Thank you so much for serving our country.  You are not nearly as honored and valued as you ought to be.

So it’s really nice to see so many people appreciating you today via Facebook status update and elsewhere on the internet.  Where, you know, I’m sure most vets (especially the homeless ones, those who served in Vietnam and WWII, and those still in permanent long-term care) spend a lot of their time watching YouTube videos of cats.

Like me.  Look at me appreciating the hell out of you with this blog post.  Can you feel the internet love?  Like a big fuzzy tunnel wrapped around you with Al Gore’s face at the end of it.

Thank you.  Thank you for your bravery and sacrifices and time away from home.  Thank you for serving for the rest of us.  May we learn to take better care of your willingness to serve and of your minds and bodies when you return from war.  May we learn how to not fight in needless wars and to consider people everywhere as too precious and valuable to send towards or inflict violence upon in any form.  The young are always better used and better served as leaders, innovators, teachers, health care workers, and artists than they are as weapons or sacrifices.

May this be a day of peace in honor of soldiers.

MM

(who hit me with a scooter on one of the busiest streets in Rome that I had to cross every day, thereby scarring me (psychologically) for the rest of the trip every time I needed to go anywhere for the rest of the month)—(and left me with a nasty bruise about the size of a flask spanning my left elbow, which hurt every time someone bumped me (a complaint especially relevant, it turns out, in the dance club MOOD))—

I’d like to thank you for giving me about as lovely a scooter-hit experience as anyone’s ever had.  First of all, you barely sideswiped me.  Second, you sort of panickedly slowed to a stop and tipped over in a mild crash yourself in your attempt to see if I was ok.  Third, you were a very nice middle-aged Italian woman named Paola wearing a lovely blue dress, possibly on your way to a dinner party where you all would laugh and yell and gesture continually over endless bottles of vino and fresh summer vegetables and many many cheeses, with bambinos scattered about your feet.

You also spoke excellent English and tried to buy me a drink.  (I realized I was ok, backed up to the sidewalk, and burst into tears.) Water? Wine? Drink? Across the street.  Come, please, let me.

You also, I think (things are a little hazy), gave me a hug.  And stayed with me until my friends arrived.  And your name is Paola, which is a cool and mouth-pleasing version of a name we have in America.  And you insisted on giving me your phone number in case I needed anything.  (I don’t know what that would be—-I half expected you to say, anything, really, I know a guy.)  I think you would have taken me home with you if my friends hadn’t shown up right then.  Which would have been kind of amazing, honestly.

Plus.  Now I can say I got hit by a scooter in Rome.

Which is really an essential Italian experience.

Anyway, Paola, I hope you are well, and not worried about me.  I’m fine.  It’s a good story.  The bruise is gone.  I much enjoyed showing it to people and saying, faux-casually, Oh this? Yes, this is from when I got hit by a scooter….or, more accurately and more often, insisting they examine the shades of green with great pride.

Give the bambinos a kiss for me.

Best,

MM

Not the street where I got hit by the scooter.

I would like to give thanks for:

1. Ok, well, guys, let’s start here– I am in school. I am a student. This means I LEARN THINGS all the time! And it’s what I’m supposed to be doing! I show up, I learn some things, I go home, I think about some things. I do not make coffee or sit in a cubicle all day or dig ditches. And for that, I am grateful. I mean, I don’t know, maybe you love your job digging ditches, and for that I thank you. I need ditches in my life probably. For culverts and stuff. Those seem useful, even if I can’t think of exactly why.

2. …FOR POETRY. I am in SCHOOL for POETRY. This means not only do I live the life of a student– and seriously guys, in case you’ve forgotten, that means like 2-3 hours of class a day and then….umm….drinking coffee and playing board games, mostly– but as a student, my main jobs are to read some things and then to write some things. This is what I do with my life. In fact, this is what I get to do with three years of my life. I would like to thank whoever thought up MFA programs, and whoever decided they were a legitimate way for people to spend their time, and my parents for supporting my dreams, and my heart for dreaming, and “last but not least, the wonderful crew from McDonalds who spend hours making those egg McMuffins without which I’d never be tardy” (Clueless? Anyone?). Ok. Well. Seriously. Thanks. I will be in my armchair reading some more words on a page. And writing some other words down sometimes.

