Category Archives: Letters I Will Never Send

Dear Santa: Let’s Make a Deal

Dear Santa:

I’m not going to mince words here. As I understand it, you’re pretty much omniscient. I can’t bullshit you like an innocent 5 year old, tell you I’ve been good all year, or even tried to be good all year.

You saw. You know.

But then, I have an inkling this goes both ways. You’re a man in complete and utter control of many, many little men (elves, if you will). I don’t know exactly what kind of kinky S&M relationship you have with them, if their plastered-on smiles belie a darker truth. I just can’t see these little dudes willingly indenturing themselves, without some unseemly shit going down off camera.

So let’s talk turkey.

I have enough slippers/coffee mugs/mittens/pen sets/seasons of The Gilmore Girls on DVD.

This year, I want something good. GOOD.

Last week, to quote the esteemed Lionel Richie, “I had a dream, an awesome dream.”

A dream from which I did not want to wake.

I dreamt I had a gay boyfriend.

I used to have one, in real life. That perfect specimen; cute, polite, hilarious, flirty, immaculate, flattering, and not one bit interested in my girly parts.

Heaven, in a pair of expensive jeans. He left me for law school. I’ve never found a suitable replacement.

The dream brought it all back. Realizing it had been a dream, not real? I was disappointed for the better part of a Saturday.

So that’s what I’m asking for, Santa. A gay boyfriend. (Don’t worry, my husband’s totally down with it. Gets him out of theatre productions and, you know, talking about feelings and junk.) I’ll expect him to be lounging under the tree on December 25.

Anticipating your cooperation in this matter,


P.S. Don’t try to pull a fast one. Because funny or not, if you bring me a Bruce Vilanch

the jig is up with your snowy little sweatshop.

We’re talking Neil Patrick Harris or better.

Or. Better.



The Day in Letters

Dear Son:


I wish you wouldn’t worry about bad things that I can’t guarantee won’t happen.  I wish you couldn’t read so well, and I wouldn’t have to explain the “Future Porn Star” bumper sticker on the car parked ahead of us, outside your elementary school.  And finally, I wish you flushed on a more consistent basis.  Never let it be said I didn’t have wishes for you.






Dear Daughter,


I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you said that you told your dad you weren’t supposed to have a brownie, but he gave you one anyway.  Even as a three-year old, I think you can see how far-fetched that one was.


My bad,




Dear America,


You’ve already absconded with one of my siblings.  If you think I’m letting you take another, you’re out of your automatic-weapon-loving mind.


Suck it,




Dear Husband,


For the love of all that is holy, quit butt dialing me from your cell-phone.  (And keep in mind that at this point, I still believe your account of what’s happening, and have not yet fallen into the assumption that you are lying, and are instead engaging in an absurdly passive-agressive hobby.)  Also, if you could change the ring tone on your phone so that when I call, it DOESN’T play the Imperial Death March?

That’d be awesome.






Dear Smell Emanating from my Kitchen Sink Drain,


What the fuck are you?  More importantly, what will it take to kill you?


Yours in Confusion,


Dear Al Gore

Dear Al Gore,

Let me just start by saying this:  I know you’re not a scientist.  I know you weren’t even the first one to ring the alarm bells, with regards to this planet going to hell.  But you have become the face for the movement, and thus, I’ll be addressing you.  Pass the message on to your less well known, science-y friends, won’t you?


Here’s the thing:  you fucked up.


Two words:  Global.  Warming.


You started warning us about it years ago.  Told us the glaciers would melt, the deserts would expand, the average temperature of the world would go up, everywhere, by a couple of degrees.


And anyone who lived north of Florida?


Thought that sounded pretty awesome.


You see, when you’re talking to people who go into every winter knowing that they will, without a doubt, experience the eyeball freezing caress of -40 degrees, that they will be confronted with icy driving conditions until Easter, and that they will, at most, be rewarded for it with a scant 80-ish days of summer,  you don’t call it “Global Warming.”


“Global Warming” sounded like something I could get behind.


(I personally spent the early ’90s working on my own, dedicated hole in the ozone layer by eschewing the pump bottle of Aqua-Net, heading straight for the hardcore, aerosol version.)

