Sunday, November 29, 2009

Hercules, Hercules!

Em, you may be wondering why I’m writing you an apology. In fact, you may not even remember this. It was a long time ago. But every now and again my conscience pays me an unwelcome visit and reminds me that I’m an asshole and I owe you an apology.

The year was 1999 and I believe we were on our way back from Westland mall in Hialeah, fl. Me, you and my cousin, Mario. The gay one who was half your size. Anyway, we were in your 1979 Volkswagen bug. My cousin and I, in the backseat. You driving us around. Why no one was in the passenger side is beyond me. You must have been trying to make us feel rich or kidnapped. Anyway, my cousin and I were doing our nails in the back when the bug decided to quit on us. “What the fuck, Em!” I said.

Anyway, I have no explanation for what happened next, all I can offer 10 years after the fact, is a thank you and an apology.

You: “Shut up Kelly”.

Me: “What are we going to do? I ate my last granola bar. And my nails aren’t even dry yet. Should we beep someone?”.

You: “No, we need to push.”

Me: “Oh, good idea.”

So you got out the car. Positioned yourself in the rear. Palms laid out in front of you and you pushed. Like I’ve never seen anyone push.

As expected, my cousin and I did not follow. But we talked about it:

Mario: “Shouldn’t we get out and help?”

Me: “Oh god no, she’s totally got this.”

Mario: “Really?”

Me: “Yeah, she plays softball.”


Me: “And she likes black guys.”

Mario: “Okay.” And we sat back, admiring our nails, not once looking back or doubting you ability to push us, and a 1000 pounds of metal to safety.

Monday, November 16, 2009

For the little people

Babe, I'm sorry I got on the train and left you on the subway platform. And extended my arm only to wave goodbye. I was sad for you but happy for my people because we finally did something the white man cannot: Fit on the 6 train at 8:30 in the morning.

Monday, October 5, 2009


I’m sorry I gave you up when you were just a baby. But you peed on my bed dude. Twice. You ate my expensive gadgets and scratched the fuck out of my dates. Despite the fact that lady from the adoption agency bitched me out for returning you, I’m confident I made the right decision and you’re in a much better place. Running around some big lawn, peeing on children who are just as oblivious and misbehaved as you.

your old master

Friday, August 21, 2009

The Wedding Gifter

Kristen + Adam,

Let me congratulate you once again on a lovely wedding. But more important, let me apologize for my poor gift choice. It seemed like a sweet gift at the time, but after receiving your thank you note I realize it's not worthy of your gratitude. My sincerest apologies. Rest assured, I will make it up to you at your 25 year anniversary.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Sorry Jenny


I'm sorry I made you drive yourself to the hospital that time you had appendicitis back in college. I thought it was gas. You thought it was gas. We both thought it was gas. And gas doesn't warrant a 5am trip to the hospital. Besides I was probably drunk and you wouldn't want me driving because I could have killed us both which would have been much more tragic than just losing you to appendicitis.

I'm glad we can look back and laugh at how silly the whole thing was.

much love,


Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Home Cookin'


I'm sorry my special spaghetti ruined your insides.  I shouldn't have made it with love.

Friday, May 1, 2009

Optimash Prime


I'm sorry I gave you a Mr. Potato Head that christmas.  But, only because you gave me a digital camera.

I didn't know we were "there."  If you know what I mean.

I guess it's not your fault.  I should have snooped around and known what you were up to. Then I could have gotten you an Ipod touch or something.

I will say this, while, the current value of that Mr. Potato Head is about one-eighth of the digital camera you gave me, it won't be in thirty years.

Not only is Mr. Potato Head an American classic, but this specific one is even more special since it morphs into a Transformer.  Your favorite movie, may I remind you.  In fact, the way I see it, you're sitting on a gold mine.    

Optimash Prime will be worth hundreds, if not thousands of Yuan, years after the digital age has passed us.  So when we're old and grey, we'll retire on Mr. Potato Head, and wonder what happened to that digital camera you gave me way before you should have.

Love you,


ps. No really, I can't find it.  I might have left it at the bar or Holly's car when we went out for girl's night.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Little girl at the coffee shop talking into a banana

I’m sorry I looked at you like you’re stupid.

But you looked stupid. Talking into a fucking banana. Dude, you’re like 11 years old. Surely, you know that there’s no one on the other end of the banana. It’s technologically impossible for produce with a shit ton of potassium to receive any kind of wireless signal. You know that right? If not, your parents should have told you the first time they caught you talking to a fruit plate. I’m all for vivid imagination and shit but not at the expense of dignity. And you sort of left yours lying right next to the muffins at the coffee shop.

A kind stranger,


Oh shit, it's Jesus!

Dear Jesus,

I’m sorry I keep forgetting what Easter is.

I know you came back from the dead. And that freaked people out so they started hiding their eggs, just in case. Paranoia hit the streets and people went as far as disguising them as bad art. But you were like, “Everybody, chill out, it’s me, remember I turned water into wine at my last party?” And they were like, “Seriously, guys, hide the eggs.” So you gave everybody a bunny and they were like, “oh shit, it’s Jesus!”

