December 31, 2011

My Mission . . . Should I Choose to Accept It

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

There are less than 90 minutes left in 2011.  It was quite a year.  And that's all I'm going to say about it for now.  Because now - NOW - now this very moment I am looking ahead to 2012.  I don't want to look much beyond the next 90 minutes though because one of my resolutions part of my mission statement is to focus more on the NOW.

I don't make resolutions, Tom.  I write mission statements.  I usually write a mission statement every birthday, but failed to do so this year.  Not that I'm a failure.  Because I am far from it - if I do say so myself.  Now seems as good of time as any to write a new mission statement, so here goes:
My mission for the coming year is to be more present in the moment by not over-analyzing every past event and worrying about every upcoming perceived problem.  LIVE in the NOW.  Not only will I live with NO REGRETS, but also live without WHAT IFS encircling me.  I will be GRATEFUL for everything I have EVERYDAY and not concern myself with what I do not have.  I will focus on building a better me, a better career, a better life EVERYDAY.  I won't just feel the MAGIC, but share it.
I know that sounds really cheesy, but I'm the girl who still believes in fairy tales and motivational posters from the 80s and 90s.  Also, I've decided to go to church on occasion this year.  Strictly for research purposes.  I'll explain more later.

Oh!  One more thing for the list:  my book.  I'm going to start it.  So you better get your ass in gear on that movie deal.  Happy New Year Tom!

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

December 10, 2011

I'm Broke but I'm Happy

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I know that sounds like a cheesy lyrical title, but I always 'got' that song.  At least I thought I did.  Now I really 'get' it.  Because whatever lies beyond broke, is where I am financially.  But whatever lies way beyond happy, is where I am in life.  I am SO fucking happy!  And broke.

I've always been a dichotomy within myself.  I'm a Libra, what do you expect?  I'm a chaotic genius, if you will.  And a little full of myself at times too.  But at least I'm charming.  And I have great hair.

Aaannnddd . . . I'm broke.  So remember how I now ask for what I want every day?  And get it!?  Well let me give you some examples:

  • I was stressing over having enough money to get dog food (times are tough, Tom) and was later making a grocery list while Jackie B was here when she said, "Oh, I have a bag you can have."  Um, Jackie B hates animals.  Hate is a strong word.  She'll have none of that in her home.  But she had a bag of dog food?!  Well played Whomever is Out There.
  • Later that same day, I accidentally went on a date with my elderly neighbor whose son I've been friends with since high school.  I wish that were not a true story.  But it is.  To excuse myself in a ladylike way when I was asked in for a night cap, I informed him I had to run to the store for cat food.  And that was NOT a lie.  But he - Mr. I Hate Cats - had a bag of cat food!  So I took it and said thanks and made Jackie B come dig me out of the grave I had dug for myself.  Accidentally.  Close call Whomever's Got My Back.
  • Lately I've been into my wall calendar at my Magic Cottage.  Not sure why, but I am.  As I was writing on it the other day, I got really bummed out that there were only a few weeks left of my calendar.  Not of the year mind you - I'm over 2011 in a big way.  Bring on 2012!  I was sad that in a few weeks I'd have no wall calendar because my broke ass can't afford to even buy a new calendar.  (I told you times are tough Tom, real tough)  I contemplated making a calendar for a brief moment, then quickly decided that would take way too much effort and sounds crafty.  Which I am not.  So then I began thinking how much I'd have to babysit to earn the money to buy a calendar.  Why yes, I am babysitting.  A buck's a buck.  And I am seriously back to square fucking one in life again.  But I love it here!  I needed this and I welcome this.  I am grateful for it.  Truly fucking grateful.  But real fucking broke too.  So I pulled myself away from my beautiful wall calendar and walked around my Magic Cottage being truly grateful for what I have.  And then I came to my daughter's room and I got extra grateful for having her in my life and having her home and healthy.  And then I got excited for whatever the next chapter is in our lives.  And then I looked over, and there was a calendar!  A 20 fucking 12 calendar she had brought home from school for me.  Jackpot!  Thank you Dad.  Thank you God.  Thank you Universe.  And then . . . the next day . . . I was at a local retail establishment and the cashier put TWO 2012 calendars in my bag!  Free of charge!  Thank you Sir, may I have another?!

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

December 8, 2011

All I Want for Christmas

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Remember me?  Crazy girl?  Dead dad?  Head in the clouds?  Yeah, me again.  Missed me, didn't you?  Being the actor who will play the part of my dad is not an easy job, but you really have no choice in the matter.  Let's just agree that you'll tolerate my sporadic and random ramblings until you cash-in on the film.  Thanks.

Moving on.

There's been a lot of commotion between the last time I wrote and now, but basically it's all par for the course in this amazing life of mine.  Remember LDB (and his wife)?  Well he all but built me my very own Barbie Dream Home!  I call it the Magic Cottage.  Aaannnddd . . . I'm paying him back in cake!  True fucking story Tom!  Remind me to tell you all about it later.  Right now we need to discuss Christmas.  And what I want for it.

When I was a little girl, nothing brought my OCD-self more pleasure than sitting with the Sears, JCPenney, and Best (remember that store?) holiday edition catalogs, bending corners of all the pages containing items I wanted, and making a list complete with columns to cross-reference the page number, item identifier, price, and size and color when appropriate.  I invented the spreadsheet in the 70's.

What I didn't realize until I grew my ass up is that 'Santa' had already done 'his' shopping (at the discount stores) right after Christmas the previous year so as to get the biggest bang for his fat little Santa buck.  Asshole.  So while I always had a great big beautiful Christmas, I very rarely got exactly what I wanted.  My 'IZOD' had a turtle instead of an alligator.  My 'Jordache' jeans had a penguin instead of a horse.  My 'Cabbage Patch Kid' was more special because it was handmade.  Fuck you Santa!  Apparently I still resent Santa and harbor a few bitter feelings I'm working through with my shrink.

There came a point in life where I stopped making lists.  At least for Christmas.  Trust me . . . I make plenty of lists!  And at some point people stopped even asking me what I wanted for Christmas.  They just guessed and sometimes got it right, but most of the time didn't.  On the rare occasion I was asked my reply was always 'socks' because I knew I wouldn't get what I really wanted so had to protect myself from disappointment.  I only scored on the socks about 50% of the time because no one was actually listening.  Asking me was just a formality.  (Note to self:  See if shrink has a cancellation this afternoon.)

Lately I've been asking for what I want.  Exactly what I want.  every.  fucking.  day.  And do you know what, Tom?  I keep getting it!  Exactly what I want.  every.  fucking.  day.

I'm so scared.  But SO excited!

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

May 19, 2011

A Deer, A Female Deer

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I know it's been forever and a day since I've written and I'm sorry.  Kind of.  Don't worry, I still want you to play the part of my dad on the silver screen.  I think about you and our blockbuster a lot.  But the truth is, I've had shit going on and shit going down and the shit just got real.  I've been in a bit of a haze trying to sort it all out.

What I've learned though, is that maybe I need to just stop trying to sort it all out and just roll over and float on down the stream with it.

So just as I was coming to this conclusion (for the 1,379,517th time in my life) today while parked in what I like to refer to as the enchanted forest, I looked over and saw a deer.  A doe.  A strong, peaceful, beautiful, content female deer.  And that's when I knew . . .

