Dear Mr. Sandman,
Since you won’t see me anymore, I’ve decided to write. I know you may not read this, but I really need to tell you some things, and this seemed to be the only way to get through. First of all, please know that I miss you. I miss you terribly. I miss the way you make me feel. Really, it’s not my intention to write you a long sappy letter. I know that makes me look needy, so maybe I will just write this and then never send it. But if one sleepless night at 2:33 I decide I must send this your way, I hope that you take the time to read it. I took you for granted, and that for that I can only say again how sorry I am.

I know now that we are on much more than just “a break.” I get that. I’m sorry I ever joked about it. I’m sorry if I made you feel “less than” with my jests about how “I can survive” and how “I will make it through without you.” I’m sorry if that’s what led you to leaving. Even in my 20’s when I said that I could pull all-nighters and be fine, please understand it was the voice of unexperienced youth talking. I had no idea what I was saying. If you’re still holding a grudge and were just waiting until the time was right to get back at me, please know that my lesson is learned. You win. Whatever you need me to do in order to see you again, I will do it.

Again, I don’t mean to come across “needy.” I know that’s such an unattractive quality. I just need for you to know how serious I am. I’m at my wits’ end without you and have no idea how to get you back.
Truly, I can’t concentrate without you. Just the other day, I put The Kid’s onesie on backwards but didn’t notice it until two hours later. At least six times a day, I walk into the kitchen and can’t remember why I’ve gone in there in the first place.  Last week, all day Tuesday, I thought it was Wednesday. Soon, I’m afraid I’ll start writing odd letters to fictional characters.

So you see, I need you in my life! I simply can’t function without you! I am willing to take full responsibility for our break-up. Clearly, the fault is MINE entirely. It’s all just a stupid misunderstanding. PLEASE COME BACK!

I promise I’ll be good.

I won’t take you for granted ever again.

Please. just let me know what I can do to get back together with you!

Day Dreaming of You,

The Non-Sleeping Mother of a Four-Month-Old

‘Tis the Season to be Jolly because Colin Firth Smiled at Me—Seriously 

It’s true.  The holiday season is here and it’s in full swing.  People are spreading their own brand of Christmas Cheer by pepper-spraying their neighbors and punching fellow shoppers in the face for the latest X-Box.  (The “Pepper Spray Incident” actually happened in our neighborhood.  I’m glad I’m too lazy to get up on Black Friday.)  ‘Tis the Season to be Jolly, right? Some days I wonder where all the jolly has gone?  I’d just like a smile.  From someone.  Anyone.  A little holiday cheer to remind me of the good inside.  That’s when I remember The Smile to eclipse all smiles.  That’s when I recall the day Colin Firth smiled at me—seriously.   

One of the benefits to living in Los Angeles, besides yoga and sushi on every corner, are the movie screenings.  When Oscar season rolls around, the Studios like to promote their movies by having special screenings.  Sometimes the audience is lucky enough to attend a “talk-back” afterwards and perhaps listen to the Director, or the Producer, or the Second Grip From the Left provide interesting shooting anecdotes.  If an audience is EXTREMELY lucky, one of the films stars might even show up.  This happened to be the case when my husband and I were fortunate enough to see “The King’s Speech.”

I must have been born under a lucky star (Colin Firth’s lucky star), because my husband and I scored a fourth row seat at this Pre-Oscar Screening.  We were seated way over  to the side, but who’s complaining?  The best part about our up-close seats: No one sat in front of me.  I was thrilled for this meant I could actually remove the Phone Book on which I was sitting, and no one would be blocking my view of Mr. Firth on the screen.  

After the movie, the audience applauded, and the lights came up.  The cast walked on stage and to my utter shock, that steely Mr. Darcy occupied the seat DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF ME!  SERIOUSLY?!  I had a clean unobstructed view of a man on my “Laminated Free-bee List!”  (Don’t tell my husband.)  Luckily, I had actually decided to brush my hair before I left, because to my utter shock I realized Colin (we are on a first name basis now) had a clean unobstructed view of ME.  SERIOUSLY?!

I tried to act casual.  I tried not to stare.  I tried to get my face to turn back to its normal peaked color.  I’m not sure I achieved any of those things.  I do know that I was casually staring.  And that’s when it happened.  Someone in the cast made a joke.  The audience laughed.  And Colin Firth looked at me—and smiled.  

