The Letter

I think we’ve all heard that old advice about writing letters that express our deepest feelings, only to dispose of the letters without actually sending them. It’s supposed to be a great way to vent, like the time my friend wrote a three-page missive to her husband about his peculiar habits involving dirty socks.

Now, I adore my friend and her husband, so I’m not going to go into any further details  about what he does in his alone-time with his socks or why it is that they are always dirty. Let’s just say that my friend should have actually disposed of the letter rather than just hiding it, because they were both baffled when he discovered it and read it nearly three years after she penned it.

At any rate, I recently wrote a similar letter after a bad day at work. I really blew off a lot of steam and got rid of some extreme anger as I pounded away at the keys, and I just couldn’t force myself to hit the delete key when I was done.

So, I changed a few detail to…ah… protect the innocent. Yeah, that’s it. I’m protecting an innocent delivery man who really pissed me off.

Or maybe I’m just protecting myself in case any of my supervisors happen to subscribe to my blog.

Either way, here’s the letter I wrote and will never ever send.

Dear ——,

As requested by my employer, I am contacting you in regards to the unfortunate conversation that took place between you and me at my place of employment this past Friday.

I apologize for the harsh words I spoke in reply to your repeated questions regarding our company policies as well as my level of competence. I really should have been more clear in my own repeated description of myself as “low man on the totem pole” and “bottom of the food chain” as I continuously suggested that you slow your tirade long enough for me to contact a supervisor who could have answered your questions before things spiraled out of control.

In my defense, my suggestion that followed was really a recommendation rather than a direct order or a personal request.

On a personal note, yes, I do realize that as a woman I do not possess testicles, and therefore it would not be possible for you to comply with my suggestion that you “suck my balls.” Again, it was really more of a general suggestion than a serious request. Given the rapidly escalating tension of our conversation, I assumed that you would understand that I spoke more from an emotional standpoint than one based on any kind of anatomical accuracy.

Also on a personal note, I would like to clarify that I do not know your mother, and my suggestion of an unnatural physical relationship between the two of you was totally out of line. As per my employer’s request, I would like to offer my most heartfelt apology for my use of the term that implied such a relationship. I am sure your mother is a fine and upstanding woman whose only real mistake was not raising you to be a better human being.

Unfortunately, I no longer fully remember the exact adjectives I used leading up to my use of that particularly offensive choice of compound words. Therefore, I am unable to apologize for each specific one on its own. Suffice it to say that, as a writer, I am in full possession of an extensive vocabulary, and I realize that I may have crossed a line.

I should also probably say I’m sorry for those adjectives that I further used to describe what I assumed must be the actual size of your penis. Having never seen your penis—and having no desire to do so—I can only guess that your obvious dislike of and unpleasant attitude toward women must be due to your having a phenomenally small dick that makes you act like a big one.

Please be assured that you and your tiny dick have my deepest sympathies for your struggles.

In the future, I sincerely hope that your employer makes an effort to assign you to clients whose employees are predominantly male. Under those conditions, your chauvinistic attitude and tendency to describe woman as female members of the canine species might be more acceptable. At the very least, those conditions should help you and your delicate sensitivities avoid being verbally assaulted by women like me with requests that you perform anatomically impossible acts.

In conclusion, I would like to take one final opportunity to express my most heartfelt regrets that the incident in question took place at my place of employment.

Best regards to you, your mother, and your tiny dick.


No More Coffee Spoons

I spent most of yesterday packing.  No, I haven’t heard yet whether or not my offer on the little house has been accepted, but I might as well do something productive with my time.  And it feels good to be moving towards something rather than sitting around wallowing in self-pity.  I’ve cried enough tears for a lifetime, and I’m done with that part of the process.

For now, anyway.

I wrapped and packed most of my breakables.  Too many knickknacks and tschotskes.   Too much stuff.  Grandma’s Depression Glass.  Aunt Marian’s Norman Rockwell figurines.  Aunt Ida’s thimbles.  Aunt Verna’s tiny porcelain shoes.   Mom’s Monet prints.

None of this is mine.

I started looking around.  Really looking.

The rustic log-style bedroom set was chosen by my husband.  The cherry dining room furniture belonged to my aunts.  I made the curtains from fabric given to me by my mother-in-law to go with furniture that I didn’t pick out.

None of this is mine.

I went to a job interview yesterday in a blouse given to me by my sister.  When I got home, I used my mother-in-law’s meatloaf recipe to make dinner.  With venison from a deer shot by my husband.  That’s right, I cooked Bambi.  And I made him taste good.

I used to march in front of an animal research facility, waving a protest sign for animal rights.  Now I am married to a hunter and I cook wild animals.  Who the hell am I?

None of this is mine.

My daughter asked me if I plan on changing my name after the divorce.  I honestly hadn’t thought about it.  I can’t go back to my maiden name; Amy Hyde doesn’t exist anymore.  She was young and naïve and didn’t always have a lot of common sense when it came to putting foundations under the castles she built in the air.  She trusted people too easily and she believed in Happily Ever After.

One of my old friends just told me “I wanna see the Amy that I used to know.”  Well, she’s gone.  She grew up.

The person I have become doesn’t believe in Happily Ever After.  She rolls her eyes when she hears people spout nonsense like “The heart wants what the heart wants!”  She paints her walls in a sensible shade of eggshell and buys a common-sense brown Berber for the entire house.  She doesn’t even own a pair of heels because flats just make more sense.

None of this is mine.

I always hated it when I heard people talk about “finding themselves”.  It seemed so ridiculously self-indulgent.  While others around me babbled about taking time to find themselves, I laughed behind their backs and got on with living my life.   Get a job, get married, feed the kids.  Get up in the morning, go to bed at night, measure out life in coffee spoons.  Day by day.

None of this is mine.

I don’t know how to decorate my new house.  I have no idea what my style is.  I don’t know what I want or what I like.  Rustic? Classic?  Country?  No clue.

When –not if – I start dating again, I don’t know where to begin.  What do I find attractive in a man?  What’s my “type”?

Life has given me the cleanest of clean slates.  I have an opportunity to “find myself” in ways I never could as a married woman.  I have choices.  And I am choosing to see this as a chance for my new life, not a reason to give up.  I am choosing not to be angry anymore.

This is all mine.