I knew everything is going to be alright.  I knew my dad was there with his watchful eye and wide open heart making sure everything is falling into perfect place for me.

I knew because of this:

I closed on my first home on the one year anniversary of my dad's death.  Bittersweet does not begin to describe that time in my life.  I was a daddy's girl and he was the only person I wanted - I needed - with me at that time and he was notably missing.  The night before my closing he came to me in a dream and said, "I'm right here with you Sis.  Everything's going to be alright."

The week I moved in, a buck deer stood in my backyard for several days and as crazy as it may sound . . . I knew it was my dad watching over me.  I could feel him.

The next house I bought, my dad sent the train as his blessing.

The next house there was yet another buck deer shortly after we moved in who spent nearly a week in our backyard watching over us.

When I lost it all and had to leave that house, he sent another buck to my new home to greet me.  In this house?  The train.

Tomorrow I am taking what some would see as a big risk by buying a home with my 'life savings' when I don't have a job - a paying one anyway.  Today I was freaking out over it and some other new developments I'll get around to telling you about in due time.

In true 'Dad' fashion, that's when the doe showed up.  I know she was sent by him to let me know all is right in my world and he is there every step of the way.  Being the ungrateful whiny little brat of a daughter that I am, I challenged my dad with, "Is that all you've got Dad?  I don't deserve a buck this time?  Just this lousy doe?"  Charming, aren't I?

That's when a friend of mine spoke up and pointed out all of the changes that have been taking place in my amazing life leading up to this point.  She believes this is my dad's way of letting me know I can do this on my own.  I don't need to rely on his strength anymore, just on my own strong peaceful spirit like that doe.  He'll be there, but this is all me this time.

I don't know for sure, and I'd never admit it out loud but I think she just may be right.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

March 30, 2011


Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Do you sometimes put whipped cream and colored sugar on top of your coffee at home for fun?

Sometimes . . . I have to stop myself from typing the word 'dude' at the beginning of everything I write.  I helped make that word hip in the 80's but was secretly happy when it went on the endangered species list of words.  Seems as though it's back with a vengeance.  I hate it.  But I.  can't.  stop.  saying.  it!


true story dude.

Edie B. Kuhl

March 20, 2011

It's Your Call

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

When I was growing up I was not allowed to call boys.  EVER!  I used to hate that rule in our house and when I questioned it, the answer was a simple "girls just don't call boys".  I don't remember the exact reasoning when I pushed for a 'why' but in my head it was translated to:  it makes you seem needy, desperate, trashy, easy, and a whore.  It was probably just another way to end up a pregnant teenager.

I'm fairly certain my parents didn't use those exact terms - or maybe they did - but whatever the case . . . it stuck.  I still don't call boys.  Almost never ever.  Even if I'm in a relationship, I don't call unless I actually need something and therefore feel just the way I'm programmed to feel - needy.  Ugh!

With these new-fangled gadgets like e-mail, social networks, and texters, I only get more confused.  Everyone's doing it.  Girls are texting and Facebooking boys at an alarming rate.  Just since I've started this letter there have probably been 317 cyber-pregnancies.  It scares the shit out of me.

Occasionally I will dip my toe in the pond and send an e-mail or a text to a boy without 'invitation'.  And then I go take a shower.

Yesterday I did the unthinkable.  I called a boy.  For no reason.  No reason at all.  Well, except I was thinking about him.  And I kind of like him.  And every time he calls me, he says 'thanks for calling' before we hang up.  I thought it was cute and funny but now I'm thinking it's a dig at me because I never call.

So I did.  I called.

He fucking answered!  The nerve!

He was watching the game and completely distracted but I think happy to hear from me.  It was really difficult to tell because I got all awkward and tongue-tied, broke out in a cold sweat, and couldn't wait to hang up the phone.  And take a shower and go to confessional even though I'm not at all Catholic.

So this came up over drinks last night and the consensus was that I'm overreacting and need deprogrammed.  I just think my friends are a bunch of whores.

What do you think?  What are the rules on this?  Please enlighten me.  This is the mustache guy, so I feel like you share a special bond with him.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

March 9, 2011

Well Played James

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

If you haven't noticed, music is ultra important to me.  I don't consider myself a music snob and I don't have a favorite artist or even a genre I lean toward.  If it speaks to me, I love it.  I surround myself with it.

When Mary was in the hospital for so long (2007-2008, and someday I'll get to that story) I immersed myself in as much music as was possible.  I had theme songs, fight songs, playlists of hope, and playlists of hurt.  If I couldn't find just the right song, I'd go music surfing on MySpace.  One artist would lead me to another, to another, to another.  I was a music junkie.  I would spend hours music surfing into the wee hours of the morning.

One night I found Beth Hart.  The song was Soulshine.  It was perfect.  Just what I needed, when I needed it.  Well played James.

(Did I forget to mention my dad, Jim - the dead one, is my DJ?  No?  Ok, another story for another day.  Just know 'Well played James' is how I acknowledge his hand in the mix of my amazing life.)

So after Soulshine, I had to check out the rest of her music.  I fell in love with her (not in a creepy way Tom . . . although I am adding her to my 'if I could romp with a celebrity and were a lesbian list') and downloaded everything she has ever released as I watched this video:

You're in love now too, aren't you?  Don't you just l-o-v-e the way she says "skinny ass Alabama boy"? I've had me one of those.  I believe there's probably a skinny ass Alabama boy in everyone's closet if the truth be known.

Ok, so flash to now-ish.

If you're my friend you listen to Beth Hart.  Or you at least listen to me listen to Beth Hart.  You also know that I always say if she is in town, I will go see her no matter the cost.  If I were a Make a Wish kid, I'd wish to see her.

Also on my 'if I were a Make a Wish kid' wish list is to road trip on every road in every state every day.  I love a good road trip and nothing is more therapeutic to me than a long drive with the windows rolled down and the music cranked up.

I have been craving a road trip for months.  I've told everyone I want to go on a road trip in the spring, but the destination is unknown . . . possibly the beach.

A few weeks ago, as I talked about the places I wanted to go and maybe even live, Nashville became a prominent forerunner.  I know it's crazy, but I kept saying I heard it calling my name.  Weird.

Just a couple of days ago when Jackie B was here for a friendly kick-ass game of Scrabble, we were I was listening to Beth Hart and whining telling her how much I'd love to see her in concert but she never tours anywhere remotely close to us.

For shits and giggles I went to her site and held my breath as I pulled up her tour schedule.  I saw there was only ONE show in the United States listed.  My eyes moved to the left, looking for the state and expecting her only damn show in the US to be in California.



In the spring!

Guess who's going?  Well played James.  Well played.  Thank you Daddy.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

March 4, 2011

It's All in the Wrist

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Yesterday was my cousin Mario's birthday.  I didn't realize it was his birthday until I saw his brother and sister posting about it on Facebook.  I had just been talking about him the day before that.  I was telling Jackie B about the time . . .

*cue squiggly flashback sequence*

I would like to say I was very young when this happened, but twenty-something is old enough to know better. It all started when I brought a knife to Christmas Eve at Granny's house. (note to self:  NEVER a good idea!)

This wasn't just any knife - this was a stiletto. A camouflage stiletto. That's right - the kind with the 'button'-like thing that makes the blade pop straight out. It's a beauty. The Chief found it and I adored it and he adored me, therefore the stiletto was mine.