3. Cookies. Baking. Dancing while baking. (DANCE-BAKE.) That doesn’t link to a definition of Dance-Bake. It links to my friend Kristen. Who is the definition of Dance-Bake. Anyway, Dance-Bake is pretty self-explanatory. You dance and you bake. Or you dance while you bake. Whatever. Put on some music, make some cookies, see what happens.

4. New Friends. Including ones that like to talk about poetry. And dance. And bake. And tease. And go to the beach. And sometimes play board games with me: bananagrams, chess, cribbage, Jenga. Yeah ok, it’s an odd list, but it’s what we’ve got. Next on the list: backgammon. Also: actually learn how to play chess, not just memorize (mostly) which pieces can move where. I’m working on it, ok?! It’s hard. Cut me some slack.

5. A seafood taco truck. You heard me. I’m not going to even tell you where it is. But I will say this: $1 fish tacos.

6. Bagels. I have a lot of bagels in my life. I love it.

7. Hillcrest. I have a lot of drag queens in my life. I love it.

8. My apartment. I love it.

9. The restaurants around my apartment. This really counts under both “Hillcrest” and “my apartment.” But the restaurants! So wonderful! Deserve their own listing.

10. The Dog. She’s my parent’s, but I get to see her sometimes, and she’s soft and cuddly and will let you haul her around with you like a stuffed animal (a really, really big, patient one).

11. Family. Hi guys!

12. Books. Who came up with books? High five.

13. Food.

14. Doughnuts. The real ones, not the vegan ones. Or Donettes. Not real but I am grateful for them anyway.

15. Health. HEAR ME, WORLD? I am grateful for my health! After four years of illness, sickness, ailments, infections, whooping cough, I am HEALTHY. And I appreciate it every day that I wake up feeling like I can tackle whatever comes along, that I can commit to plans whether they be today, tomorrow, or a month from now, that I can take on an extra class or extra work hours or sign up for yoga and not worry that it will go to waste. I appreciate every day that I can walk around breathing easily and thinking clearly, every day my body moves, jumps, stretches, breathes without pain.

16. The ocean. I live near the ocean. I try to remember to go see it at least once a week. Just to sit with it. It makes me happy.

So Thanksgiving, happy you to you.

Another year, another turkey (it’s such a boring meat! what is UP with having the most boring meat the centerpiece of the biggest food holiday of the year?)

With thanks and blessings and yams with marshmallows (of course that is my favorite part, obviously),

MM

Yes, folks. Yes. It is Dear Mr. Postman’s and my anniversary. This is a special, special day.

I began Dear Mr. Postman exactly one year ago (hence the anniversary). We’ve come a lot way since then…

I started with a letter to Bill Clinton. I had to break the news to him gently that I was leaving him for his wife Hillary. Since then I’ve written letters to large groups of people, to inanimate objects (Dear Vegan Doughnuts is a personal favorite), to objects I wish were inanimate, to animals (varmint) and books and bands and songs and political offices and fruits…

We’ve covered some important issues here, people. And some really, really, really, reaaaaaaally unimportant ones. We’ve ranted and raved and applauded and bemoaned.

A run-down of the most-clicked-on-letters of all time, so far, as of today, so not so much all time:

1. Dear Half-Shaved (Female) Heads (who knew so many people were interested?)

2. Dear New Friend

3. Dear Body

4. Dear Facebook Status Updates

5. Dear Taylor Swift

6. Dear Friends Who Stop Calling Friends Back

7. Dear Religion, Bill Maher, and My Mother

8. Dear Pantsuits and Politics, Dear Living Alone, Dear Woody Allen Movies

9. Dear Leftovers

10. Dear People Who Think Sex and Love Are Unrelated, Dear People Who Hate People Who Read Trashy Magazines

Whew. Y’all better click on some of those, because I hate hyperlinking.

