Dear Mr. Man,

I won’t name you here, because hello – not stupid. However, I’ve a few things to say, and since I’ve been all lax on the ranting around here lately? I’ma say them.

How dare you? How dare you, with your bowlegged stance, your 70s reject stache, your untrimmed hair and unwashed body, your patched and repatched dirty jeans, your shitkickers, your flannel shirt and your oh so prized posession janitor keys jangling all redneck like off your belt…

How dare you come into my house, take a look around at the well lived in look – which, for the record, was practically spotless for around here – and stick your nose in the air and tell your daughter she’s never to see mine again until you foist your friends on my house and give it a ‘right good cleaning because oh my god!”

Let’s look at this realistically. From your vantage point, you could see the dining room and the kitchen. You could see dishes on the counter, and a garbage can that needed (and GOT, you stupid bastard) emptying. You also saw the cupboard that’s falling off the wall and unusable, and the full counters that result from that unuse. You saw an old desk that is cluttered and a table with a couple pizza boxes on it. From your high and mighty vantage point, you also saw some coats piled on a large dog crate, vacuumed floors, and couches draped with teenage boys watching tv.

That’s it.

So – just so you can feel vindicated in telling your daughter to tell mine, to tell me of your disgust and ire – let’s go into what you didn’t see. 3 dirty bedrooms, a garage so full of stuff you walk from door to door along a path of laundry, and a straightened up but unfinished bathroom.

What you also missed were three happy kids, content to live in our ordered disorder, who care more about what kind of kids they are, rather then what kind of house they live in. You missed the fact that they are popular with their group of friends, friends that also don’t judge them on their house, where they live, what clothes they wear.

You missed my daughter’s look when she heard this shit you pedaled, the indignation, and the frustration when she told me of your idiocy, as well as the determination to remain your daughters friend despite your small minded and petty comments. What you missed, is the beauty of a friendship that goes beyond the outer appearance, and concentrates on what is important: inner beauty.

Our daughters are beautiful. They are fun, and funny, smart and articulate, giggling messes of adolecent joy. I wouldn’t change either of them for the world.

And I won’t change me for you. So take your judgemental short sighted stupidity and shove it up your bowlegged ass. I’ve five more words for you:

Martha Stewart Don’t Live Here.

So fuck off, dickwad.

Sincerely, and with much aggression,

~L