Dear Stupid Heart:

Why, when you know it's not in the best interest of either us, must you always fall in love with men who do not love you back? You and your cursed unrequited pursuits, borne on a wave of saltwater. I would think you'd learned your lesson after repeated smashings, so many pieces to knit together again. And I know that we always do that - find the way with the needle of time and the thread patience to determinedly put you back together.

But this time - these latest times - I wonder why we must always go through this routine of reckless abandon. Of throwing caution to the wind and exposing you to devastation yet again. Of allowing - nay, being willing - to sacrifice you to the great unknown of What Could Be. Those naive hopes are piling up into an altar to What Never Will Be.

Oh, Stupid Heart, to be here again with you is excruciating. Gathering the pieces, wondering if I have them all, wondering if this is the time that maybe, just maybe, parts of you will go missing all together. Will the brokenness be such that it's too much for us to patch? And even if the pieces are found and the mending complete, we both know you'll never work quite the same. These bruises and tears never heal perfectly. Instead, you'll be tattooed with new scars of our failures.

I know, I said our. I blame you, but it's my fault, too. That's why I'm here, kneeling beside you, carefully sewing, trying not to cry when I catch my finger on the needle.

Love (Oh, Misbegotten Love),
Ash

Dear Men of the Online Dating Realm:

As I conclude my three-month stint in the harmonious world of e-dating, I want to offer - by way of showing there are no hard feelings - a bit of advice to those men with whom I didn't find the advertised deepest level of compatibility...

Dear Hunter/Gathers:
Thank you for demonstrating your ability to provide dinner. However, it is not necessary to submit photographic proof that you can wrangle up a dead animal.

Dear Dignitary Protection Agent:
In that space for your occupation, "bodyguard" will do.

Dear Lovers of Kenny Chesney and Nickleback:
No.

Dear Self-Proclaimed Einstein (Literally):
When you state that you're "super selective" and have "super attractive" female friends - who, by the way, would marry you immediately if you gave the word - it's super annoying. Stop with the Einstein bit. And the tanning bed.

Dear Brothers with Sister Wives:
I have a brother. And we don't hug like that in pictures.

Dear I'm Bored Already:
Your passion for tennis is riveting.

Dear Divorcees:
For the love of all that is logic, do not post a picture of you wearing your wedding ring.

Dear Intrepid Adventurer:
I do not, in fact, want to go ice climbing with you in patagonia.

Dear Living in Your Mama's Basement:
Bill Cosby called and he wants his sweater back.

Dear Lovers of the Gym:
I'm fat. Get over it.

Dear Self-Employed:
What does that mean, exactly?

Dear Anyone Who Thought I Like to Perform Rap and Hip-Hop:
That was due to my misunderstanding of the difference between listen to and perform. Apologies.

Dear Kudzu:

I miss you today. I always miss you on bad days. And lonely days. And days like today that are just restless with some sort of frustrating energy that beats you all day long until you want to turn on it and demand what exactly it wants from you.

I saw your sister Mischief over the weekend, and I petted her with my eyes closed and pretended for just a moment that it was you. That was sort of a mistake because it made me twice as sad when I opened my eyes.

Big things seem to be on the horizon. I'm not sure what they are, but I can feel them looming ahead, shadowy and indistinct. Whether these specters of the future are friends or foes, I can't say. And right now, I think of them like The Knockers. Which reminds me - be glad you weren't here for Dillon's recent proclamation that "The Darkness lives in the birdhouse" in our bathroom. I'm guessing it moved in after you died.

Even though this is a letter, the kind you would expect to be filled with updates on every detail of life, I'm not going to update you on anything vexing because I know you wouldn't ask me to recount how I don't quite really totally completely live in my house yet. Or the state of my love life, which is questionable...like something you aren't sure whether or not it's gone bad. If you were here, I'd hold out my love life and say, "Smell this" and gauge your reaction. And if you made that face you used to make when you forgot that you hated the smell of toothpaste, I'd scrap it and declare my celibacy forever.

I can feel myself doing stupid things right now - things that don't make any logical sense. Things that I know I'm going to wish I had stopped - like when you know you shouldn't eat any more but you do and then you sit in miserable bloated pain for an hour. I'm going to be in miserable bloated emotional pain before all this is through, and it would be so much more manageable if you were here.

