Dear Sandra and Rachel:

Dear Sandra Lee:

I dislike you. First, you seem like a cold, calculating, icy, stupid Republican. But that's not really why I dislike you, even though I imagine you're super sweet and fake to all the homos on the staff of your show, while believing that they're going to hell... I also imagine you going off to church on a Spring morning in a bright floral dress... in a hat. (Eeeech.)

No, I'm "over" hearing you talk about your family. Why does your stupid family have to be in every show? But it's always your SISTER'S kids.

What's wrong with you and your husband? Why don't you have kids?

I'll bet you're barren. You're the lady whose insides are rotten.

You're dumb and lazy. Your recipes are stupid, and Bisquick and canned salmon isn't the answer to everything. And no one cares about Bricer or Sandy or Michelle or Alexis or Becky or the rest of the Aryan brood of children that follows you around while you make crappy chocolate lollipops out of that shitty melting chocolate they sell near the strawberries in the grocery store.

And enough with the Tablescapes, 'kay? I'm not about to go spend $100 (at least) on crappy table baubles. And I spend my money on unwise things. I imagine someone with a 1) famliy and 2) budget isn't going to go running to Michael's and the Container Store every time they have someone over for dinner.

Sandra Lee: You suck.

Love,

Me.


Dear Rachel Ray:

Who's your stylist? Because...come here real quick. Lean in.

YOU HAVE A FAT ASS.

Don't get me wrong. That's not a problem. I don't care if you have a fat ass or not. You're a chef. You're supposed to have some meat on your bones. I think you look very healthy, actually. Go you for not being a walking skeleton. (See, Sandra Lee.)

You're semi-cute. Except with your jeans selection. What the hell is your stylist thinking?! Your lil' tops are usually acceptable and zippy... but why is the bottom half of you always crammed into tapered-leg MomJeans or khakis that don't flatter your badonkadonk?

It's a problem, Rachel. How about a nice a-line skirt every now and then, huh? With a pair of wood-soled Dr. Scholl's sandals? (I know they're overwith, but I like them.) Or Candies? (Ditto.)

Or maybe a large drippy belt that would detract from the watermelons you're lugging around back there? Or maybe, just MAYBE a flared-leg pant? Something to even out the inflated Mylar balloons you've got stuffed in your back pockets?

Or hey... maybe buy some pants with less Lycra in them? I can almost smell your cameltoe from here.

Whatever you choose to do... less tapered stretchy black pants, less ill-fitting Jeans. Or if you INSIST, Mavi (overwith) were always good for the fat Jewish asses in college... and Citizens of Humanity and Seven also do wonders. Try True Religion.

You make a lot of money. There's no excuse for your wardrobe.

Love,

Me.

Dear Paula Deen:

Dear Paula Deen:

I know I've said it before, but I'm going to say it again:

I love you.

I don't love you in the I-want-to-have-sex-with-you kind of way; rather, I love you in the whenever-you're-on-tv-you-make-me-smile kind of way. I want you to make me gingersnaps and milk, and I want you to kiss my forehead, and I want us to play "War" with cards, and I want you to hold my hand when we're at the Zoo or Vizcaya or the Old Parrot Jungle in Pinecrest. I want you to read me stories and tuck me in and I want you to sit next to me in a rocking chair and drink lemonade.

Am I projecting memories of my deceased grandmother upon you? Perhaps...even though you and her are sort of geographic opposites...

I'm warning you: if I ever happen to stumble across you (Perhaps at the Miami Beach Food and Wine Festival) I am going to give you a great-big bear hug.

You're on notice.

Love,

Me.