I was attending Christmas Eve alone because The Chief had blown chunks all over the street next to my dad's car the Christmas before thanks to an obvious hangover.  And I was living in sin with him, therefore having sex with him.  Totally his fault.  Let's just say he was the devil in my family's eyes and not welcome.

So I plopped down on the love seat next to my cousin Mario who was just as thrilled to be there. We were the same age and he's only my cousin by marriage, not by blood, but we always had a bond. He was Hispanic (and therefore suspect to gang activity by the elders of the family) and was still somewhat new to my 'non-prejudicial' family, so was kind of an outcast. I loved him from day one and wanted to make him feel more welcome. So I showed him my knife.

Being the same age, but more importantly the same maturity level (not very) we sat there giggling and playing with the knife while the Christmas Eve festivities went on around us. Everyone was so wrapped up in who was getting what, they were completely oblivious to our shenanigans.

Mario really wanted the knife! He begged me for it. He offered to pay me for it. No deals! It was mine! I was a bit possessive over my new toy and kept grabbing it from him and he kept grabbing it back. Remember how mature we both were? I told him to give it to me so I could show him a really cool trick. 

He gave the knife back to me and I held it against my Granny's loveseat cushion to demonstrate the safety. When you hold it against something and press the 'button'-like thing, the blade does not shoot out, but instead disengages from the spring mechanism. Or whatever. I'm not mechanical or technical or knifey, but it seems as though that's what happens.

So anyhow, I hold the knife against my Granny's cushion and press the button . . .

This is the part of the story where when I'm telling it verbally, everyone stops and gasps and says 'oh my God, the safety didn't work and you cut your granny's love seat cushion?' and I say . . . 'if only I were so lucky!', it only gets better from here.

As fate would have it, the safety DID work. Lucky me!  Mario was awed.  And just like a bad infomercial, I had to say to dear Mario . . . But wait, that's not all!

So the blade is now loose in the 'chamber'/handle and you can't use the knife once this happens until you have re-engaged the spring thingy. Or whatever it is. For my next trick I'm going to show my dear cousin Mario how make this happen and he will be so impressed he'll squeal like a schoolgirl in the middle of Christmas Eve and all of the other cousins will make fun of him!

This was the potentially fatal mistake of the evening. The mistake that sealed my fate. The mistake we will have to rehash at every fucking Christmas Eve until the end of time.

Now my dear Tom . . . the only way to re-engage the spring thingy is with a swift flick of the wrist. This manually sends the blade out of the 'chamber'/handle and locks it into place so the 'button'-like thing will now pull it back in and out on command. When executed correctly this maneuver is quite impressive. Awe inspiring really. Especially when I do it.

So I say the magic words . . . Watch THIS Mario!


And the knife flies.  out.  of.  my.  hand.


Remember it's a 'swift' flick of the wrist? This means I really flung that sucker hard. It sailed across Granny's living room (seemingly in slow motion) where the entire family was gathered for a Norman fucking Rockwell Christmas Eve. It flew like a son-of-a-bitch. And did I mention it's very heavy? And did I mention it's a fucking knife?! And did I mention when the safety has been engaged and then you flick it, the blade comes OUT and LOCKS?

Oh holy Mary, mother of a . . . 

I couldn't look. I can't stand the site of blood. There were children in the room. I was sure someone had been stabbed and was bleeding out to their death there in Granny's living room on Christmas Eve. We were going to be on the news.  I was going to jail. I was getting the electric chair.

No one knew I had a knife or that Mario and I were playing with it or what the hell had just happened and so there were 'what the fuck' looks on everyone's faces. All but one . . . my cousin's girlfriend's face.

Because . . . her face was buried in her hands and she was hunched over rocking back and forth in pain!  Fuck, fuck, fuck!!! Not a good sign. I couldn't look anymore. I was sure when she came up for her dying breath, there would be my stiletto sticking out of her jugular. I buried my face into Mario who then pried me off and told me it was ok, I could look. My cousin's girlfriend had a HUGE welt and shiner all around her eye. 'Lucky' for me the blade did NOT come out (maybe I DO believe in Christmas miracles) but the butt end hit her cheek/eye bone full force.

At that moment, I did what any remorseful person does.

I took off running like hell.  I fled the scene.  I literally ran out of Granny's house and ran all the way to my parents with no coat in the snow.  (They lived one driveway away, that was me using my creative/drama queen license)

All I could do was cry.  I cried and cried and cried and cried. My mom came over and yelled - A LOT, Mario came over to comfort me and laugh his ass off, and finally my dad came over and calmed me down and assured me I was not banned from Christmas. He also assured me we would look back on this and laugh someday. He was right.

My cousin's girlfriend never pressed charges, recovered nicely, and she's now his wife. Every Christmas Eve the story is told and everyone laughs.

Those who have always laughed the hardest though are Mario and I. We shared an extra special bond after that. When we actually did mature (kind of) and had families of our own he'd tell me I wasn't allowed near his kids or he'd ask me if my knives were locked up when he brought the kids to my house. It was always a joke. And after all those years he still always wanted my damn stiletto. And I always said no.

In 2007, we lost my cousin Mario to Lou Gherig's Disease (ALS).  Even when he was very weak with the disease he'd beg me to give him the stiletto. I still said no. That was our game and it gave us a laugh when there wasn't much to laugh about.

It was a long, emotional drive to his memorial service.  I kept a grip of that knife the whole way and Mario and I talked, laughed, and even sang "Let's Go Crazy" by Prince.  I brought the knife into his memorial service just to taunt him one last time.  If nothing else, it made his mom and I smile.

*cue squiggly back to the present sequence*

The knife is broken now.  I keep it in my top desk drawer and think of Mario every time I see it and smile.  I often think about giving it to one of his kids or siblings but then he'd win.  So I'm keeping it.  I win!  Love and miss you my partner in crime.  Happy birthday Mario!

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

March 3, 2011

Hard Headed

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

*tee hee* I said hard headed.  *tee hee*  Get it?  *tee hee*

I'm giving you a rare opportunity to step inside my mind.  Don't be scared.  You know how sometimes they make a 'live' TV drama or sitcom?  That's what I'm going to attempt to do here today in this letter.  I don't believe this is something that has ever been done before.  I am certain to go down in blogging history.  I am going to just type whatever pops into my pretty little head today so you can see the how my brain sometimes works.

I had a great aunt who died from Alzheimer's.  We're fairly certain my grandpa had it, but thank God the lung cancer took him first.

For a second I forgot why I just told you that, but now I remember . . . It's because I'm pretty sure I have it.  Alzheimer's that is.  People tell me no, that I'm too young.  But I'm pretty sure this is how it starts.  I fogot (see?  I forgot the r in forgot . . . this is a cry for help)

Ugh!  Mid-sentence and I forget what I'm saying and why.  Dammit!

So let me just tell you about this cool little thing my peeps over at Studio 30+ are doing.  They just started a weekly writing prompt!  This is great because . . .

Oh now I remember!

This is great because I keep starting letters to you, then I get distracted, and when I go back to finish them I can't remember the whole point of why I was writing to you about things like . . . well, mice.

Sssooo . . . This little writing prompt thingy is a great idea for people like me who need to be kept on task.  This week's word is CONCRETE.  I'm not sure why I feel the need to type that so boldly.

When I think of concrete I think of cement and then I think of all the people who have made fun of me for saying see-ment instead of seh-ment which makes them giggle because they thought I said semen and I thought they thought I said seamen and then I giggle because it makes me think of semen and then . . .

