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