Letters Letters Letters

Dear People Who Are Looking At Our House,

Buy our house.  Please?  Please buy our house. 

All the neighbors are being quiet.  Nice of them.  Of course, I'll egg their house if they aren't, but in general, everyone is behaving themselves.  Like they do, you know, until you buy the house, move in and find that they blast their oldies rock station over the sound their lawnmower and/or bitch at you the first day you're moving in because you parked in front of the mailbox.  Because the moving truck was in your driveway.  And it was a Sunday.  And you're right that I could block the mailman.  Who delivers on a Sunday.  In an alternate universe. Take a chill pill, Terry, fergodsake.  

Anyhoo, where were we?  Oh Yes!  Buy our house.  Please?  Please buy our house.

I am Tired of Making the Bed,

Salome

Dear Constipation,

Ohhh my gosh you are killing me.  KILLING ME.  You will be the death of me.  In a relatively easy early pregnancy, the fact that I cannot go to the bathroom is making me want to lie down on the floor and cry.  Metamucil (tastes like Tang!) doesn't seem to work.  The Feast, which I once memorably blogged about, also doesn't work.  Nothing works.  I've been warned not to strain, for fear of the grapes, but it is hard not to!  When you finally lose your patience after 5 straight days of ABSOLUTELY NO ACTION HAPPENING and you feel like you've eaten two beachballs for dinner when in reality you ate the spiciest thing you could find in the hopes of manufacturing Montezuma's revenge, sometimes you have to just sit there and strain and make all kinds of Cinemax noises and finally pass something that looks like an inch of concrete.   And it makes your whole day.

Chronically Over-sharing,

Salome

Dear Library Books,

Please take yourselves back, you weren't any good.

Disdainfully,

Salome