Letters

Dear McAlister’s employee, The more I think about your behavior last night, the less I understand. There you were, standing behind a register at the counter welcoming me and Mindy and asking if we were ready to order. I was. I’d been planning my choice since, oh, 2:30 p.m. when I found out we were going to McAlister’s. So I approach you and the register you’re standing directly behind. Where you now begin to just stare at me sheepishly. And sort of half smile. And refuse to make eye contact. And just stand there in weird, awkward silence. Finally, when I’m thinking I’m the socially awkward one, you make some sort of hand gesture and mumble something to the effect of, it’ll be just a minute. And then you hustle some other employee up to the register to take my order. Dude, I don’t know exactly what your job entails at the restaurant, but seriously, if you don’t intend to take orders, don’t stand directly behind a register and ask people if they’re ready to order. Seems simple enough. Confused and Overly Self-conscious in Brentwood

Dear blog readers: I am addicted to my blog stats. I love to see how many views I’ve had, if there are new comments, and all that stuff. I actually check it multiple times a day. My favorite area is the search terms that have lead readers to my site. Not long ago, it was “mandy crowe.” OK, you got here because my name is Mandy and I mentioned Cameron Crowe in a recent post. Let me just reiterate something I’d had to do all my life but significantly more since moving to the south: My last name is Crow, just like the bird. That means no freaking e on the end. Like Sheryl Crow, the Counting Crows (for you, Scott). Well, you get the picture. While we’re on the subject, my first name is just Mandy. It’s not short for anything, especially not Amanda. Don’t call me Amanda, please. A guy I work with insists on calling me this even though I’ve explained it’s not my name. I’ve thought of just pinning my birth certificate to my shirt for several days, but I don’t think that would help much or make much of a fashion statement. So it’s Mandy-not-Amanda Crow-no-e. Got it? P.S.: Reader who found my blog by searching for the phrase “St. Louis Dork,” were you really disappointed? And what in the world were you searching for?

Dear Neighbor John: You’re a good neighbor. And you’d make my day if you’d pull my garbage can back up next to the condo after the trash man comes today. It really makes my day when you do that. I even ponder baking you some sort of baked good, then go inside and forget about those thoughts. (Or consume said baked goods myself). I am not a good neighbor. No Ms. Rogers here

Dear Nashville driver in front of me on the way to work: I know that braking is a part of driving. I know that some people think slamming on their brakes a lot is FUN! I’m not one of them. Please for the sake of all that’s holy learn to drive without slamming on the brakes every few seconds. It’s not good for your car OR your passengers. Seriously, you probably make people carsick! And you make the people behind you lash out in road rage, screaming at you over the top of their church’s Easter music on the radio. And then they feel bad about themselves. So just learn to ease on to the brakes, not slam them. I hate it when all my crap flies out of the backseat and hits the back of my seat. And at that moment, I really hate you. And I don’t want to be a hater. So really, ease onto the brakes. It’s better for everyone involved. The Traffic Controller of South Nashville

Dear “Meterologists” in the Nashville area: Seriously, I thought we had a good chance for ice or snow or something that might possibly cause my office to close for the day. No such luck. Thanks for getting my hopes up. Thanks for not ever being all that accurate. But thanks for getting up early so I can watch you while I do Pilates in the mornings. And telling me how cold it is outside so I know how many layers to pile on before I walk the dog looking like a homeless person before 5 a.m. every morning. Wishing grown-ups still got snow days, Mandy

Dear Baja Burrito: I still love you, but I feel that we are growing apart. You have a new owner and somehow, your tomatillo salsa just isn’t quite as good. There’s something funky going on there. I mean, come on, this is the stuff I once claimed I would bathe in . . . or marry if it were a man. Now I no longer need 4 containers of it when I go to your restaurant. It is interesting that your former employee, Cesar, is now at Moe’s Southwestern Grille where the tomatillo salsa has gotten progressively better. Think there’s a correlation? The Burrito Ho (as my coworkers dubbed me when Cesar used to give me free meals at Baja. I miss those days.)