Dear Blinkist, I see your ads pop up in my social media feeds periodically and understand that you make it possible for people to get key insights from nonfiction books and podcasts in 15 minutes or less and curate their reading based on…their reading. I don’t rush to sign up, and here’s why…
Dear Diary, I’m sorry my life has been so uneventful this past year. I had no television interviews, victories over implacable enemies, blue-ribbon prizes, or red-letter days to report.
Dear 2020, Like everyone else on the planet, I can’t wait to see the back of you. But in the midst of sorrow, fear, and loneliness, there were some bright spots. You were the year I stopped wearing a bra, stopped running pointless errands, stopped buying grown-up clothes.
Dear Universal Returns Dept, I am writing yet again to request a refund for the blankets that I didn’t realize were shipping from China and which are now stuck somewhere between the moon and New York City. I know it’s been a mere six weeks since I placed the order, but as it looks like it will be bathing suit season before they’re located, cash right now will be more welcome than faux cashmere throws at a date TBD. I appreciate that you can’t control worldwide shipping but answering my increasingly plaintive calls and emails would have given me hope that said company actually exists. While I have your attention, I would also like to receive my money back for the steaks I ordered sent to far-flung family members who will not be gathering this year as we are actually abiding by CDC pleas to stay home. Since I can’t be with them, I wanted to imagine them toasting Mom’s thoughtfulness during Christmas dinners across the country. I admit it wasn’t a completely altruistic gesture. Unfortunately the steaks arrived three days late, thoroughly defrosted, and on the verge of cooking themselves after their long strange journeys. (Did I mention the blood in my first call?) I guess I didn’t understand when I filled in the date on which I wanted them delivered, as required on your order form, you actually meant: “An approximate date which we might try and meet but don’t blame us and for god’s sake don’t try and call us if the dry ice gives out before they reach their destination. Shit happens!” I know everyone is over-extended but answering my increasingly plaintive calls and emails would be a nice Customer Service touch. You know, for the future. If you’re still in business. Looking on the bright side, we could all do with eating less meat, so thanks for that. Here’s wishing you many happy returns of the season! XOXO Nikki
Dear Santa, I’ve been stuck at home with no chance to misbehave this year, although I admit to bouts of overdrinking, overthinking, oversleeping, overweeping. In my defense, pandemic! But here’s my wishful thinking list. A bra that actually fits, which I doubt has been invented yet. Free shipping. A call from that Navy pilot I met in the 70s…maybe you crossed paths in the sky. Movies in theaters with popcorn and wine. Covid antibodies. Shooting stars—why do I always miss their transit? Long lost friends: Delilah, who packed a U-Haul and ran away to Mexico to paint; Chief, who had a long blond braid and a Mick Jagger mouth; Carole, who got a bat caught in her wild, curly hair on our way home from 4th of July fireworks; and too many more. Ten more daily Weight Watcher points. An epiphany, or two if you have extras. And a round of vaccines for everyone I love with a toast to 2021. XOXO Nikki
Dear Winter, Without your austerity, your bare branches, your wind chill, how would we appreciate the warm things of this world? Candles that smell like a wood fire in a Maine cottage. Dinner in a bowl, crowned with a delicate wreath of steam: split-pea soup with smokey ham; blue-collar beef barley with a beer; mussels in white wine broth with a side of frites. Soft thick socks in bed. Showstopping sunsets that say, “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.” Cars with seat warmers and space heaters tucked under desks. Putting on pajamas straight from the dryer. Warm-blooded, true-hearted dogs and cats that lie on our feet at the foot of the bed, purring and furring us to sleep. Our fire pits and fondue pots, fleece, and flannel sing the antiphon to frozen pipes and snow flurries in a psalm of praise to winter. XOXO Nikki
Dear December, You’re the month of light-seekers and soul searchers, of night vision and stargazers. You shower us with heavenly meteors that make us believe in magic and angels and awe again. You’re the bonfires and fireplaces and firepits that tug on our DNA to remind us of the ancient cave days of community and safety and warmth. You’re the porch light pulling someone safely home, always on in our hearts for those we’ve lost or not yet found. You’re the Full Cold Moon that lingers on the horizon, reminding us that we live in mystery despite the blue light screens of constantly streaming information. You’re the candlelight that softens the edges of reality, the solstice summoning, the fireworks that drive out bad spirits. Dear December, in the deepest, bleakest, secret night, you turn on our lights, inside and out. XOXO Nikki
