we're even sure if we like each other? That's like asking a girl to make a three-course meal before deciding if you should take her on a first date.

(Hint: you won't get any dates that way.)

Hugs & kisses,
B

So it's 60° today.

Dear Climate,

Please don't die.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Madison,

You know I love you, but seriously. It's March. Enough with the Christmas decorations.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Julie Fowlis,

Thank you for recording a Gaelic version of "Blackbird." I don't even have words for how much I love your "Lob-dubh."

Tapadh leibh,
B

Dear Second Week of the Semester,

You are cold, cruel, and heartless.  Okay, I'll be reasonable: You are unseasonably warm, cruel, and heartless.  A sore back, three hundred pages of reading, and a very awkward coffee date remind me that Christmas break not only softened my middle but molded my brain into a ridgeless lump and did nothing for my social life.  Please be merciful to me.

Love,

A

This guest letter brought to you (a little belatedly -- sorry!) by my dear friend A.

Dear Pancakes,

Thank you for being a tasty way to use up some old milk and butter last night after the Ash Wednesday service.

Of course, I'm not sure how thankful I should be that you nearly became ashes, yourselves. Why did you have to nearly burn? Why did you have to fill the entire apartment with smoke so that the alarms went off and brought my landlord upstairs to make sure his house wasn't burning down around him?

I get it. You're in cahoots with God. Shame on me for being ashamed of the ashes on my forehead from the Ash Wednesday service and being glad I hadn't seen anyone on the way into my apartment. Setting off the smoke alarms was just your little way of teaching me humility, wasn't it, Pancakes?

Well, it worked. And you were delicious, which more than made up for trouble.

Hug & kisses,
B

Dear Large Corporation That Told Me After My Phone Interview Last Monday That You'd Let Me Know Your Decision Within The Week,

Last I checked, a week was only seven days long. But you know what? It's okay. No really. I didn't want to hear back from you by today or anything. I'm not trying to plan my life or answer questions that require knowing whether I'm going to have a job this summer or not. It's cool. Take your time. After all, I've spent most of the past two years being led on in one way or another; goodness knows I can handle a few days more.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear BFF's 3-Year-Old Son,

Thank you so much for asking your mom today if Barbie was Justin Bieber's husband. Everything about that question shows me what an awesome combination of your parents you already are.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Metaphorical Blanket That Has "Don't Get Out of Bed This Morning" Stitched All Round Its Edges,

When my alarm goes off and you immediately descend on me, tucking yourself in around my toes and covering my head with the dark, heavy feeling of foreboding toward the day, why don't I ever listen to you? I have plenty of mornings when I just don't want to get out of bed, but you don't show up on those mornings. The mornings when you wrap me up in fear of the forthcoming day should make me sit up and take notice. "Hey, this morning's going to suck. Maybe I should just let it pass by without me."

But then I ignore you and I log in to work and my computer crashes and my health insurance company calls me and doesn't know where my policy is in its transfer across state lines.

You know something, though? That was just the morning. You just say, "Don't get out of bed this morning." That doesn't refer to the whole day.

Clean laundry, fun students, hilarious creative narrative assignments, a walk in the sunny and dormant botanical garden near my laundromat, and a surprise gift of chocolate-covered pretzels made the afternoon worth living for. So, you smothering old blanket, maybe I should listen to you more often, but then again, maybe I should focus on the distinction of "morning." Some morning's gonna hate. But that doesn't necessarily apply to the whole long day.

Still, I like the clear warning. Please don't stop alerting me when I'm about to enter a foregone forenoon.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Post Office,

So what you're saying is, you need a stamp, too?

Hugs & kisses (& 44¢),
B

Dear A,

You are one of many friends whose name begins with A, but you are the only one who currently lives near me. Thanks for being good company, for being generous with your car, for feeding my obsession with British television, and for reading my blog so much it seems you're starting to think in open letters, as well.

So, I guess I can also say thanks for giving me the slight feeling I'm slowly taking over the world, one needed stamp at a time.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Stephen Fry,

I've long suspected it, but in the past week, I think I can confirm that I really have a crush on you. After my dear friend A introduced me to your excellent series Kingdom, and after I discovered that you read the British Harry Potter audiobooks, there has really been no turning back.

I hope you don't find this terribly awkward. I know that we're a bit different in age and live several thousand miles apart, but I thought it was best if you knew the truth.

Hugs & kisses,
B

P.S. New discovery: you narrate LittleBigPlanet, too!! Oh, Stephen Fry. We do go way back.

Dear The Midwest,

Yesterday evening while I was walking west downtown into a brilliant orange sunset whose glowing center hovered just at eye level above the flat horizon and washed over the landscape like an overturned bucket of blinding paint, I had a great idea.

Have you ever considered mountains?