 . . . Focus Edie . . .

Ok, so concrete . . . Um, I got nothing.

But nothing reminds me that nothing is concrete.  Especially not in quantum physics.  Oh!  Which reminds me why I was telling you about the mice!  It's because someone tried to tell me they transported some mice through time and space unscathed.  I don't know if it's true, but if it is . . . My life is about to get a WHOLE lot more amazing Tom!

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

February 24, 2011


Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Do you sometimes disconnect all of your communication devices and pretend you're invisible?

Sometimes . . . I say the word cigarette over and over and over again.  In different accents.  I love that word!  It even looks pretty in print.  Saying the word cigarette with an accent - any accent will do - is also the password for the gentlemen caller door at my house.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

February 23, 2011

They Call Me Mom

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I can't believe I've written you over 20 letters and still have not told you about my girls.  There's just so much to tell.  Let's start with how I became a mom.  And don't worry, this doesn't involve anything sexual. I realize usually becoming a mom starts with sex, but not for me.  No sir-ree.

For me, it started with a phone call from my aunt while out to a leisurely Sunday lunch with my mother back in 2001.  I had moved back from Atlanta to Tiny Town USA about a year before.  I was a successful, professional, single woman living the American dream.  I had a two-story, four bedroom, three bath home with a pool and a pool house for my two dogs and myself.  So when my aunt suggested I go check out a foster/adoption picnic that afternoon, I was game.

Knowing I had so much extra space, I was immediately hooked on the idea of finding a way to give back.  A week or so later I attended an orientation where I decided the perfect fit for me was to become a licensed foster parent and provide emergency and respite care, meaning very short term placements.

I think babies are kind of weird looking and entirely too needy.  Children get on my nerves, generally speaking.  And there's this commitment problem I have too.  This was THE best solution for me.  I could give back by giving a kid or two a place to stay for a night or two at a time.  AND I could always say no.  Perfect.  Sign me up.

After the excruciating process of becoming licensed, I got my first phone call and immediately exercised my right to say no to a pregnant teenager.  I didn't want to end up with a teenage girl, AND a baby, AND a baby daddy!  Fuck no!  Next.

The next call was to take a 2 week placement.  What the fuck did these people not understand about my commitment issues?  I said no again.

They begged.  Literally.

I agreed to meet this little girl and her caseworker at our local McDonald's 'just to see' if I thought I could handle her for 2 weeks.  Did I mention they had informed me she was severely retarded, wet the bed, hurt animals, and as a blonde-haired blue-eyed girl told everyone she was a black boy named Michael?  Something for everyone!

I wish I could explain what I saw in those bright blue eyes underneath that scraggly hair and dirty face.  It was like I saw right into her soul and was instantly intrigued.  I'll take her.  For two weeks and two weeks only!  I could handle anything for 2 weeks and something in her was drawing out the fascination in me.  This would be fun.  Something to tell people when they asked how I spent my summer vacation of 2002.

I picked her up a week or so later.  I was terrified!  I owned no toys.  I couldn't cook.  Bodily fluids grossed me out.  A realtor once told me I didn't have a motherly bone in my body.  Shit.  What the fuck am I going to do for TWO weeks with this crazy kid?!

Enter Miss Thing, aka Mary.




in love.

On September 19, 2003 our adoption was finalized.  She's mine.  All mine.

It's been and still is quite a ride.  Mary has Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID and aka Multiple Personality Disorder) and Schizophrenia on top of a traumatic brain injury and a laundry list of other 'problems' coupled with a horrendous background.  I no longer own a home and sometimes have to worry if our money will stretch to our next meal but I'd have it NO other way!  She can light up a room and charm the pants right off of you.  And she's mine.  All mine.

She has three sisters who all grew up together in the same adopted home.  Two of them have moved in with us in the last couple of years and have since moved out on their own.  I'll protect their names, but RC and CC were immediate second and third daughters to me and always will be.  Someday if MC comes knocking on our door, we'll take her too.

I may be the luckiest mom in the world.  After Mary's adoption, I promptly gave back my foster care license and then got my tubes tied.  I've never had to nor will I ever have to squeeze an ugly baby out of my vagina, get crusty nipples, or even change diapers and still I have 3.75 beautiful daughters!

Remind me to go back and read the glowing review I just wrote about them when I start writing to you about how they worry me and piss me off.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

February 22, 2011

The Language of a Lady

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

You may or may not have noticed that occasionally I use the F word.  And the S word.  And a lot of other words that some people may find unsavory.  I feel like I've gotten better about it, but chances are good I'll never stop using them altogether.  Conversations just wouldn't be the same to me.  Sometimes it's difficult to really get my point across without using a special word for impact.

I'm a natural at cursing.  It's a fine art, a gift, a God-given talent if you will.  I say that because I know some people who try their best to cuss like a sailor and only end up sounding ridiculous because they don't know just when and how to insert which special word.  I, on the other hand can insert the F word into almost anything.  *takes a bow*

My granny will tell you I was raised better than that.  She would know because she did much of my raising.  I've heard her say 'shit' many of times but when I call her on it she swears she said 'shitski'.  Whatever Gran.  Who's the one sporting hearing aids?  Not me!  One thing I've learned is never to argue with Granny because she wins every time.

My poor dad on the other hand never stood a chance of winning many battles with me.  You'll have that with a Daddy's Girl.  I'm not proud, just honest.

Like this one time when my mother had tossed my room looking for God knows what, because I really was a goodie two shoes.  I wish when she had put that curse on me to have a child just like me someday it would have worked.  Instead I got my girls.  Whom I love dearly.  But they're a handful and when we both have more time, I can't wait to tell you all about them.

So anyhow, during my mother's search she found all of my notes.  I wonder if kids even pass notes anymore with all of the technology out there now.  It used to be the thrill of my day to pass notes between and during classes, folding them into itty bitty origami like gifts and then stashing them in my room to read over and over again - sometimes by flashlight under the covers and sometimes (if it was from a boy) with my girlfriends at our slumber parties.

But one of these notes had the word 'hell' in it.  *gasp* And it may have referenced me calling someone a bitch.  *gasp*  My mother was in hysterics, ready to call in an exorcist to get the devil right out of me.

Lucky for me she let my dad handle it because she was 'tired of always being the bad guy'.  Well, if the shoe fits . . .

It was a Sunday afternoon after church and Sunday dinner when my dad said, "Get your shoes on Sis.  We're going to Burger King for a Coke."


We had just eaten.  I was not thirsty.  This was the time we pseudo-relaxed every week.  The Burger King was new in town and I had already seen it.  I loved one-on-one time with my dad, but I knew what was going down.  I got all teary-eyed, because that's what a good Daddy's Girl does when she's about to be punished.

My dad didn't say another word, just casually whistled* his way out to the car, all the way to the Burger King, through the line, and into a booth.


By this point, I'm pretty sure the tears had started to stream down my face.  He was unaffected.


Then he spoke.

It went something like this . . .

Sis, your mom should not have gone through your room but she did and I'll have a word with her about that.

But before I could get a 'HA!' out he continued . . .

I don't want to read your notes, that's your business between you and your friends.

Again, I tried to get a 'HA!' out but he continued . . .


Oh holy fucking mother of ---

Is it true that you called someone a bitch?

