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,