Some notes I’ll never send | Column | The Press and Standard

by | January 6, 2018 5:00 am

Last Updated: January 3, 2018 at 10:16 am

I just finished an excellent book titled “Wedding Toasts I’ll Never Give.”
Ada Calhoun—a young, funny wife—takes a wry look at the highs and lows of marriage. Examples: The first 20 years are the hardest. Sometimes your spouse will bore you deeply, or pick a hideous paint color—maybe both. And, almost certainly, someday you’ll look at the person you promised to cherish and feel only rage. (That just means it’s a bad day, not a bad marriage.)
“Wedding Toasts” made me think about notes (I don’t do toasts) I’ll never send, and the people who will never read them.
Dear Leadfoot: I can’t go any faster, no matter how far you crawl up my bumper. It’s called traffic; get over it.
Dear Teenage Grocery Store Cashier: I saw you helping the mentally-challenged customer today. Your grace and patience humbled me. Keep doing you.
Dear Wedding Dress Designer: Do you really think the bride’s bosom should be the star attraction on her wedding day? SMH.
Dear Vicks Vapo-Rub: You literally make me breathe. Thank you for 50+ years of eye-stinging menthol.
Dear Organic Farmer: Your eggs are delicious. DO they really come from happy chickens?
Dear Driver Who Flipped Me Off: You eat chips with those fingers?
Dear Teacher: You have no idea how much I admire you. Here’s a hint: A lot.
Dear Guy Doing Squats: PLEASE muffle the panting and moaning when you lift. It’s a gym, not a porn set.
Dear Sweaty Guy: Seriously? You expect me to do chest presses on the bench where you left puddles of perspiration? Wipe it up!
Dear Nurse: Thank you. I don’t know how you can smile warmly at 2 a.m., but you do.
Dear Barbecue Joint: You make amazing mac ‘n’ cheese… but must you add crumbled bacon? My husband loves your food, and it would be nice if you had one item (besides the slaw) that I can eat. Just a thought.
Dear Post Office Lady: You stand on your feet for eight hours while people yell at you when it costs them $8.39 to mail a package the size of Vermont. I see you. I admire you.
Dear Diner Chef: I didn’t come in here thinking I’d eat the best Caesar’s salad of my life, but here we are. Bravo!
Dear Mom and Dad: Thanks for showing me what it means to never quit.
Dear Zappos: Yes, you cost more, but your customer service is amazing: Free returns, cheerful associates, and the way you dropped a $50 credit on me when I didn’t love my last pair of Hokas—I’m yours for life.
Dear Mouthy Teen at the Movies: You are the reason I never had kids. Not really–but you embarrass yourself.
Dear Media: Why the anger about mansplaining. Any time I can get a man to do more than grunt, I’m tickled.
Dear Tom Brady: Your diet is insane—no nightshades?—but I can’t argue with success.
Dear Dog Rescue: You’re doing God’s work. Ten tail wags to you.
Dear Adult Women of the World: Life will not end because a man makes a pass at you. If it’s unwelcome, settle his hash and move on.
Dear Harry and Meghan: Way to live the fairy tale! You made every unmarried woman believe that someday her prince will come.
Dear Hollywood: I don’t watch blockbuster superhero movies, animation, gore, or anything associated with Woody Allen. So… what’s left?
Dear Mammography Tech: Thank you for your professionalism, swiftness and humor. Ten minutes and done!

(Dear Readers: Julie R. Smith really, really likes you. She can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.)

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