What could I do?  My dad was someone I never lied to.  He had me right where he wanted me.  So I just slowly nodded and shed a few more tears and promised to never do it again.

He then went on to say . . .

You're a lady and that's not how a lady speaks.

And that was it.  The end.

He then changed the subject and we talked for what seemed hours and laughed big belly laughs and maybe even flipped one another off.  (It's what we did - mostly to piss off my mom.)  Then we drove home and when we pulled into the driveway he looked over at my beautiful smiling face and told me to wipe the grin off of my face and at least act like he had read me the riot act.

Deal.  I fucking loved my dad.  Still do.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

* A footnote to the whistling:  My dad whistled all of the time so I suggest you brush up on your whistling skills Mr. Selleck.

February 18, 2011

The Jimmy Buffett Phenomenon

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I'm no Parrothead, but I do love me some Jimmy Buffet.  Who doesn't?!  The Sailor (the guy I was telling you about yesterday) and I love to crank him up while we enjoy our summer evenings.  We sing and we dance and we trash talk about whatever we're competing with in the kitchen and most importantly we laugh.  Jimmy Buffett is the soundtrack of happiness to me.

If you've ever been to a concert, you know half the fun is the GIANORMOUS tailgate party beforehand.  One of the best tailgate parties is one I went to with my mother of all people and her latest and greatest internet lover at the time.  Just over six months after my dad's death, one could say I wasn't coping well.  So I drank.  A lot.  Things are a little fuzzy, but I know there was a guy and lots of sloppy kissing.  Later there may or may not have been a hotel room and an impromptu marriage.  Details, details.  We were in Pennsylvania (I think) so on my perpetual list of things to do is to see if I'm legally married there.  Wonder what my last name is?  Hell, wonder what my husband's name is?

Thanks to the tailgate parties, I'm not exactly sure how many concerts I've been to.  Definitely two, maybe three.  I wasn't always the designated driver.  Obviously.

But one time, when I was the designated driver I decided when we got there to get stoned to the begeezus instead of drinking (don't judge) knowing this would render me tolerable of the goings-on around me and still sober enough at the end of the night to drive my friends' drunk asses home.  Win-win.

Or not.

A friend of mine's younger cousin got so trashed she passed out in the back of my car before the concert and I became the designated babysitter.  Oh joy.  Things were and still are a little hazy but I'm pretty sure I was kidnapped and forced to smoke more pot on a school bus.  Again with the details.  I'm just not a detail oriented person.  I'm more of a big ideas girl.

So anyhow, when I returned from my big school bus pot smoking adventure I realized this youngster had puked all over the backseat of my car.  Maybe locking her in the car with the windows cracked wasn't such a good idea.  Hindsight tells me she would have been better served sprawled out in the parking lot next to the car.

The smell of rum tainted vomit was a total buzz-kill.  I decided say a little prayer and leave her alone (again), this time with the car door open and head into the concert in hopes of finding my friends who had lawn seats at the outdoor arena.  Have you ever looked for a needle in a haystack?  Imagine thousands of drunk idiots milling about and being the only very sober person.  It's irritating.

And then I got bumped into.  Literally.  Almost body slammed really by some drunk fool.  This guy then screamed my name in that happy drunk tone.  It was LDB.  Oh for the love of baby Jesus.  We had been broken up for years, I had moved on to The Chief who cleaned the puke out of my car the next day to prove his love for me.  A drunk LDB was the last person I expected or wanted to see!

But he sure was happy to see me.  He had lost his friends.  And amongst thousands, he found me.  What are the fucking chances of THAT?!  This was well before cell phones, so I got stuck with him.  Trust me when I say I tried REALLY hard to find his damn friends.  I did not want to be held responsible for my drunk high school sweetheart.

But alas, there I was with drunk boy hanging on me.  We found my friends during the finale of 'Come Monday'.  They got a good laugh out of big smelly drunk dude trying to put the moves on me.  He's just so damn cute and charming.  But at that point I was not amused at all.

I was even less amused when thanks to geography, he was my last drop-off.  He still lived with his parents!  It was just one more reason I could give the 'you guys should be together' choir of proof that we should NOT be together!

Of course he tried his charm and moves on me when we pulled into his parents' drive.  FAIL.  Epic fail LDB.

What seemed an irritating coincidence at the time, now makes me smile.  Our paths always cross in really random, but welcome ways.  It's always nice to know there's someone else out there who has your back.

So the problem with listening to Jimmy Buffett for me is that his songs make me think of all the boys, not just one.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

February 16, 2011

I'm Not Perfect

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I'm a lot of things, but I'll be the first to admit that I am FAR from perfect.  Shocking.  I know.  Mostly shocking that I admitted it - and in print no less for the world to see.  Print that out and make a big fancy Hollywood billboard out of it.

While the LDB saga continues, another blast from my past has emerged and I need some advice.  I thought with you trying to perfect your role as my dad and being a man and all that I'd run this past you.

It all started about 15 years ago.

*cue squiggly screen flashback*

I had first noticed him from afar at a company golf outing.  He was sporting knickers and knee socks.  No joke.  I was in love.  He even wore saddle shoes and a newsboy hat.  Does it get any better than that?  No Tom, I don't think it does.

I was newly single and a coworker set us up.  It wasn't until we went out and I was up close and personal with him that I noticed it.  How couldn't I?  It was HUGE!  I was starting to have visions of the end of the evening and was terrified.  How would I ever let something that big touch my face?  Let alone other parts of me.  I was freaked out.  All I could do at dinner was stare at it.  It stared back.  It was alive.

We went for drinks and I swear it looked like it had grown.  I couldn't take my eyes off of it as it appeared to dance.  As the night drew to a close, I was panicking on the inside.  How was I going to handle this situation?  I had never been in such a predicament.

So I just laughed.  In his face.  As he leaned in to kiss me goodnight.  And then I did that awful 'draw my head back like a llama about to spit' move.  I'm such a lady.

But I had never kissed a guy with a mustache before.  Ever.  And this one was HUGE!

(Has that ever happened to you?)

I had a strict 'no facial hair' policy.  But he was so cute.  And charming.  And funny.  And smart.  And did I mention he sails and plays guitar?

So that's how it started.  It's never been serious.  Whenever it's gotten close, one of us has freaked out and then we lose touch and reconvene later like nothing had ever happened.  One time that lasted 10 years.

We live many states away now, but the last couple of summers he's spent about a week with me.  It's always the most glorious week of my year.  And not for reasons one may think.  It's because it's so (dare I say) normal.  He fits.  Perfectly.  Loves my girls, my friends, my town, my life.  We don't do a damn thing but cook, play games, drink, watch movies, talk for hours, and hang out with whomever ends up on the porch or in the backyard.

It's great.  He's great.  We're great together.

But last summer I freaked the fuck out.

Because I'm a girl, that's why.  While I was doing dishes and he was chilling with my girls and it was all so wonderful and normal . . . I lost it.

Unfortunately he came into the kitchen.  Things began to spin quickly out of control and went from tears to anger to him leaving and then coming back.  There was a lot of talking and I tried to explain that I was just freaked out (and maybe a little tipsy and probably getting my period and there was likely a full moon).  He tried to get it, but didn't.  And I know he didn't forget it.  Me freaking out caused him to freak out and I hate to say it Mr. Selleck but . . . a freaked out guy is 100 times worse than a freaked out girl.

