In an open letter to the apple spice bagel dough proofing in the refrigerator,

“Don’t look at me like that, with your silent judgment. Your yeasty grin betrays that you think only a fool would contemplate making bagels on a Monday….”

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In an open letter to the middle aged woman wearing thin stretch pants,

“It took me a minute to figure out what your backside reminded me of. It seemed so familiar and I couldn’t place it until it came to me all at once. Calf liver!!”

In an open letter to Richard Nixon,

“I didn’t mean to imagine you in the bathtub, and then to imagine you picking at a terry cloth robe. It just happened, and I couldn’t stop…”

In an open letter to the state of Iowa,

“Your pride in the president who hails from your state is evident because of the quantity of signs guiding folks to the related historical site. I like that.”

In an open letter to her son whose whips are looking more and more *ahem* realistic,

“Dude, I love your creativity and your increasing attention on craftmanship. However, you have got to stop leaving the whips that you make in my passenger seat in the car. It makes me look crazy. It’s not the possession of something that looks like it came from a fetish shop that makes a mom look crazy. It is the presence of said item visible on the passenger seat of a practical Honda….”

In an open letter to the state of Indiana,

“I am still thinking about the signs on the highway about Hoosier Helpers. It tickles me so.”

In an open letter to Phil Collins,

“You don’t know how much happiness you’ve brought me. Thank you!!”

In an open letter to the man who wondered aloud how he could get to be one of my friends,

“There was something very specific and unforgettable about the way that you looked at me. Based on your face, I believe that as I walked toward you you saw something there. Seems like, in your mind, you saw a plate of aromatic pot roast, earthy and savory, topped with an unctuous, fragrant gravy. The kind of gravy that is clearly made from pot drippings. The kind of gravy where you can see little bit of onion in it. The type of gravy that makes you remember it the next time you see a chunk of beef. I believe that you saw carrots. I also think that you saw a decadent mound of mashed potatoes. Full cream mashed potatoes. Butter on those mashed potatoes. And a small well of that delectable gravy. I saw the look on your face and began to feel hungry. Literally hungry, not euphemistically hungry….”

In an open letter to her legs,

“Thank you for bringing to my attention that I may have accidentally quit shaving. The jury is still out, though, as to whether that’s an action item….”

In an open letter to the tall girl wearing very short shorts,

“It was difficult not to look at your crotch because I wondered whether your shorts were successfully covering your lady bits. I also wondered whether those shorts hurt. But that’s none of my business….”