Smith Says

  • Tuesday, February 21, 2012

I do it all the time: Write notes in my head I’ll never send. A friend has conversations in his head that’ll never happen in real life. I prefer my notes, because there’s no rebuttal. Whatever works, right? So…. here’s what I’ve been mentally scribbling (all my imaginary notes are hand-written) lately:
Dear Jack-in-the-Box: When I want a pork-flavored milkshake, I’ll feed Bac-Os to a cow. Sound fair?
Dear Mimi Alford: We all know JFK was a dog, but you’re a fame-ho. Writing a steamy tell-all about an affair when nobody alive can refute your claims is A) cowardly and B) greedy. Enjoy your 15 minutes. P.S. Your grandchildren must be so proud.
Dear PETA: I believe you started out as a force for good. But these days, honestly, you make me so mad I could punch a kitten.
Dear brother T-Bob: I’m sorry you called me in a panic because your eight-year-old said he doesn’t believe in heaven or hell. Maybe if you actually took him to church he might get the concept.  Just a suggestion.
Dear sister Moonbeam: I am not interested in trying your new “healing by telephone” shtick. We have plenty of snake oil already. Holistically yours, Julie. (Your youngest earth-sister. The one with curly hair.)
Dear brother Bubba: Thank you for the Outback gift card for Christmas. You’ve given me one for a decade now, and I appreciate it. However, I haven’t eaten meat in two years. But my carnivore husband and his friends will love it!
Dear Mother: I never have and never will tell you my husband’s salary. So stop asking. Mwah!
Dear Mr. Animal Control Man: We know the goats are out. They were out yesterday and last week, too. My husband has bought a tent and wire cutters. He plans to set up camp by the fence and devote the rest of his life to patching it.
Dear Ex-hair stylist: I paid you to do my hair, not complain about your kids, bills, neighbors, in-laws and husband.  Word to the wise: A bang trim shouldn’t take two hours.
Dear Co-workers: No need to panic if you see sweat streaming down my face in February, or devil horns emerging from my head. Ditto when I burst into tears watching a dog food commercial on TV. It’s just Mother Nature having a laugh.
Dear Dr. Oz: I like you. I really like you. But the “wheatgrass shot” thing just doesn’t work for me. You know what does? Caramel shots.
Dear Driver Honking at Old Man on Bicycle: Do you really think he prefers pedaling a beat-up bike on a 40- degree day? Put down the latte, take a breath and give him a break.
Dear Country Neighbors: Do you really have to burn leaves every single day? I can’t run a mile in any direction without having a choking fit. Running and gagging is not great cardio.
Dear Person Who Abandoned Dog at Cemetery:  What a stellar human being you are. I hope Roseanne Barr goes to your house and sits on your head.
Dear Blockbuster: You’d better check your files again because, when your lousy kiosk was broken for the fifth time in two weeks, I went inside the store to return that Danny McBride movie, which was so bad I can’t remember the title. In fact, I want a refund on the $2 I paid to rent it. (Okay, this one I actually sent.)
Julie Smith, who’s not hearing voices—yet—can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.

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