I hope you are well, growing fat on the green tips of spider plants and watching over your me.

Love,
Ashley

Dear a-Men:

I read your latest letter to Penelope with, per usual, an absolute sense of likewiseness. Of the sense that tradition clearly stems from the past, is carried into the present and seems rather moot in the face of a faceless future. How (and who - which I must point out is an anagram of "how" -) will it be toted forward if there are no small hands to reach for it? And not even one hand to reach for yours to make new tradition?

Christmas Eve started well enough with coffee with an old friend. But then, it was on to some rather joyless cooking. The chopping and stirring and measuring all seemed rather like a chore than a shared experience. Though we tried to laugh and infuse the egg peeling and pretzel smashing and vegetable boiling with yuletide brightness, it simply felt tired and dim.

We watched the Christmas Eve service on the internet rather than going because I just couldn't muster the energy to push everyone to go. And then we watched Prep & Landing, and it was lovely, but the theme of dissatisfaction and finding fulfillment just made me cry.

And then my brother called and wanted us to come down to his house before Santa's arrival on Christmas morning. But his in-laws were there, and the house doesn't really offer the room for four more adults to be added to the festivities and plus we don't open presents on Christmas day anymore because the in-laws are there and so we postpone until the New Year's weekend. This all led to serious Nana-guilt for my mother and envy-guilt for my sister and me who were having a hard enough time with this holiday season.

The call was a reminder of all the tradition lost and the way our Christmas has become this slippery ephemeral thing to be moved around on the calendar to accommodate everyone's schedule. It all leads to a half-hearted Christmas on both ends of the week - a Christmess if you will. And not only that but there was the reminder of children, of in-laws, of new celebrations and bright eyes and innocence and the kind of love that creates all those things that's decidedly missing from my life right now.

Even though it was snowing - my first white Christmas! - and the Christmas music played in the kitchen and there was a blue velvet birthday cake for Baby Jesus (because Dillon's favorite color is blue) and Reese woke up from her nap demanding "Ash'ey" and curled up in my lap all warm and cherubic for some TV time, there was still on the inside a void. A cold hollow that echoed with all the doubts about whether it will ever be different. Whether I will ever have my own warm cherub and strange desserts by request.

We ended the night by watching two horrible made-for-TV movies that somehow took the edge of bitterness off the day. If even the Hallmark movie could fail in holiday perfection, perhaps I should cut myself some slack.

Ah, M. Let us continue the advent celebration with the same sense of hope that Immanuel delivered to us. God is with us. And for now, that will have to be enough.

Love,
A

Dear 2010:

Let me begin by saying I had high hopes for you. I wanted to give you a chance to be the Year of Great Things. But you made your choices and became the Year of Disaster instead. Even though you're in the death throes of your last week, I'm going to lay my litany of complaints at your door. Because I deserve to have my say.

Kudzu's illness and subsequent passing shaded the whole year. From February when I first noticed his weight loss to March when he first went to the doctor to June when he finally lost the fight. Pretty much the whole of you, 2010, was spent enduring the decline of my sweet furry friend or mourning his death. That's a lot of kleenex.

There was the house I bought in February that I still don't quite absolutely live in full time, a fact I lay entirely upon your doorstep, 2010. And just to add insult to injury, I remind you of the delightful $800 water bill that resulted from the running toilet in the guest bathroom and found its way to my mailbox the week after Kudzu died.

And speaking of that week, heartbreak just heaped on heartbreak when I once again found myself in the general vicinity of Singledom. My poor heart, already in shreds, took another hit when The Barrister and me parted ways. At that point, I pretty much emotionally flat-lined.

Just when I thought I might stop living every second on the Verge of Tears, I found out that a dear friend from high school had taken his own life. I felt guilty for failing to be in touch with him more recently than I had. And I felt his absence profoundly. Even as I worked to verify that the rumors were true, I knew their truth in my heart. He was gone. I struggled through the service and the drive home, filled with questions that had no answers.

Your July also brought my 31st birthday, a rather pitiful affair. A mere two weeks after Kudzu died, after D.'s death and The Barrister and me disintegrated, and I was not only getting older, I was alone. Until the end of the month when I was briefly kind-of-sort-of stalked by a loose-cannon photographer.

