To My Dachshunds: We’re moving to Florida today. Although your brains are the size of walnuts, I have to give you credit for the incredible intelligence you’ve shown in choosing to move with me. Trust me, Benadryl will help you sleep comfortably during the drive to St. Augustine. And for your future entertainment, the new invisible fence is configured so that the UPS guy will have to get by you to reach the front porch.
To L’Donna in the fancy fuschia Cadillac: Your car is lovely, and I’m envious of the vanity plate with your name on it, but I feel compelled to tell you that driving 80 miles per hour on I-75 while scratching your braids with those 3” nails and talking on the cell phone leaves no hands on the steering wheel.
To My Children: I love you. I stayed married to your dad when I knew he was cheating on me because I didn’t want to break up your home. In the years since the divorce, I’ve tried to keep as many things in your life the same as always. But as much as I try, I can’t live in your father’s path. I’m afraid for my health if I don’t get out of his orbit. It breaks my heart that you’ve chosen to live with him, but I understand that you want to avoid change. All you need to know is that the day you call and tell me you want to come live with me, I’ll be in the car on my way to get you.
To the Rednecks in the jacked-up F-350: Today’s race is at the Atlanta Motor Speedway in Hampton, not on I-75.
To the Woman in the Hyundai Santa Fe: Violently yanking your steering wheel while trying to change lanes at 90 miles per hour is what’s causing your SUV to careen onto two wheels. Ease into those lane changes, sweetie, and you won’t flip that damn piece of aluminum.
To the Woman at the Chick-Fil-A- in Tifton: Asking for five orders of bacon at a crowded fast food restaurant is not going to win you any friends. And saying to the sweet teenager waiting on you, “I want five orders of bacon, and don’t interrupt me until I finish giving you my order,” made me want to yank all the hairs off of your head. Here’s the problem: Chick-Fil-A doesn’t have “orders of bacon” on its menu. They cook bacon for their Club Sandwiches. Buy five sandwiches and take the bacon out of them if you must have bacon. You want only bacon? Marry a pig. Chick-Fil-A doesn’t have someone in the back cooking bacon just for some nitwit on the Atkins Diet.
To the Teenager Who Ran His Car off I-10 into a Swamp: Can you please talk to the lady in the Hyundai? She’s about to do what you just did.
To My Ex-Husband: I kind of understand your wanting a younger, tighter, stupider woman. She makes you look smarter and wealthier. I also kind of understand your hiding money in Costa Rica so that you don’t have to pay me the settlement I deserve. But here’s what I don’t understand: you got what you wanted, so why can’t you leave me alone now? Why do you torture and harass me more than two years after the divorce was final? You remind me of the woman in Chick-Fil-A today, someone with irrational and unreasonable ideas of how other people should accommodate you. Here’s the deal, you stupid man: I have bacon. And it’s good bacon. But you can’t have it, not at any price. It’s going to someone who wants the whole club sandwich, someone who will appreciate the value of a combo meal. Someone who doesn’t ask for the bacon in exchange for a little sausage.
To the Dachshunds: I told the UPS guy you can be bought with bacon.
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