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 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 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 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 17-Year-Old Writing Students,

Much as I try, I cannot figure out how you have sat in my class the past six weeks and still do not know what a thesis statement is, where it belongs in an essay, and why it is important. I'm also unsure how you have seen the exact same edits on the exact same errors for the past 3-4 weeks and still haven't corrected them. I might start feeling like a failure of an English teacher if it weren't for your twelve-year-old classmates who are writing college-level reports. I would say that, someday, you'll wish you had paid more attention. Unfortunately, if you've made it this far without caring, I doubt you'll start anytime soon.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Complexion,

It's about time you started acting our age. Fourteen years ago, you were annoying, yes, but still part of the adolescent cycle of awkwardness that eventually led to the character and self-assurance of my adult years. Today, however, no matter how much character and self-assurance I have, I'm not cool with these blemishes that suggest I am still in middle school. If you would just talk to your upstairs neighbor, my scalp, it would tell you that gray hairs and acne should not mix. You are simply perpetuating a paradox that I, for one, do not appreciate. It's time you grew up.

Hugs & kisses,
B