The next month, there was the news of the final demise of The Old Job and STGD suddenly finding himself unemployed after more than a decade of faithful employ. Even though I'd heard rumblings of its approach, the actual arrival of The End made me more sad than I anticipated. Somehow, it was like the last crumbling of the life I once lived.

In September, I was mistaken for a pregnant woman. Kill me now. And my pregnant friend Hilary gave birth far too early and had me in a vigil of prayer and concern. On a bright note - though don't think you're off the hook, 2010 - little Aubri is doing just fine.

By October, I was over you. Not over all the havoc you'd wreaked on my life, but totally. over. you. Dunzo.

Unfortunately, you were not through with me. Why else would I have suffered through not one but two embarrassing setbacks on the road to romantic recovery? I mean, really, 2010. Was the humiliation and EPIC FAIL really necessary at this point in the year? I guess you figured a time when I had no dignity left was as good a time as any to send me down into the dumps.

And finally, December arrived. The light at the end of this 12-month tunnel of darkness. But just to get in your last one-two punch, you decided to claim another friend of the family, sending me to the funeral home mid-month. And you managed to even taint my beloved job to the point that I was desperate for a vacation by the time the holidays rolled around.

In closing, I would like to bid you not adieu. Or farewell. Or even good riddance. I prefer instead to bid you get the hell gone and don't ever show your face around here again.

Love (yeah, right),
Ashley

Penpathy

Dear Pen:
Today I feel like maybe I'm having some sort of distant HSP sympathy experience for you. Nothing seems right. Everything is in transition. There's this looming uncertainty that could be just in front of something wonderful or complete and total disaster. Like a spinning plate wobbling on the stick, the need for balance is essential but the wobbling seems so unbalanced and out of control and when will it stop spinning? It's so uncomfortable to be so precariously placed.

I have this weekend and next before a long string of out-of-town weekends, so if I'm truly going to get in the house before Nov. 5 (and let's face it - I must), I have to get moving. But how? How to get past this stuck place into the next place I'm supposed to be...I could make a list but then there's the actual doing. And at this point, there's a sort of weird unclarity about what to put in the box and what to take out of the box and what is actually required to consider myself moved.

Oh, Lord. Help.

Please know as you are packing and wrapping and boxing and making those painful piles of keep/give/trash, that in another state (i.e. the State of Panic), I am doing the same thing for a move just miles from where I am but seems like a great distance.

xo,
Ash

Dear M, Regarding My Totally You Moment:

I discovered that the illustrious Joel McHale has finally deigned to bring his stand-up tour past the noxiousness of Las Vegas. Even my love of Joel cannot take me there. He's actually making his way as far as the eastern seaboard including that nearby bastion of The South, Hotlanta. However, instead of taking the easy way, instead of just going an hour up the road to a venue I've been to before near where my brother lives making it easy for me to stay the night with him post-performance, I bought a plane ticket.

On a whim, I bought a plane ticket! To the Lonestar State where I will be taking in the McHale McMagnificence with my Texas Twin. I'm flying in early and staying late and have been promised a photogging excursion somewhere in there. And I just did it. Like a true adventurer.

Not uncoincidentally, I dreamed last night of going to Vienna. And the buildings were amazing, and I remember that we were going through Germany on our way home? So the passport is next, Oh, Wayfaring Soul. But know...you're rubbing off on me.

xo,
Intrepid Traveler

Dear Kudzu:

Today didn't go very well, and I should like to tell you about it. A lot of folks have been asking questions about why I haven't moved into my house yet. After all, it has been six months. And very few of them seem to understand that it's more complicated than just the accumulation of days.

They don't seem to understand what it will be like to live there and know that you will never be looking out the dining room window when I get home. You will never look out the french doors onto the backporch and chitter at the squirrels leaping through the trees. You will never be curled up on the other end of the newly covered couch (yes, Mommy finally got rid of the brown strips) while I watch TV and you stretch and roll and make little sleepy kitty noises. And even though I know all these nevers, there is still the ghost of you haunting my mind and casting a shadowy ephemeral version of you in all those places and making my heart hurt so bad it feels like it will never stop.

