the mailroom

where I write the letters

Dear Kindergartener,

Dear Kindergartener,

Please stop doing the following: 

  1. Leaning on things with your face
  2. Putting your mouth on public objects, not limited to church seats, car door handles and grocery carts
  3. Walking everywhere with the soles of your boots flung out to the side, like a duck
  4. Acting like a surly adolescent
  5. Requiring my presence at all times, even in the bathroom (no matter if it is you or I on the commode)
  6. Running around the house like a baby deer (which is to say loose and flailing) on 4 Red Bulls (which is to say manic)
  7. Suffering from Bieber Fever; if not that, then consider expanding your fever beyond that one ridiculous earworm
  8. Staring blankly, slack-jawed when asked a yes/no question
  9. Refusing to dress appropriately for the weather
  10. Talking, for five precious minutes
  11. Falling out of your chair with no warning (although it's funny when it doesn't end in injury)
  12. Shouting complicated questions from the far corners of the house-- please, child, find me in the kitchen
  13. Taking me to the very outer edges of love and back, every single day, just to prove you're mine

Dear neighborhood shop owners,

As a dedicated supporter of your cute little businesses, nestled in the weird and wonderful bosom of our "eclectic" and "hip" neighborhood, I would like to tell you that I am trying. I don't shop with you because you have great prices (you don't) or because you have a wide selection (nope) or even because you are nice (many of you are, but in one guy's case, you are decidedly not). But we're neighbors. I've invested in this little 10 square-block plot of slum-turned-gem, and I would very much like, when possible, to keep my money in the general vicinity of the place where I hang one of your fancy, handmade felted hats. 

I would like to not-so-gently remind you that the very LIFE of your business depends on me, your neighbor, popping into your amusing shop and perusing your "carefully chosen" merchandise (which, I would like to make clear, is often readily available on Amazon.com).   You are not lawyers. You are not architects. You are not self-employed accountants or artists working odd, unannounced hours in a small rented shopfront with the door locked, just to get some peace. 

You. Are. Retail. 

If you have shop hours posted, you have made a not-uncertain deal with us, your customers and neighbors.  And when we make two separate attempts to come in and give you our hard-earned cash in the smack-middle of your posted business hours and you are closed, you drive us into the arms of the internet, or Target, or the other guy's hip crap store a few blocks away. And when we get to that other guy's hip crap store, and there is a goddamned sign on the door that says "gone to lunch, back later," we will hit the fucking roof, and we might loudly grumble something about how maybe you should just sell shit on ebay if you want to go out for lunch whenever you please, knowing how many times we eat lunch at our own desks when our jobs require it, so we can earn the money to pay for the stuff you've got behind that locked door, which it is your most basic job to keep open when you goddamned say you will. 

I want you to succeed, boys. I do. But I will not spend another lunch hour chasing you down to hand you my money. 

Best of luck to you, 

Catt

Dear Clara Bird,

When you asked me to come inside with you to make some toast at 11:45, I didn't think twice about it; we made two pieces with butter and jelly and ate it together around the bonfire in the backyard. You were thrilled to be in charge of our countdown, and at the end when the grownups all hugged and clinked glasses and called that a midnight toast, you quietly blushed and clinked yours, too. I can't wait to spend 2012 with you, big kid. 

Love,

Mama