Dear Tina Fey…

Dear Tina Fey,

We have much in common. Recently, I discussed our commonalities in a Facebook update.

We have, for instance, brown hair.

And children.

We’ve survived the Pennsylvania Turnpike. We fall asleep when our husbands drive. Except I wake up when he swerves to miss roadkill.

You and I? We have not had plastic surgery (yet).

Like you, I’ve taken Benadryl to remain breathing at the home of my in-laws, who have a cat. For years, after taking Benadryl, I often responded to their queries with: “Qwtyruuuu uuuhhhhhhhhh dddddddddagh.” And then I’d fall face first into my Michigan apple cobbler. I think it was years before they knew I could speak English.

Although I never made it happen, I dreamed of meeting relatives at mid-way points so we’d not have to drag an impatient, screaming baby across the country. Eventually, I decided to look at these travel moments as an opportunity for deep personal growth. I let my husband drive while I drank bourbon.

On another note, I too have survived the Western middle-to-upper-class woman’s diatribe on how and why I should breastfeed all day and night.

I love this quote from your book:

“Women who not only brag about how much their 5 year old still loves breast milk, but they also grill you about your choices…let me be clear, millions of women around the world nurse their children beautifully for years without giving anybody else a hard time about it. The Teat Nazis are a solely western upper-middle-class phenomenon occurring when highly ambitious women experience deprivation from outside modes of achievement.”

Have I mentioned I may love you a little?

On a more positive note, I have learned many things from your new book. For instance, who knew men working in television urinate into jars? I thought only male novelists did this.

I figure you are like the rest of us despite your fame. You get up every day and put your pants on one leg at a time—and then you Google yourself. It’s these kinds of actions that bring humanity together.

I hope it’s nice to know at least three of us read your book (more than you said would)— and maybe four if you count your mom, who sounds very nice by the way. My mom will only read your book if you are a poet selected to read at a presidential inauguration. (Sorry.) I think about five people read my book of poetry (available on Amazon—cough, cough).

Love,

Deborah Ager, your new “BFF” in a totally non-threatening non-stalker way

PS: I think our Dads would like hanging out.