So you can imagine how I felt today when some well-meaning people were giving me grief over not relocating yet. And you can imagine that fine line, that sharpest point that pierced me and caused me to start crying -right there! - and make everyone uncomfortable with my tears. You can imagine how mortifying it was to struggle for composure and for it to continually slip through my tear-soddened fingers. And then to have to excuse myself and lock myself in the bathroom for a few moments and not only feel the pain but the embarrassing conjecture of what was being said in my absence. Returning to my place, I valiantly put on the face of normalcy but as soon as I was able, I was the first one to escape. And even when one of the guilty parties tracked me down and apologized, I could feel the tears rising again and sought shelter after a mumbled, "It'sfineI'mjusthavingahardtime."

And you're not here to make it better. There is no silky black fur or soft gray underbelly to comfort me. There are no intense green eyes. No small fuzzy paws. You are gone. And I know it. I know, but some days, the knowing just breaks me.

Today was one of those days. And I know you can't be here to make it better. But I just wanted you to know. I wanted you to know that I miss you and I still love you with all of my heart. And I hope that right now, you're curled up in the shape of a "C", breathing softly and dreaming of me.

Love,
Your Mom

Dear PenMen: Contemplations on Everyonceinawhile and Other Moments in Time

Seeing as how we might, at this point, be the only ones reading each other's blogs, I figured it was okay to directly address the two of you. Plus, I had this feeling of wanting to write, but what? And then I thought I could just write what I would tell Pen and M.

It's raining here right now, and while soothing, I find this greatly disappointing because I need to mow my lawn. I was all geared up for it, too: The First Mowing. But I know if I actually do that after the torrential rain (accompanied by copious thunder and lightning) that I will have wet grass stuck to my ankles and big clumps of grass clippings to dig out of the bag. That seems like not the experience to have for The First Mowing, and so I will think of my ever-growing lawn as a verdant carpet instead of an overgrown grass pouf to ease my conscience.

I finished reading this book last night that was so good - one of my indulgently trashy romance novels. And sometimes, they're just like reading candy - totally empty calories that go in and pass through with no real nutritional value. But everyonceinawhile, I find one that's more like...designer candy. Still no real nutritional value, but something extra luxurious about the indulgent experience. I think it could have to do with the fact that Mom and Dad went to see Anna, and I was blissfully alone and slept on the couch when I got home and then woke up and read and read and read - skipping dinner - until I finished. That's the kind of reading one needs to do everyonceinawhile to really fortify the soul.

Yesterday was a fantastical, magical day at work. Everyonceinawhile, a very great while in fact, the stars align in this way that you get exactly what you work so hard for the other 3oo-some-odd days of the year. To get a story in the ACRONYM Today is something of a Holy Grail of PR. And then, to find out later that the pitch you made to a certain other nationally renowned publication like FOUR-BES, actually got picked up, too? Well, it just doesn't get any better than that. Except that it happened to be my three-year anniversary with the company, and The Linguista and I went to my favorite Mexican restaurant and drank frozen margaritas at lunch.

The Exotic is getting so close to her due date, and it's starting to make me a bit sad. What will I do without her calming presence in the office? She does yoga so I don't have to, and she offers me zen-by-proxy when I need it. I think I will feel spectacularly off when she's on maternity leave.

I am, however, excited about the next couple of months, which are rife with the kind of adventures I never have. On Monday is David Gray/Ray LaMontagne, the dreamiest of dream concerts. I'm taking one of the Big City interns with me, and it will be delight. And then we will enter the string of weeks from September to October when I have something all the time rather than everyonceinawhile to keep me occupied. Like a trip to D.C.! Mountain Day! Dallas to see Joel McHale with my Texas Twin in our Texas office! Valle Crucis! Company retreat! Oh my! Plus there are two volunteer events on my calendar in September and one in October, plus dinners and drinks with friends (yes! friends!). At times like these, I feel like...maybe I'm doing a better job than I think of carpe diem and not letting the fact that I'm not exactly where I want to be on The Great Life Continuum keep me from doing things that make this place on it so much better.

Despite the rain, I think it's time to pack the Rav and take a load over to My House where I will clean the bathrooms and dress them nicely with the bathmats and matching towel sets I purchased last week. And then I will stand back and contemplate that I could actually be moving soon in a way that is good and comfortable. And then I might be able to think about new companions for my sad heart - still so hard to let go of Kudzu, but so clear to me that I need that comfort from the four-legged varietal.

