To whom it may concern, I am grumpy

Dear Rogers Mobility guy,

While I appreciate that it wasn't the dinner hour when you called to offer me an amazing deal on a phone that can take pictures, surf the web and play all my favourite music, I am still not interested. I already own a digital camera, a computer, and an MP3 player to do these things for me. I also own a cell phone that I'm very happy with. And though I can tell that you think that it's really important that I sign up for a plan that will allow me unlimited talk, text and surfing on this really neato phone for only a gajillion dollars a month, please believe me (or at least pretend to believe me) when I tell you that I don't even have my cell phone turned on most of the time and only use it to let my babysitter know when I'm running late, or to order pizza from my car on the way home from work on Thursdays, and don't keep trying to sell the damn thing to me anyway. That's how people get hung up on.

Sincerely,

Alison

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Dear shuffle function on my MP3 player,

Lining up Billy Idol's "Hot in the City", Jane Siberry's "Mimi on the Beach" and Don Henley's "Boys of Summer" one after the other during the 10-minute walk from my office to the church where I park my car in a minus-freaking-twenty-degree wind chill is just adding insult to injury. Seriously, cut it out.

Cheers,

Alison

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Dear 1985,

I'd like my boobs back. You know, the perky ones that I had before I birthed and breastfed two babies? Yeah, those ones. I really miss them. I'm tired of the ones I have now -- they sometimes get caught in the waistband of my jeans if I forget to tuck my tee shirt in when I go bra-less around the house. Oh, and if you see my waistline around there anywhere, I'd like that back too.

Thanks,

Alison

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Dear National Arts Centre subscription sales lady,

Just because I took Leah once to see the Nutcracker in 2005, doesn't mean that I am a ballet fanatic who will shell out big bucks to see ballet on a regular basis. Quit. Calling. Me.

Disgruntledly,

Alison

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Dear winter,

You suck.

Fondly,

Alison

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Dear Zellers,

I realize that it isn't your fault that the strap on Rachel's snow boot broke today. They are hand-me-downs from her big sister and have seen hard use. But it's January. In Ottawa. I expect to be able to buy a pair of snow boots for my kid in January in Ottawa. But what did I find when I went to your store this evening? Rain boots and splash pants. Rain boots and freaking splash pants. Perhaps you remember last Easter, when we still had 3 feet of snow on the ground? This shit might fly down in South Carolina, but we won't be needing the rain boots and splash pants around here until at least freaking April, and it was only through sheer dumb luck that we found one pair of size 2 snow boots in a clearance bin. Seriously. Give your head a shake. It's winter, people.

Yours in Christ,

Alison

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Dear snowplow driver,

I don't know how, or when, but someday I am going to find out where you live and then dump 6582 cubic metres of snow in your driveway.

Cordially,

Alison

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Dear Carp Ridge deer,

Leave my cedar hedge alone, or I'll sic the evil ninja assassin cat on you. I mean it.

Sincerely,

The mean lady who throws tennis balls at you while you are eating



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