But what we would really like (me and the Dear Mr. Postman) (yes, the blog has feelings, duh) is….COMMENTS! FEEDBACK! Aka interaction. You know, you get to a year, and you’ve been together through thick and thin, and then one night you’re sitting in front of the TV together, not saying anything, and one of you is like, “Pass the chips” and the other one passes the chips and then all of sudden you realize that is the only thing that has been said for the last seven hours?!? Pass the chips?

Chips are awesome, don’t get me wrong.

So if you love a letter, let me know. If you laughed out loud, please please let me know. If you love vegan doughnuts, you ought to try a real one and live a little. Lying to yourself isn’t going to help anybody.

Anyway, I hope you have enjoyed the past year as much as I have. I hope there are more to come. Thank you for reading.

And thank you, Dear Mr. Postman, for being such a wonderful listener.

Love,

MM

As a shout-out, I would just like to recount a conversation I heard today. I will call the girls Jane and Anne. I don’t have any friends named Jane and Anne, do I?

Jane: I didn’t seduce him even though it would have been easy and I totally wanted to. So I follow my own advice like 60%.

Anne: Good for you….How do you seduce people???

Jane: I think you have to start off by touching them casually throughout the night…then I think there’s a scary part where you have to kiss them.

Anne: The blind leading the blind…some seductress.

Jane: I kissed John! It was scary! I feel sorry for boys.

Anne: But we’re talking seduction here not middle school!

Jane: But once you kiss it kind of all follows.

Anne: Or you can be really bold and make them kiss you but that might involve lingerie.

Jane: I don’t even own lingerie! Is that bad?

Anne: Yes. You will die a virgin.

I think this last part was hyperbole. Given the nature of the discussion.

Thank you for allowing me to share that with you. I think I will start following my own advice like 60%. Sounds like a good number, don’t you think?

xoxo,

MM

PS– Good thing Tina Fey is hot right now. Giving us nerdy girls everywhere a hand up the social ladder.

PPS– As an end note, I would just like to say: despite the seeming shyness of the above conversation: don’t underestimate us.

You and I, we don’t get along. When I try to write you, it comes out all,

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I think you are stupid

And I hate you.

While concise, it’s not particularly full of meaning or imagery or um, let’s see, anything worthwhile at all.

There was a young child named Bucket

When he got mad he would say…

Oops. Better stop there. You see what I’m saying. But today I am declaring a truce in this war of ours. Today I sat down, and I tried to trick you into coming into my poem by writing it and then sneaking you in between the words and then quick! before you or I could realize! pulling away the curtains and revealing you, naked and embarrassed, at the end of the line.

I feel exhausted, and a little bit dirty for some completely unexplainable reason, and proud, and very very nervous to show you in public.

Like maybe this is going to result in that scene from Young Frankenstein when the monster tap dances and sings for the huge crowds, and it’s fabulous, and they’re going wild, and then there is fire (right? I think so) and he goes nuts and stomps on some things and then the people are going wild. And both the monster and his creator are hunted down with pitchforks.

I’d rather not have that happen. But I was talking about taking risks with writing yesterday and decided to start with you, and thank you for sticking it out with me this morning. Maybe we should both take a nap and reconvene tomorrow.

Cheers,

MM

I guess I didn’t know that you have stars in your bellies.

Thank you.

Love,

MM

Every now and then I am aware of you as something oh-so physical and separate from my thoughts and emotions, something meant to be lived in and used hard, and capable of surviving incredible things, and having an astounding capacity for healing.

This is not, actually, a letter about whether or not I believe in the soul. It’s a letter about corporal being, or maybe…being corporal.