Wishing you both everyonceinawhile days.

xo,
Ash

Dear Addie:

While you haven't quite made it here yet, you're so close to joining us that I'd like to go ahead and celebrate this Mother's Day with you. I would like to start by thanking you for turning of your own volition into proper arrival position so that your mom didn't have to undergo this sort of terrifying sounding process to get you that way.

Soon you will be with us, with your cherubic newborn cuteness overwhelming us all. And your arrival will mark the point where your mom becomes, well, a mom officially. You won't ever think about it for a long, long time, but there was life before you for your mom. While you're growing up, she will always just be "Mom" and you'll never think about who she was before that. That's where I come in, because I knew your mom before she was Mom. When she was just Kim. Okay, that's not true. She was never *just* Kim because she was always in possession of a larger than life personality. And a wildly hilarious sense of humor. And a stellar rendition of "It's So Unusual" that she sang in a smoky, smoky karaoke bar in this little seaside town that will be so far from where you grow up that you'll keep forgetting where it was that your mom went to school.

But know this, dear Addie. That you are going to have the coolest mom who is going to love you so much more than she can say. And she's going to make you laugh and tell you crazy stories that are the figments of her imagination. She's going to teach you how to read and how to play the trombone and how to make sock monkeys. She's going to sing you "Me & Bobby McGee" like it's a lullaby, and you won't know until you're at least 15 that Janis Joplin lullabies are rad. She's never going to make you eat things you don't like - especially baked beans. And mayonnaise. She's going to drive you around in her car with the fuzzy steering wheel while the two of you sing "Got to be Startin' Something" and she's going to take you to Krispy Kreme where you'll buy donuts with the spare change in the car.

On this Mother's Day - your first - I wish you safe passage into this world. I wish you to know how loved you are already, and how much more loved you'll be in the coming days, weeks, and years. I wish you a good beginning to a life that will be filled with happiness and imagination and love. And I wish you good friends - the kind of friends your mom and me are. The kind of friendship that happens almost by magic, that is some unseen powerful force, that will carry you through the best and the worst. That will have you saying for years, "Remember that time we..." and loving that you have the past, the present and the future to be friends.

Happy Mother's Day, Addie. And Happy Mother's Day to my beloved friend Kim.

Love,
Ashley

Dear Co-Workers:

For the sake of my sanity on this torrentially rainy Monday morning, please end your hour-long conversation about your respective weddings. My understanding that one of you is getting married this week only extends so far. And my patience with the other, whose nuptials aren't even this calendar year, was extinguished nearly 45 minutes ago (either by the deluge of rain or the gust of my exasperated sighs). Not to mention that the conversation from this week's wedding perspective is that you simply do not have time to do all that you need to accomplish, and that from the other's perspective, you've already been called out this morning for being late and not getting it done, perhaps you should shut your yap. That is all.

Love,
Ash

Things That Are Not Helpful

Dear Seemingly Well-Meaning Acquaintance:
It really wasn't necessary for you to comment on the photo of my chronically ill Kudzu with tidings of your cat who had the SAME symptoms. Who also had a blood transfusion. Who also DIED. I'm not sure if Emily Post wrote on the acceptable things to say to someone who's dearest, most darling, most wonderfullest love is ill, but, lemme tell you, this ain't it. You are not the cat's meow.

Signed,
MyCatIsNotGonnaDie & Hisssss (from Kudzu)

A Half-Hearted Note of Apology

I'm sorry to be such a lazy blogger lately. I really am. I think about blogging. I even sometimes make little notes to myself on post-its. But...the blogging just seems to have gone to the wayside. As a peace offering, I give you this totally adorable picture of me and The Barrister. Can you be mad at that face? Really? Can you?

Don't I Already Have This CD?

Dear Sarah,
I have loved you for many, many (okay - let's not get carried away here, but I'm getting old, you know) years. And I have to say that I felt this teenage-girl thrill of excitement when I saw the video for "U Want Me 2." That was after I got over the pang of annoyance that your song title appears to be a text message of some sort. But it was new material!!!

I eagerly looked up the details on your new album...only to discover that it was a greatest hits album. I'm not trying to take away your right to a greatest hits...but...well, I'm a bit disappointed. Maybe it's because your last new album was Wintersong, and it was Christmas music, and it was beautiful, but not music you listen to every day in your car. And before that was Afterglow, which was lovely, but that was four years ago and even though you released two different versions of the live tour...that doesn't count.