When he left the following day, things were weird and I later sent him an 'I quit you' email.  Because I'm also mature like that, that's why.

*cue squiggly screen back to the present*

We have recently reconvened.  Now what?!

Do I invite him to a freak-out-free, fabulous week of normal this summer?  Enjoy it for what it is?  Push for more?  Forget about it?  Hope he's forgotten about my meltdown and the 'I quit you' email?

Oh Tom!  What's a girl to do?  I like him.  A lot.  But he scares the shit out of me.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

February 15, 2011


Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Do you sometimes forget you're famous?

Sometimes . . . I make cat noises.  For no apparent reason.  Randomly.  Usually just when I'm alone.  But sometimes I forget that I'm not alone and make them in front of people.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

February 14, 2011

Gentlemen, Start Your Engines

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Happy Valentine's Day!  And I mean it!  I used to hate Valentine's Day.  My parents were married on Valentine's Day, so growing up everything at our house was all hearts all of the time.  It was overkill and I was burnt out on the whole concept by the time I was 3ish 7ish.

Now that my dad is chilling with real cherubs and my mother has moved onto another husband, I can enjoy this time of year however I want.  This year, Miss Thing and I made over 70 valentines for my charity and had SO much fun doing it!  With the valentines dropped off by others, I got to deliver over 1000 valentines to kids today!!!  AWESOME!

Do you know what else I'm excited about today, Mr. Selleck?  Tomorrow is the first day of dating season!  What, you didn't know there was a season for dating?  Well there is for me and it runs from February 15th through October 1st each year.  I get asked why all of the time, but the answer seems so simple to me.  After October 1st, we have my birthday, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, and Valentine's Day.  All awkward (that word itself is awkward, isn't it?) in a new relationship.  So if I haven't begun dating someone by October 1st, I close down shop for a few (or so) months.

I do keep the drive-through carry-out business running.  If you know what I mean Tom.  *wink wink, nudge nudge*

So as we head into the much anticipated dating season, I thought I'd brush the dust off of a personal ad I wrote years ago, before I realized internet dating wasn't for me:

It's all about balance for me. I am equal parts . . . 
- Irish and German
- 1950's housewife and independent single mom 
- country and rock and roll 
- coffee and bourbon 
- the ballet and dive bar 
- professional and letting loose 

Enough about me. Let's talk about you. 

I am looking for someone who . . . 
- knows how I take my coffee and can make a perfect cup 
- gets excited about clean sheet night 
- lets me go but misses me when I'm gone 
- has two eyebrows 
- can order a drink for me and have it waiting when I get there 
- has an innie bellybutton 
- thinks pj's are sexy 
- makes me laugh 
- turns me on 
- can be quiet 
- will stay up all night talking about nothing 
- loves music 
- wears boxers 
- has his own opinions but an open mind 
- can kiss passionately 
- likes to hold hands 
- wants to dance in the house 
- is not afraid to experiment and explore 
- finds individuality attractive 
- opens doors for me 
- helps me with my coat 
- loves to drive 
- makes me feel safe 
- appreciates vacuum lines 

In return you will get nothing less than authenticity.  You can take it or leave it.

What do you think?

I'm thinking about having bright neon yellow flyers printed and doing a mass mailing.  Or maybe just running a few hundred copies at Kinko's and sticking them on all of the windshields at the strip mall.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

February 11, 2011

It's Hard To Be Humble

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I'm sure you can relate to the way it feels to have people tell you how great you are all of the time.  It never gets old, does it?  I was just coming off of my high from winning The Super Blog Bowl MVP Award and got hit with another award!  TRUE STORY!  Look-see:

Do you think this is what it will feel like to win an Oscar for our movie AND a Grammy for our soundtrack someday?

Miss Nikki at My Cyber House Rules has bestowed this honor on me and there are rules, but before we get to those I want to tell you a few things about Nikki Rules.  She's not just a great blogger, she's a great person.  And she's not just a great person, she's a great friend.  You will soon learn that I don't throw around the word 'friend' casually.

A few months ago I was a girl in need and she came to my rescue.  Seems like a simple thing friends do for one another, right?  But here's the kicker . . . We have never met!  We've never even spoken on the phone!  (mostly because I hate the phone, but I'll address that with the shrink and not you)  She jumped into my world head first and has never left.  She has done more for me in a few months than I can ever thank her for.

Aaannnd . . . she puts up with me.  That is NOT easy!  I'm weird and cranky quirky and . . . well, cranky.  She has this superhuman ability to sort through all of the shit in my brain and turn it into beautiful, wonderful things.  We share some sort of universal connection that doesn't come along very often.  I'm pretty sure if and when we ever meet, we won't have to speak - just read one another's minds.

So she's awesome.  Now let's talk about me again.

The rules of this award are to share 5 of my favorite things.  I'll try not to say my hair.

Five of My Favorite Things:

  1. My Hair.  Coffee.  I drink coffee all day every day.  The way to my heart is through a good cup of joe.
  2. My Hair.  Music.  I have music on all of the time.  Never ask me to pick a favorite song, artist, or even genre.  I just can't choose.  I love it all!  I especially love whipping my hair around to a good tune.
  3. My Hair.  Driving.  If I could, I would drive on every road in the world.  I still get a thrill every time I fire up the Joy Jeep, even if I'm only circling the block.  I can't wait for spring so I can roll down the windows and let my hair fly.
  4. My Hair.  Gas Stations.  I hate the way people rush in and out of them and rarely look around.  Gas stations have the best little treasures to uncover.  Like the 'pull my finger' farting pen I bought Miss Thing once.
  5. My Hair.  Bath Nights.  There is nothing better than a long, hot, candlelit bath with music blaring and a big girl drink to wash the day away.  I have one slated for this weekend, along with a hot oil treatment for my hair.
true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

February 8, 2011


Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I know there are a lot of awards shows this time of year.  I don't know if you've been nominated or not, but you should be.  For something I'm sure.  So good luck with that.  But enough about you.

I won my very first award for this blog!  See it over there on the left all shiny-like?  In case you can't see it:

Can you see it now?  Pretty awesome, right?  Especially since I could give two shits about the Super Bowl.  I only watch it for the commercials.  Now blogging, that's something I can get excited about.  Does that make me lame?  Don't answer.

So I'd like to thank The Peachy 1 over at Being Peachy for even recognizing a blog as new as this one.  I had kind of fell off the ends of the blogging world for a while but now I'm back - and I have an award to prove it!

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

February 7, 2011

What's Your Sign?

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

For the record, I don't stalk you.  I actually know very little about you, including your birthday, and I have vowed to never Google you.  The only facts I will ever take as gospel are those you share directly with me.  You're welcome.

If I did know your birthday, I'd read you your horoscope for the week.  But I don't, so let's just focus on me.  As usual.  I'm a Libra, Tom.  Makes you love me even more, doesn't it?  Just wait until you hear my horoscope for the week, courtesy of Rob Brezsny's Freewill Astrology, in our local Sunday newspaper:

Happy Valentine Daze, Libra.  It's my astrological opinion that you need more jokes, comedy and humor in your romantic adventures.  If you're too serious about seeking the pleasures of love you can't get what you want.  To inspire your efforts, I present the winning entry from last year's Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest.  It was judged the worst possible opening line for a novel, but it's perfect fodder for the project I've assigned you:

"For the first month of Ricardo and Felicity's affair, they greeted one another at every stolen rendezvous with a kiss - a lengthy, ravenous kiss, Ricardo lapping and sucking at Felicity's mouth as if she were a giant cage-mounted water bottle and he were the world's thirstiest gerbil."

