The Best Email I Have Ever Gotten

Last week, my parents came to check out the sunny Mission and cruise the then-windy streets of San Francisco with their second-born child in tow. While on a drive, I detailed to my father the events surrounding the mysterious disappearance of the Mr. Pickles Sandwich Shop sidewalk mascot. Several days have transpired since then, and my dear father and I have not spoken of this unfortunate event. However, this morning, I awoke to the following email (certainly, the best I have ever received.)

Dear Karen:

I continue to put my full efforts toward keeping the trail warm in the search to find Mr. Pickles. I wish I could report that he had been recovered but this is not the case. I do at least have something positive to share with you. We now know that Mr. Pickles may not have been stolen as thought but rather may have done a "bust out" move of his own from his famous restaurant at the corner of the Mission District close your apartment.

Some witnesses say he grew tired of the pole up his butt that kept him from falling over. Others say it was for more complex reasons. We will only know for sure once we have a chance to fully interrogate him upon his retrieval. The unfortunate facts are that there are indications that he may have joined a gang of vegetable led terrorists. There is some factual evidence of this that I want to share with you.

The following picture was snapped of Mr. Pickles yesterday in Cincinnati from our remote surveillance satellite. You can clearly see Mr. Pickles in an act of barbarism-- caught green handed leaving a Subway sandwich shop with a hostage under his arm.

As you can see he is heavily armed with semi- automatic condiment dispensers and likely is willing to use these horrid weapons of "ass destruction" if confronted. We rushed to the site of this picture hoping to find him but he had vanished. We believe that he is still in the area and we are following up on our leads with several eye witnesses today. I will keep you posted as our investigation continues. May god help us all if we don't soon find him and bring him back to his rightful owners.

Faithfully Yours,

Inspector Pere

On Commitment (Or, "Now Sets In The Terror")

There is a reason that I do not own any Manolo Blahnik pumps.

All right, there are two reasons that I don't own any Manolo Blahnik pumps. For the sake of this post, however, we will only address the issue of more noteable import: Long Term Relationships. Like most human-types, I have a healthy respect for (read: fear of) the LTR.

These little beasts creep right up on us, and frequently stay "under the radar" for months until, one lethargic night, you wake up in a cold sweat at 3 AM, tangled in your astronaut pajamas, and you see the remainder of your natural life stretching endlessly forward. Launching yourself at the nearest reflective service, you pull desperately at the bags under your eyes and gaze, agape, watching your visage change with a fear unmatched even by Dorian Gray himself.

(Exception: This experience is, of course, exponentially diminished if you are waking up next to the lithe-limbed, ultra-loving hottie of your dreams. You're also probably not wearing astronaut pajamas, in this instance, and therefore this post does NOT apply to you.)

"How," you ask your decrepit reflection, "did this happen?" You have always been the picture of contentedness! As the great treadmill of time has spooled beneath your feet, you have sighed as many times from joy as frustration. What is it, then, that has rocketed you into this late-night, teeth-clenching turmoil? Maybe it's just the veggie crunch-wrap you had before bed, but I respectfully suggest that the culprit is otherwise.

Let's put it this way: Once you wear the Blahnik pumps to the club, they become a different demon altogether. Chances are, your best friend has spattered them with a healthy layer of martini, you've wrenched the heel out of at least 2 sidewalk chasms, and, come to find out, after six hours of dance-stagger-trotting through the city, they hurt like a son of a bitch.

You wanted them, though, and you GOT them, baby. All *cough* hundred dollars of them are now yours, and, should you choose NOT to wear them, they will tsk judgmentally from the back of your closet, until, driven mad with guilt, you bring them out for another torturous evening. This time, you will suffer in silence.

This is, dear reader, "le pire des cas," and therefore should be read with the full knowledge that there is a good chance your over-priced foot-covers will feel great! However, this tiny crack in the great glass tower of FAITH is the source of my aforementioned, all-powerful terror of The LTR.

I am, this Monday morning, a Receptionist plagued with a raging case of nerves. My acceptance to graduate school has hammered down my where-abouts/activities for the next two and a half years of my life-space. I am thrilled... and panicked.

Truly,

A Reticent Receptionist

Wednesday

I toe the line, I toe the line!
I walk as if in metered time.
Abiding hours of antique rhymes
and towing lines - what, then, is mine?

94110

Oh, my beautiful one!

This morning, you woke me up as you always do. I've never understood your capacity to start the day with such rapidity, but for six months now you have shed somnolence with just one specific swish of the second hand. At first, I found this frustrating, wanting to linger in sleep or slowly climb out of my foggy dreams. But now, this playful banter has become your chief charm, a bullet-point on my love-lists.

Everywhere, there are little signs of you: all about my car, inside my purse, hiding in my coat pockets. Since the moment we fell for each other, you have left tiny love-letters in my life. Most of these are inadvertently placed, but I can't help the way my limbs come alive with joy when I find them. (The blossoms on my bike, darling, were a lovely surprise.) You are filled with an altruism so genuine... It's as if you sense my quietest needs and then, with the dexterity of a symphony conductor, coax my desires from their hiding places and embody them before me.

Can you count the number of magnificent adventures we have shared? Surely, I cannot. As the sun goes down, you place your sturdy arm about my waist and I know something fantastic is about to unfold... The food, the drinks, the dancing... twisted all through with paintings and poems and street-singing love. I cannot help but sigh my joy to you every night, as we smile too hard and careen towards my porch.

Darling, I know you do not take my love for granted. You have never failed to reciprocate, in some fashion, the affection that I feel. You manifest in fog-free, starry rooftop nights to match my 24th Street music. You fill your arms with opportunities to match my twin thirsts for knowledge and sharing. You give me honesty, you give me chance, and, honey, you even let me wear black and brown together without a word.

I cannot imagine life without you now, though at first I tread towards you with reluctance. You've so many lovers... You've graced the pages of great literary works, you have been sung for decades, internationally. But after our first night together, when you were kind, and gentle, and modest... When you listened, rapt, to my own saga as if it were equal to your own... When you shared every ounce of yourself, willingly, and made visible your flaws...It was then that I knew we, my love, are meant to be.

My heart belongs to you, always -

The Most Amourous Receptionist