Dear Mom,

You said were worried that I wasn’t posting because I had twisted my ankle. Mom, I don’t type with my feet. I’m sure it must look that way considering all the typographical errors and questionable content herein. But, please be assured that, while writing, I only use my feet to hold my donuts or potato chips and never to punch the keys.

Love,
Debbie

We just got back from watching a fireworks display on the belvedere. Charlotte got a big kick out of it. She oohed and aahed a lot. It wasn’t as crowded there as it is during Thunder Over Louisville, so we had the luxury of being able to sit on the bleachers.

There were a couple of horsedrawn carriages there, so we watched people to see who would step in the horse manure that was lying here and there on the street. A lot of folks in what appeared to be new shoes were breaking them in by stepping in dung.

I love to watch people. I love to see all the diversity in a large crowd. I think it’s hilarious when people step in manure.

Happy birthday USA! You are 227 years old, and you’re still beautiful.

My nine year old daughter and I were watching t.v. when one of those long distance commercials with John Stamos came on the air.

Charlotte – He’s so cute

Me – What? John Stamos? Really? He’s doing a commercial. Have some standards for heaven’s sake. You are young. Set the bar a little higher than someone whose career is over.

Basically, when you are that age, the guys that appeal most to you are the ones you could beat up if need be. I’ve no doubt Charlotte could take John Stamos in a slap fight.

I understand that testosterone is scary to young girls. The fewer hormones a man seems to have, the more attractive he becomes.

I liked Scott Baio when I was ten. I liked him, because I imagined that, if we were ever left alone, he would never try to kiss me or do anything icky.

But, in my own defense, Scott Baio was at the height of his career on Happy Days when I was cutting his picture out of Tiger Beat Magazine. John Stamos’ life in television effectively ended when Full House was over.

Criminy, John even managed to suck worse than the rest of the cast of Full House. Who else could be upstaged by Bob Saget? Saget looked like a comic genius when you stood him next to Stamos.

My husband just pointed out that John “bagged Rebecca Stamos, so he must have something.” My answer to that is: Rebecca is in love. Love doesn’t count in this argument, because it has always made people do irrational things.

What I’m getting at here is that I wish Charlotte would develop a crush on that kid in the Harry Potter movies. He’s just starting a promising career.

I’m not saying it’s all about money. Far from it. For that matter, I’m sure John Stamos has money out the wazoo. He’s even grown his own facial hair – or pasted some on his chin. Either way, I can see he’s trying to change his baby face image.

But, he’s

Contrary to popular belief, the postman does not always ring twice. Sometimes post people only ring once, and other times they knock feebly so that no one could possibly hear them.

This fact almost ruined my marriage. Michael has a door obsession. I was home on Monday when the post woman attempted to deliver the blessed doors he’s been dying to put his hands all over. I have no clue why I didn’t hear her ring or knock. She left a little note that said, “Blah blah blah, I still have your junk. Tough luck.”

Yesterday, Michael asked me to please make sure I got his doors for him one way or another, or he was going to “file the papers”. So, I waited around with my ears pricked up until about three o’clock. At that time, a feeling crept up on me that somehow this stealthy wench had foiled me again. Curses! So, I checked the mail and sure enough, she had dropped off pizza coupons.

Damn this conspiracy. The US postal Service is trying to get me divorced and make me fat! So, I called the post office and asked in my nicest phone voice for them to please keep the package there for me so that I could pick it up today.

I take Charlotte with me and we make it to the post office at about noon today. I give the lady behind the counter my ticket. She leaves and comes back about five minutes later. She mumbles, “Did they attempt to deliver this yesterday?” I said, “They attempted to deliver it Monday. I’m assuming they also attempted to deliver it yesterday. I called yesterday and requested that it be kept here.”

I lose hope. The woman goes into the back and either has lunch or does her nails. I don’t know which. All I know for sure is that she did something to kill some time so that she would be more believable when she told me finally that the package just was not there.

I did not sob openly. I tried to retain my dignity. I stood there with her and tried to work out a suitable meeting place for the package and me. She said this probably wouldn’t have happened except that our regular postman is on vacation.

I may have offered to pay a ransom at this point. It gets a little fuzzy here. The lights seemed bright, and I guess I panicked a little. I vaguely recall screaming, “I’ll see you all in hell, you fascist bastards!”

Anyway, on the way back to the house, I explained to Charlotte how, if we saw a post office truck, we might have to run it off the road.

To make a ridiculously long story a little shorter, I’ll just say that our temporary postal worker almost missed me again. When we got home, I opened the kitchen door and pushed the buttons to open the garage. My plan was to keep an eye out for her while we ate lunch.

Well, she had apparently already tapped on my front door with a blade of grass and was preparing to bolt off into the bushes when the garage door opened. She knew she’d been caught, so she had to finally give me my just reward.

Michael is not divorcing me. Not surprisingly, some of his doors are broken, though.

I am so aggravated about this. For heavens sake, lady, ring the bell. You don’t need to ring it twice, but by all means, ring it once. A marriage could be on the line.

We seem to finally be rid of the ants. They must have just gotten bored with my cooking and moved away.

Unfortunately, they have been replaced by gnats. The gnats fly around my face and attempt to drink from my eyeballs. Why is that? I have a glass of water sitting right in front of me, but they seem to prefer eyeball juices.

I have squished a countless number of them on my monitor screen. I need to clean it. It’s covered in gnat guts. But, it doesn’t matter how many of them I kill – they just keep coming.

This post is a cry for help. If you see any ants that look unfamiliar to you and you suspect they are not from your area, please send them back home to me.

Tell them I’ll cook whatever they want. Tell them I’m sorry for trying to poison them. Let them know that I need them now more than ever to help me get rid of these eyeball eating gnats.

Geez, maybe this is a sign of some sort? Maybe next we’ll have locusts, or our filtered water will turn to blood. Who knows?

All I can think of right now is how much I want my ants back.