Because Afterglow was preceded by an insanely long break after Mirrorball - which, quite frankly, was a live greatest hits album -- before Afterglow Live was a live greatest hits album. And somewhere in there, you rereleased Rarities B-Sides & Other Stuff, which I bought at a bootleg price in downtown A-town when I was in high school. Let us not forget the two remix albums. Oh, and that fake Sarah McLachlan album from Target that made me think that it would be covers of your favorite songs only to find out it was like "Sarah made you a mixed tape."

I guess my point is that you put out Touch and then Solace and Fumbling Towards Ecstasy in the first five years of your career. And the next fifteen brought just two albums of new material. Two! Since 1994, you have put out TWO new albums. I mean...two new albums since the first W was in the White House, and now all I get is a greatest hits album? After three different kinds of live albums and two remixers. I mean, if I'd even bought one of your live albums and one of your originals, I'd have like an 80 percent chance of having everything that's on your "new" album. I hate to tell you, Sarah, but there's some fuzzy math in there. And honestly, did you sit down and say, "Let's put 'Hold On' on one more album. I'm going for a record here."

I want to hang in there with you - we've been through a lot. But u want me 2 buy this new album when all I get is a text message? I dnt thnk so.

Less-than-three,
Ash

Gratitude: A Letter to the Universe

Dear Universe:
Thank you for the cool water trickling through my veins at last. Thank you for sending me the impulse to buy the Harper's Bazaar Fall Fashion issue so that I could read very nearly the whole four-pound book while waiting for a plane.

Thank you for an old, worn-in and wonderful friendship. For someone who cared enough to track down and drive to the only second-run theater in the St. Louis area still showing Sex & the City so that I could see it on the big screen. Thank you for the release mid-movie where I started to cry - and I so needed to. Thank you for a dream to own the Something Blue Satin Pump.

Thank you for time surrounded by flowers and plants of both the common and exotic variety. For time spent wandering through a woodland garden that transported my spirit to England. For the spontaneity to jump in a fountain and spend the rest of the afternoon slightly damp.

Thank you for chocolate - in martinis and cupcakes and mousse and truffle cake and plain old Hershey's chocolate bars eaten in a dark theater.

Thank you for art. For the burning red intensity of the Rothko. The charred haunting representation of Chernobyl in Burning Rods. For images and lines and color and textures that coalesced into visual emotion.

Thank you for a burst of laughter, for airplaning around a living room singing "That's How You Know" - badly. Thank you for turning laughter into giggles.

Thank you, Universe, for a little break. Thank you for the joy of hugs, the joy of words between friends. The joy of silence between friends. The joy of food shared with friends.

Thank you for friends. And thank you, friend.

Love,
Ashley

From Somewhere on the Third Floor Corridor...

from The Big Jewel

Letter from the Hogwarts Alumni Office
by Mike Richardson-Bryan

Mr. Harry Potter
Godric's Hollow
Gloucestershire
BS37 A10

Dear Mr. Potter,

Greetings from Hogwarts! Has it really been nineteen years since you last strode the hallowed halls of Britain's finest school of magic? Even without the assistance of a Time-Turner, time truly flies.

A lot has changed at Hogwarts since you graduated. Aldis lamps have replaced owls, golf carts have replaced Thestrals, and safe, reliable lifts have replaced the more capricious of the moving staircases. And what's that in the library? Yes, it's the school's very first computer, a Commodore 64, which I'm assured by those in the know is the very pinnacle of Muggle technology. Huzzah for progress!

And there have been important changes behind the scenes, as well. Long-overdue restructuring at the top has produced a leaner administration that is more responsive to today's educational priorities, including student safety. Indeed, thanks to stringent new hiring practices, only one out of every three Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers turns out to be an evil impostor bent on murdering students.

But as much as Hogwarts has changed, it remains, at heart, the same school you knew and loved in your youth. Peeves still torments students and teachers alike, the Whomping Willow still exacts a terrible toll on migratory birds, and Moaning Myrtle still haunts the second floor girls' lavatory despite repeated attempts at exorcism and generous applications of Febreze. And as it always has, Hogwarts continues to rely upon the generous support of former students like yourself.