At first, I thought I had imagined it.  But then I wondered why in the world had I quickly looked away in embarrassment?  Why in the world had my cheeks gone from bright red to deep crimson in a span of 1.3 seconds?  I vowed if it happened again, I wouldn’t look away.  I would somehow find the strength deep within to maintain eye contact.  I would not chicken out.  

It happened again!

I chickened out.  

I vowed if it happened again (again), I wouldn’t look away.  I would somehow find the strength deep within to maintain eye contact.    I would not chicken out.  I would smile back.  I could do this.  

It happened again (again)!!

I smiled back! 

I held eye contact and forced a casual smile.  We had a moment. 

“Did you see that?” my husband leaned over and whispered, “He just smiled at you.”

There are some days (not all days) when you can find your inner beauty all by yourself.  And there are some days when a cute boy smiles at you, and you feel your inner beauty rise to the surface to meet that cute boy’s smile.  This was one of those days.  In that moment, I felt like Colin Firth “…liked me very much…just as I am.”

Bondage

He loves me. I know he does. If my husband didn’t love me he wouldn’t buy me jewelry and Star Fleet uniforms. That’s true love. So, with all that clear-cut proof why do I feel so worried? It’s just that for the past couple of weeks life around here has been a little different. There’s a spring in his step. There’s a gleam in his eye that I haven’t seen since he redeemed all his points at Best Buy. A wife knows. And I know I have nothing to do with this sudden burst of giddy energy. Clearly, my husband’s attention for me is waning. Why else would he keep going “out?” What more can I do but wear my Star Fleet uniform while I’m vacuuming—more. 

“Honey, I’m going out to a movie. I’ll be back in a coupe hours.” 

“Again?” the inside voice in my head mutters. 

“What movie are you going to see?” my outside voice politely enquires. 

“Skyfall.”

 There is no hidden guilt in his statement, no remorse in his admission. 

“But, you’ve seen that three times!” 

“I know…”

I understand now. 

My husband is having an affair.

With James Bond. 

I should have seen it coming. There are always signs. 

“Honey, what movie do you want to watch tonight…?” my husband begins. 

“I don’t know…maybe the Star Trek reboot or we could go old school and watch The Wrath of Kahn?” (I generally can’t pull off phrases like “old school” or “that’s how I roll,” but I figured in this context it was more true than trendy.)

My husband looked at me with utmost intensity, “No. What JAMES BOND movie do you want to watch tonight?” 

I’d come home from the grocery store only to hear Sean Connery’s sexy brogue reverberating through the house. I’d take a nap only to hear Shirley Bassey belting Goldfinger in my dreams. I’ve lost my husband to a world of fast cars, exploding pens, and Pussy Galore. This has all left me a bit shaken, not stirred. How in the world can I bring him back?

If this was a love my husband and I shared (like our love of me in a Star Fleet uniform), then maybe I wouldn’t feel so betrayed. Our movie tastes are usually quite similar—something we can bond over. But, as charismatic as Sean Connery was and as hot as Daniel Craig is, I can only share in each of James’ journeys the one time, unlike my husband who can watch any one of the Bond films over and over again—and usually does.

I suppose I’m no match, but like Moneypenny, I’ll be there waiting for him.  

I only hope when The Hobbit comes out, I won’t have bought my elf costume for nothing.

“Let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories about the death of kings.”

I see them everywhere—little girls donning their Disney Store Princess dresses. Miniature visions in pink tulle stand in line shopping for groceries and gobbling down frozen yogurt. When I see these tiny girls in their colorful cotton/poly blend, the first thing I think is, “Wow. Do they make that in my size?” But then I come to my senses—I look like a giant macaroon in tulle. (Give me a sailor’s cap and I’m the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.) 

I think that along with an innate knowledge of all Beatle song lyrics, there must be some yet-to-be-discovered DNA strand inherent in all little girls that genetically compels them to love Cinderella plastic pearl tiara’s. This seems possible as I watch sweet little girls throw royal temper tantrums in order to get those plastic Princess high-heels. 

However, my hypothesis becomes less likely as I try this theory out on myself. Like Wolverine (but without the rugged sideburns (I wax)), my Princess DNA must have mutated. As a kid, I loved a good Fairy Tale, but I never wanted to be a Disney Princess. I didn’t want to live Under the Sea to meet a handsome prince. I wanted to move to medieval England and live in a cold castle with no indoor plumbing, curling irons, or Twinkies. I wanted to be a real princess. 

