Dear Acupuncturist,

I love you. I don't think I'm exaggerating, and I realize we just had our first date. But - it was "stick" at first ... "feel." You really listened to my needs, my wants, and my concerns. I really enjoyed our talk about your background. It made me feel better to know you had studied with a master, with an actual Chinese name, rather than getting your acupuncture licensure at, oh, the University of Phoenix. I just felt better knowing that you have studied with a real guy, in a real room, in Santa Fe no less. I like imagining you and your Master, in Santa Fe, amidst all the dream catchers and art and Bobcat Bite burgers. In the cool adobe, you must have asked questions, or he just told you the answers without you even having to ask. It sounds wonderful.

I'm thankful you've diagnosed me with blood stagnation. You know, I've been kind of feeling stagnant in my veins. ... Not really. But out of all of the symptoms of blood stagnation? I have a lot of them. And I like how you treated my stagnant blood yesterday, with the needles, and the mugwort, and the massage. It was ... just what I needed.

Acupuncturist? Not to put any pressure on you, but you know why I'm coming to you. You even told me a sweet little story about how I was coming at a "serendipitous" time, just as another "wannabe"mother got preggers, and left you for the mountains of Colorado. Your time together had been super productive, and just as she left, I came to you. Serendipitous, indeed ... but only if the results are equally as good.

So no pressure, Acupuncturist. But, just so you know ... I'm really counting on you.

Love, Me

Dear Dogeared,

You guys are geniuses at making jewelry. No, I really mean that. When you're like me, and jewelry is a sentimental, precious addition to your otherwise rote, everday life, you don't want chunk and clunk. You don't want ugly chain links and silver pendants that, um, don't stay silver. Or gold for that matter. You really don't want things to look like you bought them at Claire's.

You, Dogeared, have mastered jewelry, in my humble opinion. Your pendants are perfection, your karma necklaces and bracelets are reminders to keep the circle loving, and your friendship bracelets/goddess bracelets/everything else? To die for.

I consider myself a JackieO type - in that I wear the same stuff, dayindayout. It's you, Dogeared, that makes that a reality in my life. My karma necklace never leaves my neck and my ivory cherub bracelet? Let's just say if I pulled an Aron Ralston, I'd be saving that bracelet first.

Love, me

Dear Crocs,

Yeah, you. Crocs. The shoes. I have a bone to pick with you.

You're ruining my son's toenails, one by one. I didn't catch on until today, but I'm sure it's you.

How do I know? Well, it starts off innocently - the love of the croc. I don't own any myself, but for my one year old? They're a great summer shoe - slip on, bright and cheery, secure with the little backstrap, and breathable. But - that breathable part? I think that's what's killing my son's toenails.

You see, Crocs, while your little shoes are wrapped around my guy's little feet, I think they're a breeding ground for moist fungus to grow. And grow. And then infest. I started noticing his toenails getting a little ... fragile looking. Then they started to peel. Yes. Peel. Not wanting to be the I-Run-To-The-ER-Every-Week Mom, I chilled. I told myself, "Chill." But I couldn't help from noticing the, um, problem that was persisting.

After speaking to a doctor, and then spending some time on Google (yeah, so?), I'm pretty sure you're to blame, Crocs. But what do I do now? He loves the croc, and so do I. And, unfortunately, he doesn't have many other shoes. I ordered these, but are they too "girly" for my little manly man? My man who spends his days with dirt and bugs? He could wear his irrigation boots every day, but I'm afraid they would breed the same problemo. His Chucks are almost too small, but ... not quite. He can wear those.

Or - he could just wear his crocs with socks. Socks with sandals though?? That's another bone I have to pick ... with old men.

Love, Me

Dear Makers of the Blackberry Pearl 8130 OR Verizon (take your pick),

You guys suck. At least in my world right now. Because this phone? It's worthless. It erases my call history, as well as all of my texts, at least three times a week. And your solution? Take out the battery! Reset your phone! Easy peasy!

No. Not easy peasy. I do not believe that having a fancy schmancy Blackberry (which I hardly can justify) should require me to perform the cellphone version of Botox to it three times a week. I shouldn't be having to remove things, shake things, plug in and out things, wait for 30 seconds, and reboot things. Like my Blackberry Pearl 8130.

It's ridiculous. I'll be calling you, Verizon, every day, until I get a new phone. Because at this rate? I'd be happy with a Verizon Wireless CDM 8905. Serious.

Love, me

Dear Little Baby I Haven't Had Yet,

Please come soon. Please appear in my empty uterus soon, because if you don't, my little boy is going to drive me crazy. In the sweetest, bestest, goodest way he possible can. You see, he's the best. But he's not as his greatest little boy potential without a sibling. I almost feel bad writing to you, Little Baby I Haven't Had Yet, because you are helpless, I realize. But, it's about the only thing I haven't done, so I thought I would give it a shot.

As I was saying, my little boy needs a sibling. Boy or girl, doesn't matter. And just one! One special little brother or sister to play with, to wrassel (i know, sp.), to throw his food at, and to take fun baths with. Because seriously? I can't take his cute little Carebear Stares at other kids. It's heartbreaking when we go to a restaurant/baseball game/neighbor's house - my little boy luh-huh-hoves other kids, and it breaks my heart that I am struggling to have you, Little Baby I Haven't Had Yet.

I know my two miscarriages didn't help. Neither did that freakin' ectopic that gave me a bum (yet still there) right tube. Nor does the suspicion that I have that I only ovulate from my right side. It's not optimal, I know, but - I have faith in you, Little Baby I Haven't Had Yet. I know you can do it. Just show up. My uterus is waiting for you.

But more importantly? So is my little boy.

Love, me

Dear Denise Richards,

I have to tell you I'm sorry. First, for thinking you were just one of "those" actresses. You really aren't. In fact, I don't really think of you as an "actress" after watching your show. Don't take that the wrong way. In fact, I think it's actually a compliment that the first thing that comes to my mind when it comes to you isn't your lips attached to Neve Campbell's.

I think of you as a mom, now. From the limited exposure I get to "you" on your show on E!, I think you seem pretty great as a mom, actually. Your daughters, who have the cutest names, by the way, are so in love with you, and it really appears that they are well adjusted little girls.

Sorry about your divorce. That really seems to suck. And sorry about your mom passing away. The thing is, you just seem like a normal girl with some fame. I bet if we both lived somewhere like, oh, say, Albuquerque or Des Moines or Fargo, we'd probably be friends. We'd get our kids together, go to the pool, complain about our bodies after babies, eat fries anyway ... we'd go to the sports bar on Friday night, try to find you a man (a good one), and let my good one watch the kids. We'd get carded and feel good about ourselves, and then we'd drink something like amaretto sours, or maybe even bud light (with lime). We'd share recipes, take walks, join a gym (then never go).

What I'm saying is ... you seem sweet. Love, ME