Such support has never been more important. The recent unionization of the House Elves placed terrible stress on the school's finances. That stress that can be felt everywhere, even in Hogwarts' legendary kitchen, where the need for belt-tightening means that each student is now limited to 5 lbs. of pudding per meal. Increases in tuition have helped, but endless fee hikes are not the answer. So until Professor Longbottom's Knut-tree experiment yields tangible results, we're counting on the generous support of former students like yourself.

Your support will allow Hogwarts to maintain its position as a leader in magical research. Consider the work of Professor Chang, who has attracted international attention with her groundbreaking research into the mating habits of Dementors (not so different from the mating habits of middle-aged divorcees, as it turns out, only with a lot less crying in restaurants). Without your support, such research may not be possible.

Your generosity will also allow us to keep the lights on and the doors open at the Trelawney Memorial Wellness Centre. Today's students face many temptations, from old standbys such as Butterbeer to more recent and infinitely more sinister addictions such as Gillyweed, or "Willy G." as the kids call it (and take it from me, there's nothing sadder than the sight of a once-promising student, lying face-down in a pail of water, "tripping out" on Gillyweed). Without a place to turn, many struggling students will not find the help they need when they so desperately need it.

Finally, your support will allow Hogwarts to remain within financial reach of all deserving students. Scholarships for needy students are always in short supply, and scholarships for dead, undead, and demonically-possessed students are particularly hard to come by. Without your support, many reanimated students may be forced to abandon their studies and go directly into middle management.

So what can you afford to give? Before answering, think back to your time at Hogwarts. There was lots of hard work, of course, but there was always time for fun -- chatting with your mates in the Common Room, sneaking out to Hogsmeade to buy sweets at Honeydukes (inevitably followed by hours spent chasing after an errant Chocolate Frog), dancing with your sweetheart at the Yule Ball, and the like. No doubt you have many such happy memories. If not, please check your Pensieve, they're probably in there. And after reviewing them, I'm sure you'll agree that you can't put a price on good memories -- but that if you could, it would include at least four figures.

The sad truth, Mr. Potter, is that financial support from your year has always been rather lean. This is not because your classmates are indifferent to the school's needs, but rather because so many of them are dead, killed by You-Know-Who and his minions, often quite horribly (speaking of which, a few more bits of poor Dean Thomas turned up just last week, a testament to the awesome power of the Fulminare Viscus curse). Now, considering that You-Know-Who was after you the whole time and that your unlucky classmates merely got in the way, it seems only fair that you should do your utmost to make up the difference. I'm sure you'll agree that your alma mater deserves no less.

Yours truly,

Fitch T. Fenwick
Director, Office of Alumni Relations
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

P.S. -- If you need one more reason to support Hogwarts, then consider your old house's Quidditch team. They're suffering their worst year in generations on account of the sad state of repair of their equipment (the beaters must share a single tattered broom, and the seeker has no broom whatsoever and so must to run around making "whoosh" noises and hope that the Golden Snitch dips low enough to be snared from the ground, which of course it never does). Something to think about the next time you're at Gringotts, rolling in your money or whatever it is you do there when the Goblins aren't looking.


Hmmm....sound familiar?

Coming Soon to a Blog Near You

* Yes, Penelope, it's time for a AshCentric ProRun roundup. I have to say, so far, this season's stylist have me a little baffled. Holla!

* An explanation of TTLY Syndrome and why it's killing me.

* A post of a hilarious Potter-themed letter sent to me by Jenn's husband Dan

* A little bit more about the volunteer group that I've undertaken - which I think is seriously happening since I met with my boss about it today (*gulp*)

* In the meantime, please enjoy this graphic from TagCrowd. It gives you a picture of what your blog says about you - it's kind of like a variation on magnetic poetry.

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created at TagCrowd.com

Feminist Fatale

Dear Ms. Gerdes,
I read, with great interest, your recent column lambasting the feminist doctrine of Sex & the City. And I must heartily disagree with you that the gals of S&TC are bad for young career women. I'm not sure how you can make that claim when you look at the four women on the show - Carrie, who decided not to give up the career she loved for The Russian; Miranda, who made being a high-powered attorney work with being a mom; Samantha, who's chosen to have neither children nor a husband in lieu of career and a life lived at her whim; and Charlotte, who did give up her career for family - but that's what she wanted to do. And maybe that doesn't qualify for your definition of career woman, but to me, that's the beauty of the show: it's a cross-section of women choosing different careers in ways that work for them.