My childhood fascination with dead kings has never died out like the Plantagenet line did. Clearly, there must be other adult people out there who still hold onto their childhood dreams. I’m pretty sure deep down, grown men still want to be astronauts, NFL quarterbacks, and Bill Murray in Cadyshack. But I doubt even Bill Murray can name all the British kings (in order) from Henry II to Henry VIII. (There are actually more than just eight Henry’s in that line up.)  

 Since buying a ticket to medieval England was impossible, I decided to use a time machine of sorts—books. I was 19 when someone at a now defunct B. Dalton’s suggested I read it—my favorite book ever. I fell in love with the author and her dead kings after the first paragraph. 

I fell in love with Richard III. 

Shakespeare (writing for the winning team) made Richard out to be the most heinous of villains. Complete with withered arm, Richard hobbles around stage killing his relatives in order to wear that all-powerful hollow crown. As a theater major, I never questioned the validity of the mighty Shakespeare's claims. I accepted his truth without thinking there might be more to the story. 

Sharon Kay Penman’s The Sunne in Splendour opened that door for me. She changed Richard from a wicked villain to a put-upon, misunderstood hero—all backed by history. Inspired by her research, I even conducted some of my own. I read dry history book after dry history book, and now I can confidently boast that I know more about Richard III then I do about most of my long-term boyfriends. 

So, the other week when it was confirmed by people with sexy British accents that they had indeed dug up my medieval boyfriend, I was full of more mirth and merriment than Henry II was at the sight of Eleanor of Aquitaine. (In the beginning of their relationship.) It was strange for me sharing my secret boyfriend with the rest of the world. But like any supportive girlfriend would do, I woke up at 2 am to watch the findings on BBC live with rest of the UK. I’m still amazed that he was found—in my lifetime. 

 Even though Shakespeare may have gotten his scoliosis right, this fact hasn’t changed my love for Richard Plantagenet. Just because his body was misshapen doesn’t mean his heart and soul were, too. The Sunne in Splendour changed my perception of history and of life. It taught me never to take anything at face value again. The winners write history, and since time travel has yet to be invented, I will never truly know what this dead king was like, even though by all contemporary accounts he was a a good man and a great king. 

But don’t take my word for it…

I understand it’s hard for anyone to trust a woman wearing her Princess Renaissance dress at 2 o’clock in the morning. 

Coming out of the Closet

Dear Wearer, 

I am writing on behalf of the entire Closet so that we may address the many comments and complaints dating from 28 September, 2012 to the present. I would like to point out that I have never written a letter like this. In fact, I have never written a letter at all. Mostly, this is due to my lack of hands. But, drastic times call for drastic measures. As your favorite pair of Skinny Jeans, it falls to me to shed some overhead light on the situation in here. While we have have been gathering dust, you have been gathering hamburgers. So put down that double-double, and allow me to speak plainly here—you are much too large to fit into your clothes!

At first, We, Your Closet, understood that there would be some hang-time involved during your pregnancy. We knew this would take the full nine months (ten, depending on how your are counting. Or 21 if you’re an elephant…which you might just be.), and we were prepared for the wait. However, now that your legs are a more normal, human size, we thought that we would be able to go out once again. We were all looking forward to trips to the mall, date night, and seeing Star Trek: Into Darkness the required 12 times. 

As you are fully aware, NONE OF THIS HAS HAPPENED. 

You intentionally and thoughtlessly pass us by each and every day as you reach for that 75% poly/blend, 100% smug Maternity Shirt with the milk stains. This behavior is unacceptable—and embarrassing. Where you once happily left the house donned in a smart outfit provided by us, the plaintiffs, Your Closet, you can now be found in a constant state of pajama-bottomed, vomit-stained bagginess. Your Hot Little Black Dress is feeling blue, and Sassy Sun Dress is really under the weather these days. 

To the point, Wearer, how long is losing this “baby weight” going to take you?

In your defense, your favorite Overalls did some research, and we now know that breastfeeding requires more calories than what you were consuming while preggo. However, myself and others question whether or not your secret stash of 3 Musketeers candy bars hidden underneath Han Solo T-shirt is the appropriate caloric intake. The information provided to us by your Workout Clothes suggest that without exercise, this extra processed sugar will not assist you in losing your baby weight, thus keeping all of us in the dark for yet another fashion season. 

We, Your Closet, would like to know what you are doing to precipitate losing those extra baby pounds? What are your long term goals? We fear we will find ourselves in your next garage sale. We would like to avoid this possibility, but can only do so with your help. Six weeks seems ample time.

Please, for all of Our sakes, pull it together--and pull us out of the closet!

Sincerely,

The Skinny Jeans in the back of your Closet