Dear Jay McCarroll:
I love that one skirt in your Project Runway Season 1 collection. So patchwork-zen, blue-green glory. Should I get this (fingers crossed) apartment, it's the inspiration for my living room. This is geeky, but I really like fabric and paint swatches so it's just heaven to me. Rock on, sir.
Dear mail guy at work:
You are very short. Your hair is decidedly slicked-down. But very pleasant. I always say hi to you in the halls with my head cocked to one side bemused by the combination.
Dear skinny blonde woman with the eclectic wardrobe that always looks work-appropriate:
I really dig your clothes. I'm glad you work in my work 'hood and manage to look like you have some spunk. Also you look like my friend from high school. She was a little kooky.
Dear Pilates Instructor:
I am going to miss your classes since I cancelled my gym membership. I thought about keeping it, just for you. But I then remembered that you teach other places too and I'll track you down that way. Seriously, your classes make me feel like a Gazelle. In a long and lean way, not in a "I'll start walking on all fours" way.
Dear lady who is always working at Peking Garden:
I love that you asked me once "that's it?" when I ordered food without the DK present. I don't come in super often, but you've started to pretend to recognize the two of us together, which makes me feel fuzzy inside. Also, the general tso's chicken does that too. Nice and spicy. No messing around with too much broccoli filler. Just sweet, sweet chicken filler.
Dear friendly cafeteria worker who makes the killer wraps:
You rock. Seriously. "good sandwich-maker" is something to aspire to. Also I tend to flush when you call me "baby" while I ask for hot peppers. Makes it seem so natural to have so much hot peppers on a sandwich. You're a nice lady.
Dear the ONLY nice lady at Comcast I have ever spoken to:
You make me want to maybe not think about getting "the dish", but then I think about all your colleagues and I giggle about how I'm going to maybe get "the dish".
Dear random older gay gentleman who asked me to dance in the middle of Sonoma last night:
You were a good dancer and your partner seems very nice, though confused how we knew each other. I understand you wanting to help your buddy Carlos score some ladies, but the gay bbf angle doesn't work on us. Three taken-ish women sipping white wine on an idle Tuesday would much rather just talk to you, because you were drinking the same wine and it would be easy-- don't you see?
Dear Amos Lee:
please please please please please please please come to DC. I saw that you were playing in Vienna, and thought, "you know? I'd TOTALLY go to Virginia to see him" but then I realized it was Austria. And I pouted. Please sing me the phone book any day of the week and twice on Sundays.