 (I regret nothing.)


If you had just called it “Global Weather Fuck-Up-edness”,


and told us it would snow in Calgary in FUCKING JUNE,

(Please note the scared, confused, and very green grass cowering under the flakes.)


Well, the buy-in from us northern folk would have been much, much quicker.


Semantics, sir.  It comes down to your lack of a grasp on them.


Tsk, tsk.







(Photo credits:

Al Gore from here.

1991 Ginny from some nameless Josten’s photographer.

and the snow from my friend Curtis in Calgary, who patiently waited all afternoon for more snow to fall, just so he could get this shot.  What a guy!)

Dear Joe The Plumber,

Dear Joe the Plumber:


In a perfect world, I wouldn’t know who the hell you were.  But this isn’t a perfect world – it’s early 21st century North America.  The Republican Party, via John McCain, used you.  You were portrayed as a “salt of the earth” type.  You were held up as the very essence of what us regl’ar folk are all about. 


You, in turn, used that notoriety to garner a book deal.


Now, I’m willing to bet you didn’t give yourself the moniker “Joe the Plumber”.  Your name’s not even Joe – it’s Sam.  But nevertheless, the world knows you as Joe the Plumber.

And that’s where I take issue.


You see, Joe, I’m married to a plumber.  Good guy.  Salt of the earth.  Reg’lar folk. 


Plumbers have a lot of stereotypes to overcome.


The buttcrack,

the low I.Q.,


the air-punching of random blocks till coins drop out.


But now, I’m afraid you’re adding a whole new stereotype into the mix:  raging homophobe.


You did an interview with Christianity Today Magazine


When asked for your thoughts on the legalization of gay marriage, you volunteered this:


“I’ve had some friends that are actually homosexual. And, I mean, they know where I stand, and they know that I wouldn’t have them anywhere near my children.”


Oh Joe.


You’re entitled to your opinion.  No matter how narrow-minded and utterly devoid of intelligence it is.  But here’s what I want you to do:  Work harder at getting your real name out there, drop the “Plumber” from your name.  And distance yourself from real, live, licensed plumbers.


Because you, sir, do not speak for all plumbers. 


And I’d hate for people to think that you do.









(Images from here and here.)

Mirror, Mirror….Aw, Crap

Dear Venerable Canadian Department Store:


I am writing to inform you of an experience I had in your lingerie department.


I was purchasing a foundation garment, and asked to try it on.  Because I needed to know that the bra in question would have the desired cantilever effect on my not-so-awesome rack.


I was led into a change room, along with my 2 year old daughter who was acting as a consultant.  I removed my shirt, and was immediately aware of an abundance of air on my shoulders.  This is when I first realized that the demi-doors provided were by NO MEANS designed for tall chicks.  For the first time, I was thankful that 2 children, a large weight loss, and that rotten bitch, Time, had left me with saggage that, really, ought to be criminal.  Because if the girls had been perky, they would have been on full display.


What happened next, though, was a source of great consternation.


I have provided this diagram, to better illustrate the situation:


Of special note are the placement of the mirror, and the spiky-haired gentleman.


I was on my way out of one bra, into another, when I happened to glance in the mirror.  I didn’t meet his eyes with mine, because his eyes were…elsewhere.  I immediately went into the “duck and cover” position.  The 2 year old asked what was going on, and while I hissed an explanation at her, she chose to dwell on the salacious, yelling “Mommy’s a nudie!  Guy looks at her BOOOOOOBS!”  As I crouched down, willing it all to be over, I realized that the door wasn’t just lacking substance at the top, but also at the bottom.  Thus, my hunched over self was on full display.  And the “girls” were pointing south. 


I settled for hunching over in the middle of the door, waiting, waiting for this gentleman to leave.  For a person who could have no need of items in this particular section of the store, he did hang about for what can only be considered a suspiciously long time.


In your defense, I know where your company started.  You’ve been around for well over 300 years.  Of course, back then, you traded furs.  I understand that ladies frilly things may be a little removed from your area of expertise. 


But for the love of all things holy, you’ve GOT to fix that change room.


