Completely irreverent and hysterically funny, Pamela (Don’t call me Pam) Dayton of The Dayton Time is the mother of 4 and wife to The Mister. She’s a powerhouse of intelligence and calm in a small package (I mean, I’m guessing she’s small – for some reason, she doesn’t list her height on her blog, WTF Pamela?). She also makes a mean granola.

Dear Barbra Streisand,

What. The. Fuck. I was out to dinner with The Mister last night celebrating our anniversary, and out of nowhere, your Super Jew version of Rodgers’ and Hammerstein’s My Favorite Things started blasting. I’m not actually sure how recording this usually peppy, upbeat song about, umm, FAVORITE THINGS in a minor key really conveys the intended message. Because really? Whiskers on kittens are cute, and generally make everybody but Otis T. Catflinger an ooey gooey mess. Also? Christmastime is happy. I know that historically the Jews aren’t always the happiest of people, but throw us merry Christmas-ers a bone, will you? And even if you can’t get behind the whole kittens thing, and warm woolen mittens make even your hoohoo itchy, you have to get excited about brown paper packages tied up with strings, unless you’re the freaking Grinch. And spoiler alert: even the Grinch came around to the idea of merry Christmas.

With a Smooch For Each Cheek,

the boss of things

*****lalalalalalala*****

Dear Person Who Applies the Cream Cheese to Bagels at Tim Horton’s,

What. The. Fuck. And, yes, I’m addressing you the same way I addressed Babs. You should feel happy about that, I’m guessing. This will be short and sweet. Well, maybe not even remotely sweet, but here goes:

I ORDERED CREAM CHEESE ****ON**** THE BAGEL. I DID NOT ORDER IT ****IN THE HOLE**** ON THE BAGEL. If I wanted my cream cheese on the side, or on the INside, I would have ordered it that way. I’m sure they don’t pay you enough to take pride in the pristine application of cream cheese, but they sure as hell pay you to put the fucking cream cheese on the fucking bagel.

So figure it out already.

Flashing the international sign that you’re a moron (just in case you’re Canadian and this is actually an international misunderstanding),

the boss of things

*****lalalalalalalalala*****

Dear Hotfessional,

India, huh? I hear it’s really gross in India. Not that I know this firsthand, it’s just that one time my brother went and said it smelled really bad. But then again, when he comes home to Western New York, he says it smells bad, so he might not be a reliable source.

Here’s a couple of pointers, though, because things are a little different there. First, don’t actually pee in the streets. I know you’ll see a lot of that, but this is no When-In-Rome kind of situation. Wait until you get back to your hotel. Second, don’t bother wearing a seat belt. If you get in a car wreck, you’ll be better off being thrown from the vehicle and bouncing off a cow. And finally, do not, under any circumstances, joke about cow-tipping. Your joke will go right over their heads, or you’ll go right to jail. Or something.

Love and kisses and you’re welcome,

Pamela

—- Thanks Pamela. I promise – no peeing in the street and no cow-tipping. —-

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