Dear Man Who Came Running After Me in the Parking Lot,

Thank you.

Actually, I had just unloaded two bags into the backseat of my car and was thinking, "Wasn't there a third bag?" when I heard you behind me, yelling, "Woman in the blue shirt!"

I turned and watched you coming toward me, but it still took a long moment for me to realize I was the woman in the blue shirt.

I'm sorry. Lately, my mind is always somewhere else.

But then you came closer, panting, and I realized that you were carrying my third bag, which contained a two-liter bottle of Diet Pepsi and a two-liter bottle of Diet Sierra Mist. I'm always slightly embarrassed when I'm confronted with the evidence of my diet soda addiction (cans, bottles, Big Gulp cups with massive red straws), and for a moment I actually considered saying that it wasn't my bag. But that's silly, because it was.

"You have got to be the fastest person I could possibly chase through a parking lot!" you said, still catching your breath. I am horrible at guessing ages, but I think you would qualify for a senior discount, and it was quite impressive to think that you had followed me all the way out the store, across the parking lot, and through the maze of parked cars, just to hand me what a well-meaning friend has termed "liquid cancer."

I felt pretty bad, seeing how out of breath you were, because the truth is that I am not a fast person at all. Actually, I am slow. Ask my husband, or read this blog post. Or ask my former co-worker, who told me, after seven years as colleagues, that he "didn't know I could run."

"Thank you! That is so... wonderful," I told you. And it was. Just when I was starting to think that everyone in my city was a pothead gang-banging tagger with an obsence moniker, someone went and proved me wrong.

I wondered what the appropriate etiquette was for this situation. A profuse handshake? A cash reward? Split the profits? (No, you take the Sierra Mist... I insist.)

I settled with, "I really apprecate it," and you said, "No problem," and walked away, moving very slowly.

Anyway, you know that part. What you don't know is that I've decided to pay it forward. I am going to become, any day now, the sort of person who observes things carefully and steps in like a knight in shining armor (or a rather slow-walking woman in handmade Greek sandals) to save the day.

Sincerely,

A Diet Soda Junkie
(aka, Woman in the Blue Shirt)

Dear Mosquito Hawk who has been in my shower since Tuesday,

I thought we had an agreement.

I thought from the way we eyed each other warily on Tuesday morning, the sun only a smudged blur of light outside the window, that we understood each other.

It was a two-part agreement, a contract where each party had a specific responsibility. My responsibility was to let you live. Your responsibility was to come no closer.

As it has been explained to me by very intelligent, well-meaning, all-living-things loving people, mosquito hawks are actually good pests to have around. They kill mosquitoes, thereby protecting me from a host of diseases, such as West Nile virus, malaria, and bubonic plague. (I'm iffy on the last one.) Recently, I have become aware that I am more of a target for mosquitoes than others. Exhibit A: Will and I spent fifteen minutes in the backyard last Saturday night. He emerged unscathed. I had twenty-four bites of varying sizes (pinprick to BB) on my legs. Therefore, my second thought upon seeing you against the far end of the shower, a winged horror against the white tile, was that I would let you live. I could adapt to this new set of circumstances. We could live together, you killing mosquitoes and me not killing you.

And then, you got greedy.

For no reason at all, you left your spot on the wall and took a dizzying flight, while I screamed, clutching a loofah close to my body. You flapped dangerously near to my face, and this was where I am sorry to say we had to part ways.

I would like you to know that I still hold your species in high respect.

Sincerely,

The Girl Who Showers Alone

Dear Very Cute Bagel Shop,

I love this place.

I could spend way too much time here. And money.

The funky topiary is neat. The hot pastrami bagel is fantastic.

But, a small suggestion?

This place needs a public restroom. If you want, I would be happy to conduct a small focus group on the issue.

I could poll your customers, for example.

"Check all that apply:

____I like to wash my hands before I eat.

____I like to check my teeth in the mirror after I eat and before I head into my meeting.

____I have children, and sometimes children need to use the bathroom on short notice.

____I would like to be able to order from your gourmet coffee menu and not have to rush out quickly to use the bathroom at the Togo's next door, risking adverse looks from the harrassed-looking Togo's employees.

____ I would be more inclined to visit in the future if I knew there was a public restroom available."

I think that about covers it.

Sincerely,

Person About to Rush Next Door to Togo's

Dear Mystery Liquid on the Floor of the Women’s Restroom in this Fine Establishment,

We’ve met before.

Last week, in fact, when I was passing through the area and set my bag into a puddle of you that was somehow temporarily obscured by the flickering fluorescent light. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize it at the time, and it wasn’t until I had hoisted the bag onto my shoulder and found that the side of my blouse (dry-clean only, if you must know) was damp, that I was able to identify the culprit.

It was you.

Sometimes you are not wet, but sticky.

Sometimes you are dry, with muddy footprints.

But mostly you are slick, and I have to negotiate each step carefully, hiking up the hems of my dress slacks.

This is curious, because the hallway outside the door is dry. The line at the counter, full of angsty patrons, is dry. Outside, on the concrete walkway and in the asphalt parking lot, it is dry.

In fact, it has not rained here for weeks, and it’s possible that it won’t rain again for months.

This leaves only a few possibilities for your origin.

But I’m going to go with bioterrorism, since it is at least slightly less icky.
 

Regards,

Girl Who Needs Galoshes

Dear Coward(s),

You did not win.

Sincerely,

Me (and the rest of America)

Dear Man Eating a Carrot,

It's kind of refreshing, in a way, to see someone eating an actual carrot -- ten inches easily, unpeeled, with a literal clump of green foliage hanging from the top.

Mostly when I see people eating carrots, they are eating them from little plastic baggies, where they can float around in a bit of moisture. They are sliced or whittled and resemble chubby baby toes.

This is what I do, at least. I don't like to be caught away from home for an extended period of time without a little baggie of carrots.

Someone told me once that eating so many carrots would cause my fingernails and the whites of my eyes to turn orange. I found this relatively easy to dismiss, and have filed it away under Bad Advice I Have Received, Completely Unsolicited.

The state of your carrot causes me to wonder if there is a garden in your backyard, and if on the way out the door each morning, you stop and pluck a carrot from a neatly tilled row.

And to this, I say, Eat on, Carrot Man. Eat on.

Sincerely,

Your Kindred Spirit

Dear Girl with the Ponytail,

You remind me very much of me, fifteen years ago.

Except for the sweats. I wouldn't have worn sweat pants in public unless there was some kind of natural catastrophe (power outage, broken washing machine, break-up with boyfriend). And even then I wouldn't have worn the kind of sweat pants with writing across the seat -- because I wouldn't have owned anything like that.

But otherwise... you remind me of me.

Sincerely,

Woman Who Still Wears Hair in a Ponytail