Yes, I know, it’s Medicare enrollment time! How could I miss it given the near-constant confusing ads from private companies urging me to use their services to get a better deal? It was barely endurable when it was just Joe Namath smirking and shilling, but now Meredith Viera has caved and touts a slicker version of a competing plan. But at least, she’s not Joan London. Every time her ad comes on, I text my kids to ask them to sign a notarized affidavit stating they won’t send me to A Place for Mom. I know Ice-T barely qualifies as a senior, but his CarShield spots make me feel that it’s only a matter of time before my car viciously turns on me. Even revered West Wing President Martin Sheen is popping up in drugstore aisles like a benevolent Jiminy Cricket on speed to rant about prescription drug prices for SingleCare. But I can’t leave out the king of cable ads, Tom Selleck. Like a cut-rate Gary Cooper, he sternly assures me that this is not his first rodeo when it comes to reverse mortgages. Over and over and over. His ubiquity is the tv equivalent of a 24/7 leaf blower. I know that it’s almost impossible for older people to find work (congratulations on the side hustle, folks), but your scripts only serve to remind me of my own mortality (and my car’s). In other words, Senior Spokesters, your ads seem focused on people at the end of the road who still have enough money to be gouged out of them while their cars are still running. I go through a mini existential crisis every time one comes on, and sad questions flood my mind. What is the meaning of life? Is this all there is? Will Medicare enrollment ever end? Is it really too early to start drinking? XOXO Nikki
Dear Friday the 13th: Shove off, and take your black cats, unlucky ladders, and broken mirrors with you. After one of the worst years in history, we give the eye roll to your evil eyes, the cold shoulder to spilled salt. We’ve endured wildfires, hurricanes, earthquakes, pestilence and pandemic, armed white supremacists, shootings and lootings, lonely deaths and deserted funerals, RBG RIP, Russian bots, bleach drinkers and bad losers, binge liars and virus deniers, fearmongers and mask refusers, toilet paper panics, and 666 Pennsylvania Avenue. And we’re still standing. Shaky, but strong. Sad, but stubborn. See you next year, Friday the 13th—but bring your A-game if you hope to compete with 2020. XOXO Nikki
Dear November, You’re the door the ghosts return through for a brief moment and the big table with extra leaves that we set for everyone we've ever known. The ones we loved, the ones we harmed, the ones we've lost, the ones who shared our youth, the ones who made us laugh, the ones we married, the ones we buried, the ones who gave us a second chance, the ones who got away, the ones who fed us, the ones who gave us nicknames, the ones we spent one sweet night with, the ones who really saw us, the ones who had our backs, the ones who scared us, the ones who cured us, the ones we'd give anything to see again. You’re the month for remembering, for stitching and binding the past to the present. You’re the blessing of the saints, the forgiveness of sins, the welcome mat for chickens that have come home to roost, the extra place setting for the prodigal son, the old stories told around the fires, the long goodbye of the year. XOXO Nikki
Dear Aliens, Please stop fooling around with gravity-defying aerial tricks and playing peekaboo with our pilots and get serious about making contact. We need help! Instead, you abduct a few random humans now and then just to give them pelvic exams and send them home without a bill. Proof that it happened on a UFO—it would cost thousands here. Are you trying to figure out how we reproduce in order to put a stop to it? That would make sense given how we manage to screw up everything we touch. After all, I’m sure the prospect of orbiting Teslas and billboards in space has you saying, “Not in my neighborhood.” Based on encounters through the years, though, it looks like you’re just joyriding around the universe and scaring the hell out of us for laughs. Or maybe we’re a popular intergalactic date-night destination. I’d like to think you’re a benign society, observing our idiocy with a wry eye and laughing about us over alien cocktails when you return home from a drive-by. Maybe you’re even tempted after a few drinks to step in and give us a hand with the mess we’ve made of things. Lately, I’m hoping for a visit from bug-shaped beings who save humans instead of stepping on them, or a space-time fairy tale in which we get rescued from evil corporations and corrupt politicians by big-eyed, 4-foot vegetarians. But I know any sensible alien would space-tially distance right now and time-hop ahead a few years to avoid the black hole that is 2020. I wish I could. XOXO Nikki
Dear Me, I take thee for my true self, my soul sister, my life partner. I promise to give you a nudge to remember birthdays, a kick in the rear when you’re acting like an ass, a reflux of remorse when you’ve been careless or cruel. But I’ll also give you a gold star when you’re the real deal, when you stand up for the underdog, when you dress like your inner goddess no matter how many stares you attract. I vow to reassure you when you feel like a failure, comfort you when your pants are too tight and honor your journey no matter how zigzag it might be. Just look in the mirror every morning, and I’ll be looking back—with love and lipstick and luck for the day. XOXO Nikki
