In the spirit of McSweeney's "Open Letters to Persons or Entities Unlikely To Respond":
1. Dear fellow I-55 driver: I'm sorry that the highway department decided to move us down to one lane and decrease our speed limit to 60. It was a big hassle, trust me. I like having the second lane in order to get away from angry drivers with their brights on, just for instance. So when that dipshit driver from Tennessee pulled out in front of me from the rest area, there wasn't really anything I could do. I couldn't move over and pass him. I couldn't get off the highway in any safe way. I just had to follow him. It also wasn't my fault that he decided that 52 miles an hour was his best bet. But no matter how close you got to my bumper, close enough that I could read classified ads by your headlights, close enough that you shined your brights into my son's sleeping face, thus waking up and making him cry for 8 more miles of your psychological torture technique, I was not going to tailgate the Tennesse Dipshit. And therefore, we were all going to go 52 miles an hour. Does this make sense? I couldn't push the car in front of me any more than you could push me. Not without serious damage and police records getting involved. So next time you're in such a hurry to get to Cape Girardeau, I might suggest taking an alternate route. Or at least consider that stressing me out really doesn't get you there any faster. I hope you enjoyed your time in Cape.
2. Dear Land's End: my kids like your school uniforms just fine. My 5 year old is so excited to start kindergarten in your jumpers with the little school logo on them. And the jumpers and skorts seem to wear like iron. My husband is also a fan of your cotton twill business casual pants. And I love your dress shirts because they require so little ironing to look good. Over all, we like your company and its products. I watch for the free shipping promotions in my email. But could you evaulate your sizes? My husband's, of course, are based on math and therefore always fit. Inseams and neck circumferences and all that. But your kids' sizes? Sophia wears an 8, sometimes a 10, in everything. But I measured her waist today in order to find her a few skorts for next year, and she's suddenly a 14? Why is that? What is intuitive about these numbers? If I bought her a 14 from another catalog company or from a brick and mortar store, she and Maeve could wear it together. I know she's tall, and so I tend to buy big regardless when I'm trying to get a jumper or a dress to be long enough, but her pants? A 14? Your women's sizes are the same problem. I can order from other catalogs and know things will fit. Why not match your numbers to other places? Or perhaps this is a more deeply ingrained problem in society. Perhaps women and children should be based on math, too. But I don't know who to write that letter to. Thanks.
3. Dear Preschool we visited the other day for a program but I won't mention the name, ok, it's a preschool, not an old folks home. I get that. But there's got to be at least one other parent in the world who pushes a stroller as well as holding a hand of a young child. Every entrance to your place had at least three steps. The one that didn't was blocked off by an emergency door. Are you a preschool designed for only children? Nobody can have a younger sibling? Or did you expect me to leave the baby with the nanny? Hmm.
4. Dear woman at Citygarden. We were there eating lunch with Miss Bridget and another child, perhaps you remember us? You were the one who rushed over to alert me that Leo was eating a hardboiled egg yolk. It seemed so urgent to let me know. I know my face betrayed me, I was so puzzled by your mini-frenzy. "Most people don't want kids to eat them!" you tried to explain after you pointed out the yolk in his hand. "They're just so....dry," you sighed, backing away. I probably should have thanked you for the concern, but I was just so confused by the panic, I couldn't manage it. I just stared. I'm sorry. You're weird but you seemed genuinely concerned for Leo's, well, something. Safety. Or palate.
All for now. All my kvetching is out for the moment.