Or something like that.

Anyway, i'll get it eventually. In the meantime, do your thing.

Yours truly,


Sunday, April 5, 2009


Dear Raquel,

I’m a good friend. At least I like to think so which is why I offered to cat sit Damaso for you while you were away doing things I’m too poor to experience.

My abilities as a nurturer are pretty limited, I know, but I thought I could handle your cat.

I must say, Damaso is the prettiest cat I’ve ever seen. Not really a compliment to you since you didn’t birth him but I guess you deserve some credit since you know how to keep his silky, black hair real shiny. And I noticed you took the time to manicure his little nails, which is weird since they spend most of their time inside his paws. Anyway, I had every intention of keeping Damaso this way. I even followed the rules you so kindly posted on the fridge:

-brush hair once a day
-Turkey flavored salmon is for Wednesdays
-If possible, please watch 2 hours of animal planet with him
-feed him 1 half can of Fancy Feast every day at 3:00 pm

It was this last bit of instructions that I was having a hard time processing. And this letter is my attempt to explain where I went wrong.

“…One half can of Fancy Feast?” I asked myself.

Fancy Feast, is the Slim Fast of cat food. A super tiny can of something super delicious. You feel even fatter when you’re done cause you’re left wanting more. It’s not a lot of cat food and Damaso is a lot of cat. So portion controlling an already small-sized meal would be cruel. “He’ll be starving by midnight,” I thought. And midnight hunger pangs are a bitch. At least I can open a fridge. If Damaso gets hungry at midnight, he’s fucked.

And so the case for feeding half a can of fancy feast seemed less and less logical.

“His hair is gorgeous. Which means he eats a lot of protein. Which makes me think he eats a whole can not a half can,” I kept rationalizing.

And so after much debate with myself, it was obvious that these tiny cans of Fancy Feast cat food are called Half Cans. The Fancy Feast Half Can. Of course, how could I not see that earlier?

So, I gave Damaso a whole can of the Fancy Feast Half Can.

By the third day of hanging out with Big D I knew his pet peeves and he knew mine. “Dude, I hate it when you push your perfect little paws up against my thigh.” And he hated when I ate on the couch. But overall, we were happy.

We were watching Groomer Has It when I left Big D to go pee. “Big D, I’m gonna leave you now to go pee,” I said. And in the bathroom, next to the toilet, next to the tub, next to the fuzzy, blue matt, in the litter box, sort of, was the shit storm.

Damaso was peeing from his butthole.

I had a sneaky suspision the shit storm could be traced back to the Fancy Feast Half Can. That’s when I texted you, “Hey Raquel, when you said to feed Damaso half a can of fancy feast did you mean, half a can of fancy feast?”

“Yes” you texted. But in a scolding, “I will rip your heart out” kind of “yes”. I know you.

In my defense, you really should have been more specific with the feeding instructions but, there was no time for semantics, I had a litter box to light on fire and a cat’s insides to repair.

“Big D, why didn’t you tell me?” But he was in too much pain to reply. “Here’s some water and a pillow you can bite. That’s what I do after too much salsa picante.”

And as he walked away I noticed his cat ass, where his shiny hair no longer shined. Call FEMA. This was a natural disaster area, for sure. And so began our bonding over some animal planet, dingleberries, and a giant pair of scissors.

In the end, all was good. I sang him some tunes, nothing special just some Top 40’s stuff, and I let him push his little paws up against my thighs even though it annoyed the shit out of me.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m glad he’s okay and “Raquel, I’m sorry I had to cut your cat’s ass hair.”

Also, did I leave my sweater at your house?

Your friend,

Kelly Diaz

Quin, the toddler formerly known as Gwen

My Dearest Quin,

As your homegirl and occasional babysitter, I owe you an apology. I’m sorry I called you by the wrong name.

For two months.

Personally, I think Gwen is a much sexier name even for a 2 year old but, making you cool is not my job.

I want you to know I didn’t do it on purpose. I really did think it was your name because you answered to it when we played fetch. “Go get it Gwen. Go get the cookie.”

And while this is meant to be an apology from me to you, I want you to know you’ve let me down as well. I thought a level-headed 2 year old such as yourself would speak up when something’s not right.

In the months I’ve known you, you never ceased to impress me. You know what you want, and you go after it. Cookie, kitty, dirt. And I admire that.

But that person I built you up to be vanished when you let me call you by the wrong name in front of your mother. And what’s worse is that you giggled and smiled your way through the whole thing. Keeping up the charade.

It sucks dude, we shared some good laughs over Dora the Explorer’s shitty haircut and her stupid Spanish accent. You taught me how to color within the lines and that Goldfish are only for eating.

So yeah, I’m sorry I called you by the wrong name. But I’m even more sorry you let me.

I hope we can come back from this Quin.

I miss your Goldfish.

Yours truly,