Dear A,

I have to admit, that picture was pretty frightening, sort of Shawshank Redemption-y, if you ask me. But I'm sure a little fecal matter gets in the terroir every once in a while anyway!

So I forgot to tell you that the husband is famous now. He's a television star, with 4 appearances now on CNBC Asia and Bloomberg Asia. Seriously! He basically goes on and talks about stocks (you can imagine that this is not the reality television appearances that I was hoping for, but I think we're too old to be cast for the Asian Jersey Shore). Anyhow, now that he's done it a few times (and got back some constructive criticism), he actually thinks about what he's going to wear. Yes, this from the man who is still holding onto rugby and flannel shirts from 20 years ago.

But here's the problem, he doesn't know how to really match his shirts and ties. The second problem is that while I think I can put an outfit together, I can't match shirts and ties either. And the final, most humongous problem? I don't have any male gay friends in San Francisco anymore that can help me (or him)!!! What happened, Amy? I feel like someone is going to show up on my doorstep and rip away my Democrat card any moment now. I'm thinking of posting on Craigslist with the caption "I'll be your one Asian friend if you be my one gay friend. Must be able to talk shit." To add insult to injury? We decided to get a minivan to cart my many children and dog. Might as well drive that damn minivan straight to Utah...oh wait, I said damn. They won't let me in, anymore.

Love, D

Dear D,

I like the part about eating your kids’ ice cream. I always struggle with choosing just two flavors. I know triple scoops exist, but I don’t think that would be appropriate for me to order in Paris considering some here view drinking a third glass of wine as unladylike behavior. Plus, your kids are young enough that you can still order for them (i.e., choose the flavors you want) and simply appear to be an attentive mother as you pick junks of dried cookie dough off their cheeks and pop them into your mouth. As you said, you are trying to save on Kleenex and I commend you on this Earth Day for teaching your little ones that the environment is a priority!

To be honest, I never really understood how mothers could use those little mini turkey basters to suction snot out of their babies’ noses or suck a dirty pacifier clean. But yesterday I went down to our cave to get a few bottles of wine for dinner and was shocked to find them, as well as a few other negligible items like a computer and armoire, covered in mud - an odd smelling mud.

Our superintendent informed me that the building’s main evacuation pipe (pour les toilettes) had been clogged over the weekend. When it was unplugged, a leak ensued. He concluded that was the source of the mud explosion in our cave. In sum, our belongings are covered in a cocktail of my neighbors’ urine and fecal matter.

Without thinking twice, I retrieved some rubber gloves and pushed aside the computer until I could reach my beloved bottles of wine. I carried them upstairs where I carefully bathed each one of them, dried them with a fresh towel and lovingly placed them in the refrigerator.

Body fluids cannot get in the way of real love.

Love, A

Dear A,

At least the weather wasn't so cold that the snot coming out of your nose froze, leaving a silvery streak of freeze-dried-snot on your upper lip. I'm thinking that's not in fashion in Paris. That said, I feel like I'm constantly up to my ears (or should I say, nose?) in snot? I remember looking at kids and seeing runny snot all over their faces and thinking 'aw man, that is gross. It's called kleenex and guess what, it's not a new invention!'

But now I understand it. Wiping snot away from kids' faces is just a futile way of cleaning up. It's like a hoarder moving one box of crap from one room to another...useless, the junk is still there. And so it goes with my kids' runny noses. Perpetually there, so ultimately, it's a cost savings to not use kleenex and just let the snot fall where it may (most typically, on the left arm sleeve of the coat or shirt they are wearing).

Sigh...I also lick their runny ice cream, another thing I thought I'd never do.

Love, D

Dear D,

You’ve come to the right person for help. While I’m not in Demi Moore’s league, F is a youngling. The four year age difference hasn’t seemed like much over the years, probably because I’m incredibly immature, but as I approach my 40th birthday I’ve noticed there’s something about this number that makes the difference seem more obvious. It’s easier to do math with round numbers I suppose. It doesn’t help that younger women are showing an interest in my husband. We have a case of “Poison Ivy” on our hands in Texas. My sister informed me that my soon-to-be 16 year old niece thinks F is “hot” and goes around the house saying “Uncle F, grrrrr . . .” (allegedly just to make my sister uncomfortable; she’s inherited my inappropriate sense of humor). Anyway, if you really want to know if you’re a cougar, I suggest a visit to Paris. Last month when my (older) sister was here, she met several men, the average age being 25. It was a bit of a blow to my ego. I’ve lived here 4 years and think I’ve been approached twice. The most recent occurred two weeks ago. A man on the sidewalk stopped me to ask if I’d like to join him for a drink. I was in such shock, and laughed so hard that some snot came out of my nose. (It was chilly and I was getting over a cold.) Needless to say, he looked relieved when I told him I was on my way to meet my husband and declined his offer. In the cat world, I’m a spayed, domestic with mange.

Love, A

Dear A,

After watching that movie "17 Again," I had a dream about Zac Ephron. It's official. I'm a cougar. Someone slap a low cut shirt and strappy metallic heels on me, then just shoot me and put me out of my misery.

Love, D