Passing observations

To the rather tall young man in the Pi Kappa Alpha sweatshirt at a McDonald's in Williamsburg, Iowa, who asked me if I was babysitting, and told me I looked nineteen:

Hi. It's me, Jane. I was the red-faced, perspiring, and frazzled lady with two kids climbing all over me. You know, the one you hit on? Remember me? Hi! May I just tell you? That asking me if I was the nanny, because I didn't look old enough to be a mother of two, was just about the greatest thing that has happened to me in a looooooong time. I love you. When I'm done ironing Dr. Jay Gordon's socks, I will totally come and mop your beer-soaked frat house floors. I will not bear your children, because, fuck no. But I will make you a three-egg omelette every morning of your life, at least until I lose twenty pounds or find some self-esteem. I heart you, tall and awkward frat boy. God bless your mother, that delightful woman, and your future wife, whoever that lucky lady may be.

Love!!
Jane

To the red-faced, perspiring, sixty-something gas station attendant at mile 497 of our cross-Midwestern roadtrip, who reminded me in a cheerful if rather crass fashion that "CHILDREN ARE A BLESSING FROM GOD!":

Die. Asshat.

Sincerely,
Jane