I'll wait while you collect yourself and change your pants after peeing them from laughing.  Or was that just me?  This was one of those things that made me tilt my head and ask, what the fuck Jeannie?!

After collecting myself (and changing my pants), I decided to share this and see if I get any bites.  Maybe I'll even cut it out of the paper, glue it on a red heart-shaped doily glued on pink construction paper and mail a few out that say "Be Mine?", and patiently wait for the responses to flood in.  Mr. Right could be just one Valentine away!  What do you think?

Bottom line is, I do want a boy who will pee himself laughing at that.  I really, really do.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

February 6, 2011


Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Did you enjoy the last round of our little game?  Regardless, let's play again.

Do you sometimes take long, hot bubble baths?

Sometimes . . . I hide things for no apparent reason.  Then I get really angry when I can't find them.  The upside is that I get really excited when I do find them when least expected.  It's like a surprise party for one.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

February 4, 2011

Ching Ching

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Happy Chinese New Year!  No pun in the title intended.

I'm actually writing to tell you about one of my many talents.  Did you know Mr. Selleck, that I play the tambourine?  Oh yes I do!

One time, I pulled my tambourine out of my purse at a bar and started playing with the band and working the crowd.  Guess who was asked to join the band for the rest of their tour?  Yours truly!  And by tour, I mean every Thursday night at the local establishment until Labor Day.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

February 2, 2011

Do You Know Oprah?

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

By now, I feel like you and I are getting pretty tight.  Sssooo . . . I'm calling in a favor.  I need you to get this note to Oprah Winfrey.  Remember all that, "I'm Tom fucking Selleck!" you've been practicing?  Well, now is when you put your money where your mouth is.

Oprah and I had a little falling out and I feel really badly about it now so have to make restitution in order to move forward.  I realize you may not be close enough friends just to forward this to her on the Twitter or the Blackberry or whatever it is you celebrity types do, but I was thinking maybe you could at least print it out and keep it folded in your wallet to pass to her when you bump into her at the next Big Event.  I hear there are several coming up soon.

Dear Ms. Winfrey,

I am sincerely sorry for boycotting you after the whole Jenny McCarthy thing.  I like Jenny.  Just not as a spokesperson for Autism.  I recently saw you had put her to work doing what it is she does best - being funny, being real, being a people person.  I hope we can forget about my little tantrum and someday just laugh about this.

I also wanted to congratulate you on your new network.  I am hooked on Behind the Scenes and have fallen in love with your staff.  Not in a weird way, just the kind of way that makes me want to go out for drinks with them.  It has also given me a fresh, new perspective and higher level of respect for you.  I like you dammit.  And I don't care who knows.

I am also a lover of Master Class.  It is the perfect show for me right now.  As a matter of fact, it was during the Maya Angelou episode that I made my final decision to leave my corporate job and take a leap of faith toward happiness and fulfillment.  Talk about life changing!

So now that we have this behind us, I look forward to a rewarding future.  I am a thinking girl, an ideas girl if you will, and have a few for you if you're interested.  Happy belated birthday and best wishes to you, your staff, Gayle, Stedman, and the dogs.  You rock.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

What do you think?  Too much?  Too soon?  Too mushy?  Get it to her anyway.  Please.  And thank you.  At least have your people get it to her people.  I just have a person, Beth.  So her people can contact my person, who can get her to me

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

January 30, 2011


Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I was trying to think of ways to get to know one another better and came up with a little game I like to call 'Sometimes'.  It's kind of like 'Truth or Dare' but not.  At all.

But anyhow . . . It's my house and we'll play my games by my rules.  I'll ask you if you sometimes do something and then tell you something I sometimes do.  Get it?  Like this:

Do you sometimes look in the mirror and say, "I am Tom fucking Selleck!"?

Sometimes . . . I move my head instead of the blow dryer to pretend I'm on the beach, in hopes of achieving 'sea hair'.

true story.

Edie B.  Kuhl

January 28, 2011

I'm Not Lost

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I am a hot mess today!  I sit here in my pajamas with no shower, in the middle of the afternoon, with red puffy eyes, wondering what the fuck have I just done.  And then I looked over and saw this:

DISCOVERY:  "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I - I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."  -- Robert Frost

It was the first thing I bought for my new desk in my new office at my new job in a new city and state . . . over 14 years ago.  It has made many moves with me and has some wear and tear (and duct tape) to prove it.

And then I remembered something I had written approximately 4 years ago but is just as relevant today:

To those who know me it is no surprise when i say i have no sense of direction. I love to drive but am always lost. I get lost with a map, with directions, even with a GPS. Being lost doesn't bother me so much unless I have to be somewhere at a certain time. But again, those who know me also know I'm always late. I can go somewhere over and over again and still get lost.  Even when I know I'm lost I always think I'm finding my way.

So as I pondered life today, I started finding it strange how many times I have felt lost in life but kept trudging along looking for my way, just believing I would get to where I was supposed to be.  I have asked for directions often, but have still tended to wander.

What I have realized is that my sense of direction in life has actually been very good. Even when I have appeared lost, I have hit many of my destinations along the way. When i come to a crossroads in life, my gut actually works! So today I am trusting my gut and not my head or all of the people who want to map it out for me. I may appear to be lost, but I know where I'm going . . . I'll just get there via the road less travelled and arrive a bit later than expected.

I look at my life as a road trip and I've got a full tank of gas, a large cup of coffee, a carton of smokes, the windows down, and the music up loud for this journey!

There were many people who doubted me and called me crazy when this bartender/waitress who had never graduated from college decided to leave her small town and move 500 miles away to Atlanta and take on Corporate America.  I heard the same doubts when as a single person I decided to adopt a 10 year old girl with lots of special needs.  The same excitement and terror I felt when I crossed the first state-line of my big move in 1996, when I first walked through Corporate America's doors, when I put a screaming child to bed that first night - realizing I had NO clue what I was doing, but the thrill of figuring it out - is what I am experiencing today.

And do you want to know a secret?  I have yet to experience regret.  I know if anyone can do this, it's me.  If I am a little bit crazy and full of myself, I'd like to keep it that way.  It works for me.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

January 25, 2011

In the Studio Today

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I did a big thing.  I resigned from my job.  And not because I'm banking on our blockbuster, just because it was the right choice for me.  Some people are calling me crazy, but I know you've got my back.

I just wanted to let you know in case one of my buddies from Studio 30+ contacts you with concerns about my mental health.  They're good people and are only looking out for my best interest.  I may or may not have mentioned you in a post I wrote and is featured in their magazine.

Not only should you check it out, but we'd love to have you join our little group.

true story.

Edie B.  Kuhl

January 23, 2011

These Boots

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I know how we'll fit Kevin's cameo into our big blockbuster!  It came to me as I got dressed this afternoon and 'Footloose' began to blare on the radio, triggering a Tourette's-like response of me breaking into spontaneous 1980's dancing.  Did I mention I was in the middle of getting dressed?  So picture this happening with me in just a thermal shirt and Steve's underwear.  That's the brand, not the boy.  (Although when I just googled it to link it, I realized I'm wearing St. Eve's underwear and not Steve's underwear.  What the fuck Jeannie?)