Hugs & kisses,

B

Dear Mom,

You are fantastic. I try to explain why, but when I see my description in words, it looks insincere and gooey. Let it suffice to say I love you. Have a great day.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Bob Costas,

I can't wait to hang out with you in London this year. Will we see Michael Phelps clean up the gold medals again? Will the Thorpedo be back? What are you going to do without the Bird's Nest? Whatever happens, I know you'll have fun and infect us all with your bright enthusiasm. Bring it on!

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Stranger Who Smiled At Me In the Coffee Shop Today,

Don't deny it. You followed me in here. You spontaneously decided to come to the coffee shop after we passed each other on the sidewalk. I know you weren't originally intending to come here because you only spent 10 minutes in here . . . and didn't order coffee. You just sat down near me, read a page in your book, and then made light conversation when you stood to leave. It was all a pretense.

But don't worry. I'll be back again. And (I'm pretty sure) so will you.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Stephen Stills,

I never realized how much I talk to you (calling you "Steve," of course, since we're totally BFF) when I listen to your music until I lived upstairs from a landlord named Steve. Awkward.

Hugs & kisses (to you, not the landlord),
B

Dear Chirpy Refrigerator In My Otherwise Perfect New Apartment,

It's true: my apartment is nearly perfect. With its original 1928 doors and windows, a fantastic retro sink that matches the metal '50s kitchen table I inherited from my grandma, and heat paid for by the landlord, I can think of little that could make my new home any better.

Little, that is, besides a quieter refrigerator.

You, my dear large appliance, keep my milk chilled and my ice cream frozen in a manner I cannot reproach, and for a single woman living alone, I cannot think of a better size fridge than you. But you are never quiet. What's going on in there? Why must you run as loud as a leer jet at takeoff and make concerning dripping sounds in the four-minute intervals when you are (comparatively) quiet? And why (dare I ask?) does it sound for all the world as though you're hiding a flock of sparrows behind you?

(You aren't, are you?)

Please keep up the good work contributing to the overall perfections of my new apartment, but please -- if you can find it in yourself, deep down in the crisper -- please try to be a little quieter.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Movers,

I take back every bad thing I ever said about you. God bless you for carrying 126 items -- among them box springs, mattress, giant chair, kitchen table, and approximately a quarter ton of books -- up a flight of stairs and through an apartment with ceilings obviously not made for people as vertically blessed as you.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Movers,

I know I'm not the only person in the world who's moving, but it is January. So I have to wonder why you decided to take my stuff out of my house on Friday, hold it in your storehouse for four days, and not even leave the state until yesterday. If you had left the day you took my things, you could have made it here and back before the midwest snowstorm. But no, you decided to wait until yesterday to start the drive. Now you're shooting for a January 16th arrival. Do you realize what this means?

• 5 more days without a bed.
• 5 more days without a bedspread.
• 5 more days with only 4 outfits.
• 5 more days without pots and pans.
• 5 more days without my kitchen table.
• 5 more days without my shower curtain.

A blizzard would have been a great time to unpack all my boxes. Instead, you'll be holed up in a motel 200 miles from home, and I'll be stuck in an unfurnished apartment for another five days.

Watch for black ice, and stay warm.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Cookies and Coffee on One-Hour Flights,

You can't fool me. Your purpose is not to sate thirst or hunger or even to force interaction between seat partners. The thing is, at 36,000 feet above the earth, we are none of us experiencing normal. In several hundred thousand years of human existence, flight has only been possible for about the past 100. Humans flying in a metal tube is not natural. But eating -- yes -- eating is. Your purpose in our lives so high up in the air is not to satisfy us, but rather to distract us. Combine something so foreign as flying with something so basic as food, and we're sure to reach some kind of equilibrium between take-off and landing. Good thinking.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Hairdresser I'm Leaving Behind Me When I Move on Saturday,

When my mom, sick of hearing me complain about my hair, made me an appointment with you, I confess, I wasn't sure I'd like you. Sure, my mom's hair looked great ... on her. But were you going to be one of those people who makes everyone's hair look the same? Was I going to walk out of your studio looking middle-aged? Could anyone possibly save my hair from the Short Cut Fiasco of '09?

The past two years of beautiful hairdos have proven not only that my hair could be saved, but also that my mom often knows what she's talking about. Thank you for showing me that I could have long hair that doesn't look like the Ugly Girl In a Bad Teen Movie, for teaching me how to make my uncooperative hair curl, and for supporting me when I came in with boxed dye instead of having it done in your studio. On top of that, I always enjoyed our conversations, too, and will miss the tales of camping, hiking, and your granddaughter when I get my hair cut by someone in Wisconsin who had BETTER not ruin what your magical shears began.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear 2012,

Please don't suck.

Hugs & kisses,
B