Dear Ann or Margo or whatever your name is,

We’ve all seen the columns and the letters:

Dear Ann,  Raising my child has been the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done.  Every day, day after day, week after week, month after month I played with little Kent (that’s my baby’s name by the way) and never complained.  Diaper rash, colic, projectile poo in the bathtub – I did it all.  And then Kent finally turned 6 and went to school all day.  I didn’t know what to do with myself so I started browsing the Home Shopping Network.  Now I owe thousands and thousands of dollars and Kent’s sleeping in the attic because his room is full of cubic zirconium.  My husband thinks I’m a dental hygienist and if he finds out that I’m addicted to buying fake, cheap  jewelry he’ll leave me for his secretary in two seconds flat.  Meanwhile, Kent is doing terribly in school and I have no idea what to do.  Please help me!  Sincerely, Mommy’s Got Bling

Dear Ann, Abby, Margo – they’re all the same except that Margo is Ann’s daughter and Abby isn’t.  What I can’t figure out is why these poor people who write in don’t have anybody else to help them.  You’d think somebody would see the boxes coming everyday and say, “Hey. Julie.  What’s with all the boxes?”  At which point Julie would break down and admit she can’t turn off her TV. 

My best guess is that the writer has no neighbors or friends.  Maybe they live really far away in a remote corner of Alaska.  Maybe it’s just her and the moose (meese?), a couple of sweet igloos, and some nuts and berries.  I’d watch the Home Shopping Network too if the nearest store was a bait and tackle.

All I’m saying is, if you want to write into someone about your problems,  write into me.  I can totally help figure out your life or your money back.

Dear Mommy Loves Bling,  Get out of Alaska!  Grab Kent and your husband, buy three plane tickets to the Caribbean, and detox your habit on the beach.  While your gone, leave the house unlocked with the door open.  Maybe the moose (meese?) will crash in and break your TV while you’re gone.  In the meantime, wear your bling and enjoy it.  And for goodness sake, get poor Kent out of the attic.  The child’s probably jealous of your attention to the sparkly things.   What projectile pooing kid can compare to that?  None and Kent knows it.  Anyway, best of luck and oh yeah, after you get to the Caribbean, flush the card.  Write again soon, Sara

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