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.
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!
Edie B. Kuhl