Dear Insomnia, I’m tired of keeping you company in the middle of the night. Tired of turning the light off and back on and then off, tired of trying to read myself to sleep, tired of herbal remedies, tired of melatonin and magnesium and mystery potions that never work. Tired, tired, tired. Benadryl used to be a reliable ship of sleep until it was sunk by warnings of dementia straight ahead. Sonata and her big sister Ambien always knock me out, but who have I called, what I have snacked on, what gibberish have I written when under their hypnotic spell? Not to mention a drug hangover that’s worse than the insomnia. But if I don’t knock myself out, I spend hours reliving failures and faux pas, mistakes and missteps, embarrassing dates and disastrous dinner parties. I’ve tried no red wine, no wine of any kind, exercise, yoga, no late-night meals (hello, early-bird specials), no tv in the bedroom, no night lights, new pillows, deep breathing, meditation, good sleep hygiene and ASMR videos of Eastern European women simulating the sounds of hair brushing (yes, it’s a thing). And still I toss and turn and tear up the bed. Insomnia, you’ve been more faithful than any of my relationships, but please cheat on me and have a one-night stand with someone else. Better yet, let’s get a no-fault divorce. There are plenty of politicians I can hook you up with instead. Their shenanigans, chicanery and venality have given me plenty of sleepless nights this year so turn-about is only fair. May they count sheep and votes and poll numbers all night long, and may they always come up short. XOXO Nikki
Dear Flex Tape, You and Flex Paste, your sister product, have shouted yourselves into my numbed consciousness between cable news segments about the country coming apart at the seams. According to your ads, you can patch, protect, and plaster anything. Who can resist that kind of promise on a planet that is barely keeping it together? So I’m wondering if you could please consider holding our Constitution together as it frays and unravels? Can you spackle the cracks in the Senate and reinforce the spines of our creaky leaders? Is there a Flex Tape that could help the center of our national psyche hold? Because, no lie, most days our psyche doesn’t even want to get out of bed. And how about adding a personal product line that would waterproof my pillow when I shed lonely tears? Or maybe a Flex Paste that will help me keep a stiff upper lip and seal my house against Covid as tightly as a Secret Service vehicle. Dear Flex Tape, in a time when everyone I know needs a little bonding and a lot of relationship repair, you might be our last, best hope. XOXO Nikki
Dear Unsubscribe, Why can’t I get through to you? No matter how often I check your box, you keep bringing your pushy friends to my door: fundraising appeals from people running for office all over the country; one-time-only offers from gyms (oops, you got your demographic wrong on that one); wrenching pleas from nonprofits I’ve never heard of; special sales for things I don’t want; and constant newsletters from a car dealer I haven’t visited in years. Like a boyfriend who keeps calling after the breakup, you just won’t take no for an answer. I know I could keep slamming the door in your face by hitting Delete, but I want you to leave town and disappear without a data-trace. Sure, you promise that I’ll never hear from you again, that you’re out of my life forever, but a few days later, you’re back with the promise of 25% off something, the lure of two pizzas for the price of one or a warning that unless I donate $10, democracy will die. If those tactics don’t work, you know how to pull on my heartstrings, thanks to Google analytics. There’s always an endangered river to save, starving puppies to rescue and underfunded, underdog politicians to support. No matter how many times I check your box and say, yes, I’m sure I don’t want to receive any more promotions, urgent offers or marketing materials, you pretend you don’t hear me. How about weekly emails instead of daily, you ask? That’s when I throw up my hands and accept that you’re my own personal Hotel California hell — I can opt-out but never leave. XOXO Nikki
Dear Birthday, could you please take 2020 off? So far, we’ve lived through a pandemic (still happening despite word to the contrary), 200,000 deaths, political chicanery, foreign interference in our elections, losing RBG, wildfires, locusts, floods, and earthquakes. No UFOs yet, but there’s still time. This year has been a total bust (except for the Kardashians retiring) so it’s only fair it shouldn’t be counted against us. We deserve a freebie, a pass on aging, but if you insist on showing up, don’t come to my house empty-handed. Bring a pinata and fill it with things I’ll need in the coming year. A compass, for true north (just in case Canada lets us in again). Lucky charms, for safe passage. Rings, for the promise of a new beginning. Poems, for magic. Spices, for intrigue. Red lipstick, for courage. Chocolate, for broken hearts. Pens, to tell the tale. Candles, for night terrors. Seeds, to grow on. Maps, to lead us home. Then I’ll pick up a stick and give it a whack for all the whacks we’ve taken. Chasing beauty blindfolded, cracking open delight, feeling it rain treasure on everyone I love. XOXO Nikki
Dear Birthday, could you please take this 2020 off? This year has been a total bust (except for the Kardashians retiring) so it’s only fair it shouldn’t be counted against us.
