Letters: Spurs, Shoes and Sad Eyes

Cheer up!  It's time for letters.  I should have written this on Monday, but I didn't.  So sue me...in small claims court, of course.

Dear San Antonio Spurs, 

Enough already.  I think I can speak for everyone when I say that we're tired of your schtick.  I have been cheering against Parker, Duncan and Ginobili since 1984.  Collectively, you are all 400 years old.  So hop on your Rascals and hit the road.  Oh sure, you play fundamentally sound basketball and are well-coached, but that's not what the people want to see.  And by people, I mean me.  Just let my team, who shoots ill-advised jump shots, win it from here.  And while we're in the business of wish-granting:  I do not like Manu Ginobili and I wish to never see him on my television screen again.

Amen,

Kathy

Dear Lost Box of Shoes,

The sadness I have over your disappearance cannot accurately be expressed by the written word.  I didn't even get to say goodbye.  I just packed up all of you, my summer sandals and such, and assumed you'd make the move with me.  But you didn't.  And maybe this was a sign from a higher being that I did in fact own too many shoes.  But isn't that for me to decide?  Who are you to say that seven pairs of Toms is too many? I've worked my way through the five stages of grief since the realization that you were gone: denial (if I keep looking in the same place, they are bound to show up!), anger (I will never stop being mad about this!), bargaining (I should have moved them myself, never trust other people), depression (I can't believe I'll never see those wedges again!), and finally acceptance (goodbye old friends, may you bring the same joy to a stranger you once brought me).  But I'm keeping the acceptance to myself, because as far as Husband is concerned, I am still in the second stage: anger.  

With great despair, 
Shoeless Joe Kath

Dear Oklahoma Allergens,

I hate you.  I hate you like I hate South American floppers in the NBA.  I cannot handle it anymore.  My left eye has been watering for seven days.  SEVEN DAYS.  In a super sexy twist, I was suffering from both pink eye AND mystery allergies.  The Bob Costas Olympic Conjunctivitis has cleared up, but my sad left eye continues to weep.  As Sheryl Crow once said, I can't cry no more...I really battled between quoting Sheryl Crow or the band Kansas here (Don't you cry no more).  I've also been working hard for the last 30 minutes on figuring out a way to tie in a Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes reference, to no avail.  As you can see, my weepy eye has led me to a state of progressive hysteria (<-- Def Leopard!). The sooner we clear this up, the quicker I can go back to referencing Mean Girls and pop culture.  I'm currently in a tailspin of 90's power ballads.  Make it stop!

Through my tears,
KHR

That's all for today.  If you need me, I'll be under my desk watching highlights of last night's game while wearing an eyepatch.  What music will be playing in the background you ask?  Cinderella, of course.  Because it's true, you don't know what you got, till it's gone.