Perhaps here I should explain what a complicated relationship we have. I really do appreciate you on a daily basis– the breathing, the eating and sleeping and heart beating. Oh the other hand, we often don’t get along. You often seem unhappy with me, and punish me with a stomachache or a headache, which honestly, make me not too fond of you either. Especially when I have spoiled you by doing yoga and biofeedback and not eating or drinking things I like and going to bed early and getting lots of sleep and such.

But every now and then– especially when you and I suffer minor physical ailments, I am slaphappy amazed at your ability to stand up and shake yourself off. Burns, cuts, and bruises: they’re all part of the record that we’ve been here. That life has been, you know, lived, and left its mark. There just is day-to-day wear and tear, and that’s great. It means we were cooking, or running too fast as children and fell, or really remarkably clumsy with cheese graters.

The other day I was in a coffeeshop across the country (duh) and came across a little sign that said something like, “The goal should not be to arrive at one’s grave in a perfectly attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to slide in sideways at the last moment, having thoroughly used your body up, latte in one hand and chocolate in the other, shouting ‘WHOOOOO! What a ride!’”

Because obviously coffeeshop signs are where I learn most of my great lessons.

But no, prior to that, I was also wandering around alternately cursing and marveling at my aching sinuses, and my neckache (to the right, just below the thumbhandle of my skull), and the way my stomach didn’t hurt even though I’d had 5 (five!) sips of wine the night before. And isn’t it fascinating, that if I stand very still and very straight, and breathe deeply, and stretch my arms up over head, I feel both very anchored and very tall, and I can feel everything inside of me– my liver, and my ribs, and my spine, and my worry about what happens next year, and my what-do-I-make-for-dinner, all take a break from being busy little working things, and stretch along with my muscles?

And if I look to my left elbow, I see the shadow of the burn scar from seventh grade when I was making churros, and the darker outline of the burn from September when I was making biscuits to go with the very first time I ever made fried chicken. If I look down, I see the little bones in my ankles that always get blisters from new shoes, and on my hip is a little round mark from a spider bite from four years ago…and, well, thanks for holding on through all of that.

I like that you are a time-marker, a history-keeper. We’ll just have to keep finding ways to get along– and even though I get mad because you seem more fragile than other people’s bodies, at least we’re good at communicating…right?

Bless,

MM

Most of the time, you are helpful, and that is an amazing and wondrous thing.  You find items in the back of the store that are not on the shelves, and you honor the price listed rather than whatever it is that rings up that is more for some unexplainable reason.  You give hints on how to get the best discount, and you stand there holding a door open for longer than is merely polite.  You point out things I’ve dropped, and help me reach tall things (because closing my eyes does not actually extend my arm reach).  You provide me with information in a timely manner and say, “Have a good day!” very, very sincerely.

But then, sometimes, you’re too helpful.  Like when I walked into the little dessert place around the corner from my house, and found no little loaves of chocolate cake like I once ate over a year ago.

And I asked, kind of vaguely, “So there’s no hazelnut or something like that chocolate cake?”

And you said, slowly, “Nooo…well, maybe…hazelnut?”

And I said, “Well, maybe.  Maybe it was something else.  It was chocolate and came in little bread loaf shaped pieces?  It was really wonderful.”

And then you looked around, and suggested that maybe it was chestnut, and then went to see if you had any whole cakes of it in the back, and then dragged the pastry chef out to talk to me, who told me he makes 12 different kinds of rolled (bread loaf shaped to me) cakes, and it could have been any one of them, and they make different ones depending on the day so maybe another day but not today and then you tried to describe how often you make the chestnut one, even though that totally may not be what I’m looking for, and you settled on, “Pretty, well, sort of , maybe, often.”  And then said, “Maybe it the flourless chocolate cake.”  (Or, conceivably, one of the other ten.)

Through all of this I kept trying to say, “It’s ok, I’ll check back, I clearly don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, so how could I expect you to know, please help these other nice people in line, really, I promise I’ll come back, you aren’t losing my business, you are so so so helpful, but please let me go home now.”

All in all, helpful is better than not helpful.  Too helpful is awkward in the most delightful way possible.

And finally– thank you.

MM