Dear Heifer International:

I am going to burn in hell for this, I know. I know that. You guys are my number one favorite charity. You should hear what I say about charities I don’t like. In fact, I’m going to donate a flock of chicks right now, before I write any further.
There. Chicks accomplished. Now, here’s my beef (though ironically I’ve never been flush enough to donate an entire cow): It’s that e-mail you sent me just before International Women’s Day.
The e-mail invited me to read Heifer’s statement on Gender Equity. But then you added this: “You’ll truly know more about gender equity in Heifer’s work and why it’s not a feminist perspective or a Western imposed approach.”
Whoa there. Why not just tell me to take my chicks and shove ’em? Or perhaps your e-mail director accidentally clicked “send” before sorting out Western women who don’t belong to Focus on the Family. I e-mailed you right back, but you never answered. So I’ll try again here.

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Posted on April 3, 2007

Dear Person Who Let Their Dog Defecate Near The Southeast Corner Of 58th And Kimbark:

You don’t know me, of course. Apparently there is a physical law which repels dog owners from anyone who has had contact with their dog’s feces. In other words, you have never met anyone who stepped in your dog’s shit. Otherwise you could not possibly continue leaving said dog shit laying around, because one of us would have long since put you into a persistent vegetative state. That would make it difficult to walk your dog on other people’s property in order to defecate.
This same physical law repels all dog shit from the feet of dog owners. Here is the logical proof: It’s impossible for a non-dog owner to avoid stepping in dog shit. We’ve all done it. And any human being, having stepped in dog shit, would never impose that experience on others. Ipso facto, dog owners are obviously impervious to stepping in dog shit. You, specifically, have never stepped in dog shit.

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Posted on March 20, 2007

Dear People Who Normally Park in the 5300 to 5500 Blocks of S. Shore Drive:

Where the hell did you go?
About half of you vanished February 13, the day of the big snowstorm. You didn’t all leave for Cancun or Disney World right before they shut down the airports. So the question remains: Where were you, or more specifically, where were your cars?

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Posted on March 6, 2007

Dear Macy’s:

It’s been two months, and only now am I beginning to deal with the horrific experience of Christmas at the State Street Macy’s, aka Marshall Field’s. If I had a therapist, he or she would be pleased with my progress. I don’t have one, so this letter will be my therapy.
Now, it is not entirely your fault that the Walnut Room sucks. And suck it does, so royally that the outrageous prices should include one of those minor titles frequently sold off by impoverished British aristocrats to fund rehab for themselves or the ancient family manor. Had I been charged $6.50 for a small glass of eggnog but left the Walnut Room a duchess, I might not complain.
Ever has it been so, and thus, Marshall Field’s must take its share of the considerable blame. However, when you made the churlish decision to erase the Field name from Chicago entirely, I had hoped some small good might still come from your corporate ownership. Specifically, I hoped the Walnut Room would raise its standards slightly higher than a combination Dunkin’ Donuts/Kentucky Fried Chicken. But no.

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Posted on February 27, 2007

Dear Lin Brehmer:

When I get up, I sit for a moment on the side of the bed, I stare at the floor, and I say, “Fuck.” Every morning. Every single morning. Doesn’t matter how great a day might theoretically lay ahead. That’s what I say, and that’s how I feel. I have one variation: Sometimes I say “Oh” first.
I wonder if it’s any better for you, getting up at a time which is really very late at night and doesn’t count as morning at all. I’m going to bet it’s not – you still have to haul yourself out of bed like anyone else, and Daylight Savings Time would have to be quadrupled before it made a dent in your morning horizon.
Yes, morning is a very bleak time for me. The last thing I want to hear before breakfast is something like “I Will Follow You Into The Dark” by Death Cab for Cutie, which you played again today. I mean, have you listened to this yourself? “Love of mine, some day you will die/But I’ll be close behind to follow you into the dark.” And that’s the upbeat part.

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Posted on February 19, 2007