Dear God, It's me, Zondor the Great... that's right, I've changed my name.  Not only does this one make me feel taller, but it just sounds so much cooler than 'Taryn'.  What does 'Taryn' even mean?  The baby books in 1983 said something along the lines of 'polished stone' but now they've demoted it to something like "a rugged hill in Ireland."   Oh yeah, THAT'S intimidating.  Tell me, was my mother on some sort of weird antidepressant when she was choosing baby names?  Why couldn't she have known that I was going to grow up with a Napolean complex, and would only be satisfied when my coalition of evil midgets finally took over the planet?  Maybe I shouldn't have told you about that.  Okay, bye.

 

 

Dear God, that wasn't funny what you did to my evil midget army.  It took me days to get them out, and believe me:  1 million gallons of super glue is NOT cheap.  I'm going to have to start a bake sale or something to get back on my feet.  I hope you're satisfied.  PS:  Apparently the name Zondor the Great is already taken.  I get the point. 

 

 

Dear God... yesterday I was working at the Cracker Barrel and a young man proposed to me.  Before I could run away, he pulled out his resume and began to read.  Suddenly I realized I was being too hasty in denying him... it sounds like he's got a pretty sweet setup going on, and all he needs is a "little woman." I'm not sure why he's so interested in the shorter of our species, but I'm certainly as little as they come.  Sure, he's missing a few teeth in the front and smells of shoe polish, but am I really prepared to distribute sweet tea and biscuits for the rest of my days?  Give me a sign, please.  Thanks, Taryn.

 

Dear God... maybe you didn't understand what I was asking for, but a road sign with a hoola-hooping pedestrian on it wasn't what I meant.  I was thinking about something more along the lines of a talking pillar of fire, or something dramatic like that.  I do hope you'll try again tomorrow.

 

Dear God...the giant thumbs-down burned into my father's lawn was very impressive. Bravo!  I assume that you disapprove of the marriage proposal, and I will turn him down immediately.  However, now that I think of it, the Romans once used that sign in gladiator battles when they wanted the fallen to be executed by the victor's sword.  A double meaning, eh?  Well, I don't have any swords, but I suppose I could do him in with something almost as good... SALAD TONGS!!!

Tomorrow should be an exciting day at the Barrel.

 

Dear God.  Plan failed.  Devising plan B.  Taryn out.

 

Dear God... did you know that if you wake up on the wrong side of the bed, your legs won't work for the rest of the day?  At least that's my mother's theory.  Personally, I think I broke my back during my horseback riding lesson yesterday, and though I was only in a moderate amount of pain last night, the pressure of my body weight and the bed springs finished severing the connection between my brain and my legs.  Or, I drank too much Nyquil after dinner last night.  That stuff does weird things to me.  Remember that one time my eye twitched for a week and a half?  Yep. Nyquil.  Or what about that time my tongue went all numb and I couldn't speak without drooling for a couple of hours?  Well, actually, that was because I accidentally brushed my teeth with Icy Hot that morning.  It tasted minty. 

 

Dear God... Today my guidance counselor told me I should be a truck driver... and that I should "specialize" in dangerous chemicals.  I don't think he likes me very much.  If you could, you know, keep an eye on Mr. Long when I have my back turned, that would be great. 

 

Dear God... I know you have been wondering where the Lakeside Presbyterian church steeple disappeared last Sunday.  I'm afraid that I can't guarantee you that it isn't currently covered in goats blood and up in flames in the preacher's back yard amidst a pile of sappy hymn books.  It is also possible that the words "Give us back our pre-service coffee and bagels" are carved in the church deacon's front door, maybe beneath a wreath of disembodied chicken heads.  You can, however, count on the fact that this Sunday's sermon will be less boring than usual, and breakfast will be waiting in the lobby.  Just a hunch.