An Open Letter to the Kid Who Shouted at Me Last Night on W. Gray

You know who you are: the passenger in a small car that whizzed by me as Casey and I took our evening stroll in front of the Post Office. You yelled, "Which dog is walking which dog?" Remember? Ah, yes. I thought you would.

First of all, congratulations on trying to be entertaining. More than anyone, I believe in adding more laughter and merriment to the world. And while your contribution was little more than a slightly bungled prank phone call on wheels, I applaud your attempt. Keep practicing. You may well advance to "Is your refrigerator running?" someday.

Second, accept my sympathies for the car you are forced to ride in. What was that? A '93 Hornet? I can only imagine what it's like to ride around in an un-airconditioned car on a sultry Houston summer night, sweating through your Ross-Dress-for-Less jeans onto the vinyl seats while the car's leaking exhaust system sends just enough carbon monoxide into the passenger compartment to make you slightly nauseated. Must be torture, and I can empathize.

Honestly, though, thank you for recognizing that my form was female! Dressed in my baggiest shorts and a shirt that doubles for pajamas at times, I remain impressed by your powers of observation. Especially because I'm kind of dumpy and even probably older than your grandmother! I say that, of course, because I would guess that both your mother and grandmother gave birth as teenagers. Alone. On the floor of a Motel 6.

And I bet I can also safely assume that Grandmama--even at her age--sports a much slimmer profile than do I, given that she and your mother spend most of their time standing in doorways, smoking crack and meeting new gentlemen friends. But, really, thank you for noticing. I am proud of my gender.

Finally, asshat, you scared my dog. If you do it again, may the hepatitis you contracted in utero flare up and dash any career hopes you may have had as a professional beer taster. Jerk. And go &%*$ yourself.