Open Letters

Dear Barbie,

The "wrapping paper" I purchased recently at Toys "R" Us bearing your likeness was surprisingly substandard.  It tore when I sneezed near it.  Once a present was wrapped, the gift was clearly visible through your sparkling ball gown.  While I'm sure it meets opacity and durability standards for eastern European toilet paper, calling this substance "wrapping paper" is both misleading and ironic.  As I know you have a great deal of integrity, I'm sure you will be issuing a public apology in prominent national newspapers posthaste.

Sincerely,


Dear Dolce & Gabbana:

If I wanted my husband to smell like Matthew McConaughey, I would have him mow the lawn three times and smoke a bong.  I certainly would not purchase your cologne, especially after seeing your commercial 14 times in two hours (by actual count).

Cordially,


Dear Person Who Wrote the Song "Christmas Shoes":

I get it.  Christmas is very commercial and materialistic, and we should all feel grateful for what we have.  But this song is not the way to accomplish that.  Making me vomit on my own sympathy for some mythical child who manages to find his way (alone) to a major mall right before Christmas to buy shoes for his bed-ridden mother so she can look good when she dies is not the way to make me feel grateful for what I have.  It's like those annoying Facebook statuses like, "Post this if you want to help fuzzy bunnies not get run over by snowplows.  93% of people won't have the courage to post this, will you be one of the 7% who care?"  Really?  If you care, go outside, pick up the damn fuzzy bunny, and move it out of the way of the snowplow, because the fuzzy bunny isn't inside reading Facebook and nodding to itself self-righteously.  But I digress.

Whoever you are, if I meet you in public, I will beat you roundly about the head and shoulders with MY shoes.

With great affection,

Deb

See you all in 2011!