I was taken back to when I first saw the movie.  It was MY movie.  I lived in a small farm town.  I wasn't allowed to dance according to God.  But I danced anyway.  I wore through 3 cassette soundtrack tapes.  I saved all of my babysitting money to buy red Dingo boots.  And when I got those boots . . . all hell broke loose . . . for my father.

I'd stomp out of my bedroom in my daisy duke cut-offs, with the bottom of my shirt pulled up and through my collar, wearing my red Dingo boots.  I'd march and parade past my poor father saying "My daddy don't like my red boots".  My dad would slowly shake his head, close his eyes, and bow his head, knowing he was not going to win that battle.

Then I started bringing the boys around.  One in particular - LDB.  He would come to pick me up and I'd sashay out in my tight-fitting jeans, his white button-up shirt (barely buttoned), and of course my red Dingo boots.  When he got that 'wow' look on his face I'd announce to him and my father "My daddy don't like my red boots".  Then I would laugh and toss my awesome hair a few times, occasionally even throwing a straw cowboy hat on top of my big beautiful locks of hair.  My dad and I would exchange a look.  He'd then slowly shake his head, close his eyes, and bow his head, knowing he was not going to win that battle either.  But he'd always give the boy a look before we walked out the door that would cock-block our evening.

I'm sure my dad thought my red boots were just a teenage phase he'd patiently ride out.  And they were a phase.  Until I was 23.  And got my Harley Davidson boots.  The attitude that came with those red Dingo boots has lasted a lifetime.

So now picture this . . . The story of my boots as a teenager has already played out and now the scene is my 21st birthday where my parents have taken me to Las Vegas to celebrate.  My dad and I are always sneaking smokes, playing watch-out for one another so we don't get busted by my mom.  I can't remember now where my mom went for the afternoon, but it was just going to be my dad and me.  He told me he'd be at the bar in the casino, to meet him there after I got ready.

In the movie he will be sitting there talking to chubby Matt Damon (Thanks Nicole who commented on the last post.), cracking corny jokes about the men who bring their 'daughters' *wink wink* on their business trips to Vegas.  And then I will make my grand entrance into the bar in my tight little denim mini-skirt, see-through shirt, and of course my red Dingo boots.  Chubby Matt Damon gets a chubby and practically falls off of his bar stool while he bumbles all over himself trying to point out the 'fresh meat' in the bar.

About that time, I walk up to a guy, THIS guy:

And ask for a light.  (Thanks Miss Nikki.)

My dad and I exchange a look, I slink over and throw my arms around him and say "Thank you Daddy for bringing me to Vegas!" and then look at chubby Matt Damon and say "My daddy don't like my red boots".  At which point, you know the story . . . My dad shakes his head, closes his eyes, and bows his head, knowing he will not win this battle.  I then rub a little salt in his wound by asking why everyone is looking at me.  This is the point he says through his gritted-tooth smile, "Because Sis, everyone thinks you're a hooker.  Now go change."

And I did.

true story.  (now with chubby Matt Damon and Kevin Bacon)

Edie B.  Kuhl

January 10, 2011

Waiting for the Train

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I had a blog for nearly 4 years.  I'll spare you the details of its life story, but there were a few things I wrote that will be important for you to read in order to set the stage for your big role.  I have included the first post I ever wrote because it sums things up nicely.  Personally, I think it would make a great opening scene accompanied by John Denver's Country Roads playing in the background.  Don't worry that this will be a tear-jerking drama though, there is plenty of comic relief to go around if you stick with me long enough.

It's a cold, damp, grey and gloomy day as we jump from the car and run to catch the train.  I have no idea what the hell is going on and why it's so important, but we have to hurry, we cannot miss this train!

Where is my mother?  My dad has my sister in his arms and me by the hand tripping over the gravel, "Come on Sis, run".  Although I am hand in hand with my giant father, I can see the whole scene from behind as if my dad has pulled my body into the future and left my soul in the past.  I have on my light blue jacket, the one the goats tried to eat at the petting zoo.  All aboard!  Oh shit, we're going to miss the train.  All aboard!

There's my mom.  She's running toward us.  No, right past us to the guy with the funny hat who keeps yelling.  All aboard!  She hands him our tickets and motions the rest of us to follow.  My dad pulls me up those steep steps onto the train just as my soul catches up to my body.  We settle into our seats where my mom has already plopped down and is waving to us.  I use the term 'settle' loosely because it was anything but settling at the time.  The under the breath talk between my parents starts about how much, how long, where are we going, I don't know, I thought you knew, and . . . cut to smiles for the kids.

This is supposed to be so much fun.  But I feel it.  My mom is in anxiety mode, my dad is masking it with his whistling, and my sister just sits there mute and smiling.  Oh - and me?  What was I doing?  Well singing of course.  I sang Country Roads over and over again to try and make everyone happy.  It didn't transform anyone but my dad who sang with me and whose eyes sparkled with pride as his tone deaf daughter belted out a little John Denver.

That was roughly 30+ years ago and nothing much has changed.  My mom is still in anxiety mode, although I have figured out that is a permanent condition for her.  My sister still smiles a lot but doesn't say a word, even when she speaks.  My dad's whistling killed him in 1997 when his insides were devoured by the cancer caused by masking everything.  And as for me?  Well I am still singing (and still tone deaf - thank God or I'd try my hand at rock stardom) and still trying to make everyone happy.

Sometimes I wonder how many trains have come and gone since then?  Growing up so close to the tracks, trains were interwoven into the soundtrack of my life.  There have been many times I have waited impatiently for the train to pass so I could cross the tracks, waited for the train to go by so I could have a conversation, waited for the train so I could impress someone with the flattened penny trick, waited for the train so I could fall asleep to its lullaby.

When my dad was sick we timed the trains and counted them every night all night until the sun came up and then we would both be disappointed he had lived another day.  There were nights he would disrobe and sit on the edge of the bed while I laced up his tennis shoes and packed his suitcase so he would be ready when the train came.  We would sit there for hours, him stark naked but his running shoes, with his suitcase by his feet and me still holding the hand of my dwindling giant dad praying tonight would be the night we could run and catch that train.

The day we buried his coffin, we pulled into the cemetery and I was overwhelmed by the number of cars circling and then I saw the people - hundreds of them seeming to materialize from every direction, all headed directly toward me.  It was the most beautiful thing and the scariest thing I've ever seen all at the same time.  I thought I was going to faint.

This isn't happening.  And then I heard it.  The train!  I didn't realize I was waiting for it that time, but I must have been because as soon as I heard it I knew it was him.   My dad.  He had finally caught that damn train!  This time he took a piece of my soul into the future and left my body behind.  There are days I swear I hear him calling to me, "Come on Sis, run".

It seems I run all of the time.  I ran all the way to Atlanta and back again once.  I run from hurt.  I run from fear.  I run from loneliness.  I run from anger.  I even run from happiness.  I run from truth.  I run from myself.

I want to stop running.  I have to stop running.  This time I want to sit stark naked and wait for the train.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

January 8, 2011

You're Welcome

Dear Tom Selleck . . . 

Congratulations.  After months of deliberation, you have been selected to play the role of my father on the big screen.

I live an amazing life and it's time to tell the story.

This may seem a little crazy, creepy even.  But I assure you someday you will feel honored and thank me.  In your Academy Award speech for Best Actor.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl