Dear Tom Selleck . . .
It's been an odd couple of weeks. I'm not sure how to even explain it but, something has just been 'off' a beat or two and yet things are more in sync than ever. Do you feel it? Just me? Just crazy?
Big things are about to happen Tom. Big big things. Either you're in or you're out. I'm not going to beg. It's about me now.
I can almost physically feel the shift in the universe, in my life. It kind of feels like when you're trying to pull-start a mower. You keep pulling, and sweating, and cursing, and the damn thing just won't completely catch. You have two choices - if you say fuck it and walk away, you know it's out there haunting you and you'll dwell on it and dread it every second of every day and regret not doing it when things get out of control OR if you just keep going and putting everything into it at that moment, it's going to catch and purr like a lion with bronchitis and when it does you'll be off and running with the music blaring and the breeze blowing and the sun shining. And your yard will look great in the end. And you'll look great doing it. With each step, your yard and your complexion and your hair just gets better and better and better.
Your name has come up a lot lately. It's like we're closer to one another than ever. I feel like I owe it to you to let you know I've been writing a lot lately - just not to you. Sorry. I've been writing a storybook. It's more story and less book, and I think I love it. But I need another opinion. Know anyone? I know you do.
In or out Tom? I fell like I also owe it to you to let you know I met a Hollywood producer and director this week. I still don't remember which one did what. But the cool one - the tall, cute, quirky one - stepped into my magic cottage (after stepping in dog shit) and shook hands with his big break - Mary - whom upon meeting him, promptly told him goodnight and that she loves him and then strutted her pull-up wearing ass off to bed.
We are SO close to one another Tom! Have your people find the guy with the dog shit on his shoe because I forgot to ask if he knows you. Plus I was playing it cool. As cool as I could play it with dog shit on my own shoe. And no paper towels. And a severe phobia of fecal matter. And a Hollywood producer standing in my kitchen. I was totally cool with it all. Just any other Thursday night.
Edie B. Kuhl