Dear Dr. UnRooley,

I know you have two daughters.

You talked about them all the time.

It was awesome.

"Your girls."

But, I have to tell you, no matter how much you've sacrificed.

There are days when after an uneventful day at work,

You stop at the grocery for three bottles of your favorite water,

One jar of banana peppers,

And a box of dried kale.

There are days when you pray to the self check out contraption.

When you sit on the El platform for an hour,

Watching half a dozen trains go by, perfectly accessible trains that you can't seem to board,

Rather sit on the bench.

And when you finally do decide on a train, you sit all the way in the back,

With the candy wrappers, and the backwards motion,

And,

You have a wonderful conversation on your smart phone with your step mother,

And you feel you are in the throws of happiness.

But, your landlord hasn't yet kicked on tonight's furnace, and

You can't find the space heater,

And everything tastes bad, and none of the Cd's are in the right jewel case,

And you can't sit in one place for more then five minutes because your jeans are too thick, and You're sick of your home and you want to go home.

Just for a night.

You want somebody to fill the fridge with your favorite snacks.

And have just the thing that you want waiting for you on your old bedroom floor.

A new printer.

That sweater in the window of the Anthropologie that's across from your restaurant.

Stupid Lakeview.

And she'll tell you how pretty you look.

And she'll put on your favorite episode of John Laurequette.

And you'll fall asleep to your old petty desires and wake up forgetting all that you are and all that you have.

But, you can't. You just can't. (Sally Field is screaming in a cemetery).

"She never could!"

So,

You dig the green and yellow striped blanket out from under the radiator.

And you just want your mom.

Nothing else will do.

Sorry Rooley,

Skin