Dear PokeMonholics Annonymous,

Enclosed is a letter of recommendation from my mother and husband, both of whom say a grown woman should not be playing Pokemon and that I should be committed.

Institutionalize me for my addiction if you wish.  Send me to a rehab center where there are no Gameboys.  But if you do, know this.  Ash Ketchum and I grew up together.  Me and him.  Him and me.  We've caught them all.

He has been with me since I was nine.  Longer than my husband.  Longer than my baby.  Longer than my longest time bestest friend.  Pokemon is how I first learned to draw.  Pokemon is how I first learned to write stories.

Oh?  You've changed your mind?  I can stay?  I can keep my DS?  Good.

Ash and I thank you.

Love,
Rachel
PokeMon Champion

Dear Friend,

Remember when we waded down the river and ate junk food and talked about California?

I get that I was obnoxious and that you were an inch shorter than me and just a-little-bit-skinnier and that you were leaving forever and ever.  Understood.

You left.  Soon, I met my "lobster."  My missing puzzle piece.  The one who gets my stupid jokes.  We had a perfect daughter together, and now we have a perfect life.

Everything is perfect.  Except for one thing.  You were supposed to be miserable.  You were supposed to be old and lonely and own fifteen cats that you didn't like and didn't bother naming.

Because everyone deserves to be missed.

Love,

An Old Friend

Heaven is...

Maternity Leave.
Cheesy Sun Chips.
Panda Express.
Date Night.
Baby hiccups.
Christmas trees.
Photo walls.
Mint lotion.

What is heaven to you?

It's Only as Bad as You Make It

Mary Worth is comedic gold.  That lady is always nosing into people's business, peeking through keyholes, and getting up in everyone's grills.  If she even thinks that you might have a problem, she'll be at your door with a word of advice and a plate of cream-stuffed turkey that-she-made-with-her own loving-hands (thank you very much.)

Her first husband, Jack is his name, "accidentally" died of an "accident."  Her love for the Late, Great Jack is so great, that she spurns the advances of her present suitor, plump, pleasant Jeff.

Personally, I wonder why Jeff wastes his time.  Her advice is just song quotes from the 30's, she's not that rich, and no one can tell what century she is dressed for.

Her advice, besides the previously mentioned Frank Sinatra song quotes, can be summed up like so:

"Don't drink."
"Come and live with me until it smooths over."
"Credit cards are the root of all evil, yes."
"If your heart tells you to marry someone thrice your age with a beard like Brigham Young, do it."
"And don't drink."

Previous story lines have included the following:

Mary Worth accidentally overhears her friend, a financial planner, hear that she is single and oh-so-sad for lack of a man.  Then she ACCIDENTALLY OVERHEARS a doctor she works with say that he's single.  She sets them up and it is, of course, true love.  Romantic sigh, birds in the sky, ocean view sunset and Frank Sinatra.

But!  What is this?  The doctor isn't returning the financial planner's calls.  Mary Worth to the rescue, dude.  She corners the doctor in his office and says, "Yo!  Why are you ignoring the financial planner?  What, is my matchmaking not good enough for you?"

He lies on the couch and says, "It all started with my father."

A father whom he lost touch with.

Mary Worth, in all her wisdom, tells Doctor to reunite with his father.  Novelty idea, right there.  So he does, and like magic their dad-son love is rekindled and Mary teaches the dad not to drink.

The dad dies and Doctor dates the financial planner again.

All I have to say is, WHAT?

Mary Worth has had her share of troubles, though, I'll grant you that.  At one point, she was stalked by a baby-faced Pillsbury Doughboy named Aldo who ended up dying a gruesome death by drinking.  Aldo is a true, blue creeper if ever there was one.

Well, who can blame him?  Mary Worth makes a good cream-stuffed turkey.

Regards to a Loved One

Dear Teenage Self,

You call yourself fat one more time and I'm going to come back to 2007 and slap you silly.

Love,

A Well Meaning Friend

To Whom It May Concern

Dear Walmart Employee,

I ain't your "hon," but thank you for calling me that when I phoned the supermarket see if you had a 20-foot internet jack in your electronics department.

Usually the phrase is reserved for Southerners.  I work at a call center and have phoned the Bible Belt a number of times.  I am a hon and sweety to plenty of grit-lovin' women east of Texas.

Let's go back to a time when that was okay.  Back to a time before "lol" was cute, we spoke more than we texted, and we weren't afraid to call a large corporation to ask about their supply of internet cords.

Because, let's face it, sometimes Walmart employees are scary.

Love,

Your Hon

Fancy That

Amber has a new admirer.

He's a year old.  He sat behind us at church, pointed at her, and said, "Ooo!  Ooo, cue!"

Darn right, she's "cue."  Amber is the cu'est baby this side of the Oquirrah Mountains.

I am a bit jealous, though.  No one called me "cue" until the third grade, when I smeared fry sauce all over my times table sheet and dared one of the littler kids to eat it.

He was fond of bullies.  After calling me "cue" and graduating from the third grade, this boy grew up to study law at the University of Utah.  He now plays football for the Dallas Cowboys.

He asked me if I wanted to be a cheerleader for the team.  Given my fine physique and bubbly demeanor, I was, cough, more than fit for the job.  I politely declined, before putting Vaseline on the handle of his car.