Plucky Letters to US soldiers in Iraq

Found this crabby letter in the files and decided to include it here for posterity.
I was probably suffering PMS (Patriot's Mother Syndrome) and ran out of Xanax.


Monday July 14, 2003


Dear Rob,


Today is Grandma’s 60th birthday. Taking her out for lunch yesterday and giving her the (stupid) Spa package was not sufficient. (told ya) She was clearly disappointed by the gift and immediately called the waiter over to bring her a beer. (at 12:20 PM) Aunt Bear & I drank about 14 gallons of iced tea while she pouted and dragged the lunch out for 2.5 hours. Your Aunt Bear made some innocent remark about Epiphany church and Grandma snapped “I didn’t realize we came here to trash the Holy Catholic Church!” (that was after beer #3) Clearly we had not done enough to celebrate this major birthday in Grandma’s history of sixty (count ‘em- 60- doesn’t that sound like more than enough to you?) birthdays.

On the way (supposedly) home, she told me to stop at K’s Merchandise so she could buy herself the gift we had apparently not adequately read her mind and known to buy for her. Seems she wanted a bicycle charm for a charm bracelet neither of us even knew she owned. They didn’t have one, so we ended up standing around the jewelry counter for such a lengthy period of time that your Aunt Bear was seduced into buying herself a new wedding ring. (I am not kidding.) Grandma bought about $700 worth of jewelry. I became such good friends with the salesman he showed me snapshots of his new house, but I still didn’t buy anything. I told my mother I would return the stupid (told ya) Spa Package and give her the cash toward her jewelry purchases.

This morning I tried to return the stupid Spa gift certificate, but the army of gay guys at Fox & Hounds refused to give me a refund. Then Aunt Bear called and said we’d better show up at Grandma’s with the kids tonight and sing Happy Birthday because Grandma was not satisfied with the $300 we'd already spent taking her out for a fancy lunch, buying her the (stupid) Spa package, and spending the entire afternoon standing around a jewelry store while she snookered one of us into buying a new wedding ring behind her husband’s back. It seems that sixty-year-old birthday girls want just as much attention as they got when they were 6. Okay, fine. (Remind me when I turn 60 and you are trying to support a family that I should not expect you to take out a second mortgage to buy me a pony, hire a clown, or take me to Disneyland.)

This afternoon I baked a special cake, the one I call the “Dream Cake,” which is chocolate cake with a caramel and whipped cream filling which is TO DIE FOR. It’s a great cake, and quite a bit of work. Just as I finished making it, your Aunt Bear called and said Grandma wanted an ice cream cake.
Yeah, well, too damned bad.
I told Aunt Bear the cake was done, it is a wonderful cake, I am NOT going out and buying another cake, and I am not MAKING another cake. This is the cake she is getting, and I think it is pretty damned pathetic that she thinks she can call people on the phone who are AT WORK (your aunt) and demand specific cakes, while not having the guts to call the person who gets all this shit done (me) and say she wants a goddamned bicycle charm, despite the fact we have been asking “WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY?” for the past 5 weeks.

Sorry, Grandma, you’re getting the Dream Cake or you can just not eat cake at all. Nobody baked me a cake on my effing fortieth birthday, and you didn’t hear me whining about it!

(Later, after having my Xanax prescription refilled):

We took the kids over there at 6:00 and had a nice visit, often interrupted of course by Papa, who wanted very badly to tell us how dogs are not like wolves at all, actually, but are completely different. (and everything and stuff like that.) Seems he just read a fascinating book about dogs. Grandma ate the Dream Cake and made no complaint.

But, cake notwithstanding, I was not off the hook by any means, because she soon turned to her favorite subject, which is:

WHY ROBBY DOESN’T WRITE EXCITING WAR LETTERS TO HER FROM IRAQ.

This is, of course, somehow my fault. She always brings it up by asking if I have heard from you, which is utterly superficial since I ALWAYS call them if I get a letter or phone call from you. When I get a letter or phone call from you it is a BIG DEAL and there is very little chance that she would not be aware of such an event. I practically phone the media and wake the neighbors.

So, when Grandma Lynn says, casually,

“Have you heard anything from Robby?”

I cringe, knowing I am in for a picnic table lecture. Grandma and Papa are united on this one issue in ways that they are not able to cooperate on anything else. Both of them zero in on me with accusatory stares which may be intended to induce me to suddenly spit out reams of letters you have written which I have, sneakily and for reasons unknown, hidden from them among my internal organs. I always feel like they want to pat me down or search me for hidden Iraqi documents. They both adopt an attitude that assumes I am somehow holding out on them. I just sit there trying to look innocent (because I am innocent) and let them stare at me. It’s kind of fun, actually.

Still, when you get a chance write a short letter to Grandma. Ask her if she liked her birthday cake and tell her getting manicures from gay guys is all the rage.


Much Love,

--Mom