Yeah, this is a rant. Minus the bitterness. Mostly.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater

Several weeks ago, I received a letter of request from an organization, written by me, sent to me, yet signed by someone else.

My words, my writing style, my heartfelt pleas were all there - in black on white. They were staring at me. Taunting me. As if to say, “Look, I’m sorry. You gave us up sweetheart, and so now we belong to someone else. Someone with better hair than you.”

You know that feeling you get when you think you’ve lost your keys and so you look around the house frantically until you finally give up and make yourself a cup of coffee only to realize, once you’ve sat down to drink your brew, that you don’t have any coffee cream in the house and worse yet, you still haven’t found your damn keys and so you get up to look again and by the time you find them a full hour later you feel like a perspiration-drenched fool because your keys were in the bottom of your purse the entire freaking time?

Yeah, that’s how that letter made me feel.

Irritated and sweaty. And craving caffeine.

No, really.

By the way - when I'm not ranting, I'm writing. And sometimes I'm funny. Like that time when I lost 10 pounds in a dressing room... and found them somewhere else:

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