That poor, spiky-haired gentleman was probably scarred for life.  And my 2 year old is pretty sure something untoward happened in that change room.





Dear George Newbern,

To me, you’ll always be the near-perfect Bryan MacKenzie, fiancee from “Father of the Bride” – Steve Martin version. 

You were charming, cute, enlightened (you were going to let Annie keep her maiden name – so very progressive for 1991), an all around nice guy.  Oh sure, there was that moment of dumb-fuckery, when you bought her a toaster as an anniversary gift, and the wedding almost got cancelled, but then it didn’t.  At the end of the day, you were a delightful guy, a road-map, if you will, for those of us who thought we might one day go on to marry men.


Didn’t see much of you after that.


But then, this week, I can’t get you out of my living room.


It’s been 17 years, and you don’t really look all that different.

On Monday, you were on “Criminal Minds”, playing a pedophile who teams up with his neighbor (and turns him into his lover) to kidnap young girls.


Tonight, you were on “CSI: NY”, playing a court officer, who murders his son’s wrestling coach.


What the hell?


Why are you  so determined to take my pleasant, adolescent memories of you and replace them with ickiness?  Why, George Newbern?  What did I do to you?


Reply at your earliest convenience,



Dear Baby

Dear Baby,

I’m sorry I didn’t address you by name.  To tell the truth, I’m not even sure you have a name yet.  My name is Ginny, and I’m a friend of your mom’s.  And because I’m old, and old people like to tell stories, I’m going to tell you how we got here.

We met when we were 5, your Mom & I.  She moved to the farm a couple of miles up the road.  My grandma took me over to visit the new girl.  We had ice cream cones.  We stuck our front teeth right into the ice cream.  Then we screamed and giggled, because it was painful and stupid and silly and then we were friends.

We went to school together for 12 years.  Rode the same bus every day.  Your mom played sports.  All of them.  I was smart.  Your mom liked country music and doing whatever boys did for fun.  I liked rock’n’roll, and reading quietly.  Your mom, even as a little kid, would always choose to beg for forgiveness rather than ask permission.  She was fun.  And she was exactly what I needed, to balance my serious self out.

We didn’t always get along.  The quiet loner and the popular jock can only hang out so much, especially within the constraints of junior high.  But we always managed to come back together.  The first time your mom ever got drunk, was with me.  She came to my house, to throw up and sleep it off and swear never to do it again.  (She lied.)  We confided in each other the crazy and stupid things we did with boys.  We were going to be friends forever.

And then we weren’t.  Grown up life took us in different directions, geographically, emotionally.

We both got married when we were 23.  Something about that common ground made us seek each other out, catch up.  Your mom only stayed in that marriage for a year.  I waited until he was gone before I told her he was a waste of space.  She never complained, not one damn “woe is me”.  She worked 2 jobs to pay for the divorce, never took a dime from your grandma and grandpa. 

She watched me bring home my first baby.  I think it scared her.   All that crying and carrying on.  (Me, not the baby.)

Then she met your dad.  Great guy.  And with him, babies didn’t seem scary at all.

They had your sister 2 years ago.  Cool kid. 

And then there was you. 


You’re in a bit of a hurry.  You started pushing your way out too early.  At 22 weeks, your mom got scared into bedrest.  And tonight, you decided you couldn’t wait anymore.


You’ve only been developing for 27 weeks.


I’m hoping that’s enough.  I’m hoping you’re among the 80% of babies who survive birth at 27 weeks.


Hell, if I’m hoping, I’m gonna shoot for the moon, hope that in 2 years, you’re a normal kid, fat and sassy, and no one ever knows there was anything different about your birth.

Really, all I’m hoping for is that in the morning, I’ll get to hug you, and see your mom smile.


Until then,







UPDATE:  Baby Elise came into the world, yelling at the top of her lungs, at 4:19 this morning.  Her mom was in labor for 10 hours before they performed a C-section.  The baby weighed 2 pounds, 14 ounces (which is really, really good for 27 weeks).  She’ll be in the hospital till March, which was when she was due to make her entrance into the world.  Her mom is thrilled and still a little nervous and grateful and completely and utterly exhausted.