So why all the bitterness and judgment? Isn't the message there that you can do what you want to do? And isn't that, in and of itself a "feminist" message for women? I think possibly, you should rewatch the episode where Carrie catches Samantha with the Fed-Ex delivery man for a PSA on judgment.

You uphold three people in your column. Gloria Steinham, Hillary Clinton, and Jenna Jamison (really???). While I find Steinham and Clinton inspiring in what they've done making inroads for women everywhere, I don't think they're like me. I don't identify with them. To me, it's taking feminism back to a level that made it hard for a lot of women to swallow by making it radical in its definition. In order to be feminist - and here's where you uphold yourself as "feminist" - you have to renounce marriage and family, devote yourself wholly to your career, and idolize political and social icons. It's taking feminism and limiting it to those who choose this all-or-nothing approach and those who are willing to make a statement with their lives.

That's not me. I don't want to make a statement. Other than that I am a woman and I feel empowered to do what I want to do and that I am still strong and still independent even if that vision of who I am and what I want to be includes marriage and a family. And right now? I am a career woman, but I don't think that's what makes me feminist as much as my belief that women can be whatever they want. I object to the idea that being a wife and mother - whether a SAHM or working mother - is anti-feminist.

Plus, I'd like to remind you that S&TC is entertainment. That's what made it fun. That it wasn't a documentary about Gloria Steinham. That it was about women who had all sorts of insecurities and frailties (not whiny as you suggest) and problems with men and career (I assume you've had these?) and that they looked fabulous while dealing with it.

And lastly, I should probably remind us both that we're talking about a television show. A ground-breaking one. A generation-defining one. A revolutionary one, even. But also one that was written to engage us, make us laugh, make us think. And that in and of itself, should grab it a place in the feminist hall of fame.

So you may be disillusioned by S&TC. But me? I still uphold my pink suede box set with pride.

Viva la Bradshaw!
Ash

Underwood Underfed?

Dear Carrie,
I know that you won American Idol and let Jesus take the wheel, but I hope He just took the wheel and not your dinner, too. I don't know if it's because that guy is cheating on you that you feel the need to stop eating. But, you know, if he's cheating, he's probably not worth the starvation. Plus, you beat the crap out of his really nice car so that was probably enough. Maybe you were nervous before the Country Music Awards - I mean, like, nervous for six months before because you are looking very Twiggy-esque.

I applaud your lovely blonde hair. And I even dig your gold flapper dress. And those shoes? I'd shove you down for those shoes. Which I could clearly do, because you now weigh about 90 pounds.

Remember when you were on AI and you were all normal-sized? That was good. I mean, you look...hungry. Great, but hungry. So even though Jesus is driving, you should consider asking him to stop for a Happy Meal. Your knobby knees pain me.

xo,
Ash

Solicitation

Dear Institute of Higher Learning in a Coastal Location in the Northernmost Carolina:

I would say that I appreciated your call this evening, but I really didn't. I could tell it was going to be that kind of call. The kind where you've propped up some poor freshman kid in a cube with a phone list, so he can pretend to care how I'm doing and then hit me up for money to support ye olde university because I know how important that money is to kids like him.

But the truth is, I don't know what it's like for kids like him, because if someone like me now gave funds for students like me then, it sure didn't make it down to me. If I recall correctly, you didn't see fit to provide the grad labs with printer paper back in the day. And our classrooms in the language arts buildings? I don't think you've allocated any funds to them since 1970.

And while we're talking about funds, let's get one thing out in the open: you never allocated funds for me. When I was there - when I was a student like him - you didn't have a dime to spare for me. Not one red cent. You didn't really want me there; you robbed me blind because I was out-of-state. And in general, you were sort of careless and didn't take much time to form any sort of bond with me. In other words, I don't really feel the teal.

Let me clarify that I'm not totally dismissing the years we shared. But let's face it - I was a giver and you were a taker. So don't come calling me and asking me for money. Just because I have a good job now, don't think I'm going to be flipping any funds your way - especially not the $150 contribution you were asking for right off the bat.

What if I had just called you up back in the day and asked for a hundred and fifty bucks? Yep. That's right. What goes around comes around.

C U by the Sea,
Resentful in Ga.