February 24, 2011

Sometimes

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.

I

fell

madly

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."

Fuck.

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.

Dammit.

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

Shit.

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 . . .

BUT

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

Sometimes

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

Awarding

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

Sometimes

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