Dear Greeting Cards,

I feel like you’ve gotten the shaft in recent years. It’s not just you, so don’t feel ashamed, it’s all hand-written correspondence. Texting and emailing became convenient and trendy and it’s like you never really existed unless grandparents are sending notes or birthday cards.

But why should staying in touch be convenient?

Family and friendship should be something we keep maintained; we should take the time to sit and consider how we feel and write it out carefully. It means something when pen hits paper and it means something more to read what was written after that collision.

When you arrive in my mailbox, usually my grandmother has sent you to me, I feel this overwhelming sense of love. She took the time to write out thoughtful lines for me. It’s not like she copied and pasted the same sentiment to all her grandchildren. No, each grandchild got a note to cherish forever, those words are for me and me alone.

Writing in you for friends makes me suddenly more connected to them than the constant texting back and forth that we play at during the day.  And that feeling is something I cherish when I’m so far removed from my circle of friends at the moment.

Thank you, Greeting Cards, for making me work towards friendship and never letting me settle into convenience.

Oh and, thank you for the poorly written poems you sometimes hide inside of you.  Those always make me smile.

Your friend,


Dear Lady Waiting for a Table

There’s no need to call me names.

Notice, if you will, my recently bitten nails – how raw and ragged they appear – and you’ll see that this job gives me plenty of stress everyday before your name calling. So, you must realize l, I’m not withholding a table from you out of spite, I don’t even know you. It stresses me out not being able to have tables ready for their respective reservations. I want everyone to have time to eat and enjoy their meals.

But I can only do so much in a restaurant of this size. And I won’t kick a slower table to the curb they have just as much of a right to a table to a table as you do.

And with a little grace and patience, I’d be happy to do everything in my power to make you happy once you are seated. Like the two women who had a longer wait than you but were gracious in waiting and enjoyed a glass of wine and each other’s company. Those women were given a cheese plate, a sweet treat at the end of the meal, and a glass of sparkling wine when they made it to their table. And that’s all because of attitude. I’ve said once and I’ll say it again: be nice to people in the service industry and your life will be a happier one.

And yes, Lady, I heard you call me a bitch on the way out of the restaurant.

Calm down,

Dear Broadway,

I write this on the way home from seeing Bullets Over Broadway with my roommate and I must apologize with you in advance if I gush…

If … I should say “for when I gush”…

You bring me to new worlds. And do it while tapping out a tune and belting out the high note. There’s no other place I know of that I find myself sitting in complete awe of what’s happening in front of me.

There’s also no other place I’d rather see my writing someday.

I know people who have friends who are in ensemble of your shows – is that enough of a connection for me to get my shows on stage as well? I already know the answer, there’s no need to laugh.

You wouldn’t laugh at me (or worse, my writing), would you?

No you’re better than that. You’re the place where dreams simultaneously are made of and make you. You wouldn’t crush my dreams because you embrace all possibilities: love, laughters, defiance, and all other acts that cause tears to be shed. You may never embrace my art but you’ll also never mock it, right? I hope that’s right. I can live with never seeing my show under your lights but I can’t live with you taking my show and ripping it to shreds.

But after a night like tonight, I’m filled with hope that you’ll receive me well someday. I attribute this feeling to the after glow of post-show glee but it’s a feeling that drives me nonetheless.

Keep on motivating and wondering me,

Dear Google (please hire me),

This is unconventional, I know, but I’m slightly desperate for a job that doesn’t leave me asking, “Two for dinner?” over and over again while being berated by people (who think they deserve tables).

In short, I’m looking for a more fulfilling way to spend my time and earn my living.

And sure, most people wouldn’t consider administrative assistant a step up from where I am now, but I’m not most people.  In fact, I know I’d rock the socks off of any administrative assistant position out there but would excel in a more creative atmosphere, like you are famous for having. This may sound odd but I enjoy office work – filing fulfills some sort of OCD urge to keep everything in its place. I like the constant change and requirements of an admin job; that there will be something needed from me everyday. There is also the problem-solving portion of this job which makes me quite happy because I’m happy finding solutions that make a day easier for someone else.

By the time this post goes up, you’ll have my information amidst a virtual-stack of other applications. What can set me apart? I mean, there are plenty of people out there that have held many similar jobs and feel they are the perfect fit for your company.  Seriously, you’re Google, I’m pretty sure your application pool is in the thousands and nearly all are more impressive in the resume front than I.  What would make you sit back and think: “Wow, this girl is pretty stellar.  We should hire her.”  I don’t think listing off my skills, the same skills you’ll see on all those other applications, will set me apart – in this day and age it’s not all that impressive to be an accomplished typist or able to use Excel; neither will listing my accomplishments, unless it was something really impressive and not just things I’m trying to pass off as impressive:  “Successfully headed a project used to assist the improvement of the company.” How many times have you read a generic statement like that and felt yourself nod off a little?  I wish my accomplishments listed as follows:

  • Can recite “Moby Dick” in Latin to the tune of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”
  • Elected President of the Gingers 2006-2010.
  • Led a space expedition to Mars that resulted in the first USA colony taking root.
  • Jumps tall buildings with ease.

Got your attention, didn’t I? I’d be rather proud of a list like that. Sadly the accomplishments that I list in my actual resume won’t be exciting.  They won’t even have a tinge of intrigue.  But, hey, maybe something about my resume will stand out to you and you’ll think, “Yes, let’s give this underwhelming girl a job.”

Well, here I am, in the middle of your applicant pool, screaming like an ignored toddler with a sugar high, trying to get your attention.  Throw this job my way, Google, and you will be impressed – I won’t let you be anything but that.

Please hire me,


Dear Man with Flowers,

That was the biggest bouquet I’ve every seen.

And beautiful too!

It was one of those arrays that you imagine a little girl picking if all flowers grew in the same field: sunflowers, yellow roses, daisies.  Seriously it was impressive. And I could tell you picked them out yourself. They didn’t have the refinement of someone that arranged flowers professionally and that simply added to your charm.

I must admit, I hoped you were bringing the bouquet to a mother or a grandmother (those were girlish dreams) but I’m pretty sure a bouquet like that was going to the girl or boy you love. You simply don’t make a beautiful bouquet for anything but love.

That person of yours is lucky.

Those flowers are beautiful but your love is more apparent and beautiful. It’s rare to find someone willing to take the time to buy flowers for their other person. You’re a rarity, sir.

Pick out some flowers for me,


Dear Professor,

We’ve never met, but I always imagined you whenever I thought of the dusty classrooms of higher education. In essence you are the mixture of every movie professor or teacher that has struck my fancy: a little Dead Poet’s Society, and Mr. Feeney, mixed with the teacher from White Squall and Bam! You were created in my mind’s eye.  Yes, you were always there amongst ivy-covered buildings and jackets with elbow pads.

I apologize if I stared but I had never expected to see you outside of my mind’s academia, let alone on the 2 Express at 11:53 at night.

Yet, there you were, the professor of my dreams, grading papers in those expensive leather shoes only lawyers and professors wear (perhaps you’re a law professor?). You had headphones in and every few minutes you’d completely jam out thinking no one else was watching (this action solidified your status as coolest professor).  I like to imagine that you were listening to something completely unexpected, Kanye? Maybe even a little Eminem? And since you are the professor straight out of my educational dreaming, perhaps you were listening to something as bold as “Straight Outta Compton.” Eh, a girl can dream.

Honestly, Professor, you might be the coolest guy on the planet with your weird sense of college swagger and old man charm.  I’ll hopefully see you doing some grading on another subway at another time.  If not, you’ll always be grading papers and inspiring students within the classrooms of my mind.

It was nice to finally stare at you.

Can I enroll in your class?