Open Letters

Dear Deli Counter Workers,

Outside of the wonderful woman who cuts my hair, you are the professionals I've had the longest relationship with. Twice a week I seek you out, dutifully taking my number. Inevitably, it's the number right after the person who is ordering seven meats and four cheeses, but I know it's going to be worth the wait.

I ask for turkey breast to make sandwiches for lunch. You cut the first slice and show it to me, asking if I want it thinner or thicker. Most times I say it's fine because, honestly, I can't tell the difference. Occasionally I'll say, "A little thinner; I'm expecting company," and then laugh to myself. Thanks for not judging me.

I also always appreciate it when you put too much turkey on the scale, take off the extra, print out a receipt and then put the extra back in my pile. Don't worry, that's our little secret.

There's one thing that could make our relationship better, however. When it comes time to put the receipt on the bag, please don't use the receipt like a piece of tape to pin the bag's opening to the body of the bag. Because I always ended up tearing the bag trying to separate the receipt from the plastic. And then there is always a piece of the receipt sticking out from the top of the bag, making it difficult to open and close.

So please, next time, just put the receipt on the bag and hand it over. You can cut the turkey to any thickness you like in return.

Dear Inventor of Foam Hand Soap,

The frustration of the liquid soap-automatic faucet-electric hand dryer triumvirate caused a snowball effect that often left me drying my hands on my pants. I would get too much soap on my hands to rinse off one time through those low-flow and temperamental sinks, followed by not enough heat to dry my drenched hands.

It's a vicious spiral that ends with me using extra paper towels out of spite if they are available. (I don't like bathrooms that offer both the hand dryer and paper towels. I can feel the hand dryer judging me as I reach for the paper towel. Sorry, Captain Planet.)

The foam soap has effectively blown up the equation. One squirt of foam can easily be washed away with just a little bit of water, which in turn means the hand dryer is enough. Plus, foam is fun. I would push the dispenser more than once, but that would probably require me to use more water, which ultimately means more of my pants becoming towels.

So thank you, Foam Soap Inventor, for cutting 4.1 seconds off my time in the bathroom. In this case, the power truly is yours!

Dear Dad Standing in the Gym Locker Room Last Week as His Son Got Dressed,

And "standing" is the key word, because if you were helping him, then I wouldn't be as angry at you as I am.

I seem to get the gym locker room after work around the same time as a swim team practice, so locker and bench space is at a premium. On this night, all of the lockers seemed to be filled until I found one in the back row.

That's where I found you and your son. Junior looked to be somewhere between the ages of 6 and 13, old enough to dress himself. He sat in the middle of the bench, his back facing the locker I wanted to use. His stuff was spread out around him on the bench.

You were leaning against the lockers, watching him get dressed, not really helping him. Now, if I were you, I would have moved some of Junior's stuff on the floor as a courtesy, giving your fellow man some space to change. Or, I would've stopped talking about what Mom's making for dinner and urged Junior to finish getting dressed so the two of us could get home and find out.

Instead, you chose the third option - to continue standing there and wondering, too, what Mom is making for dinner. So I'm forced to change standing in my locker while the two of you try to guess tonight's menu.

You, Dad, might be wondering why I didn't say anything, why I didn't ask Junior (or you) to move his stuff. Because I shouldn't need to, that's why. If someone comes to change near me in the locker room, my first move instinctively is to bring my bag closer to me so we both have some space. It's a little thing called "common courtesy."

Actually, now that I think about it, I guess I should thank you for providing the anger that fueled my subsequent run.

But I still hope your dinner was terrible.