This is an installment of Suzette Andujar’s weekly column “As I Was Saying”
I hope this letter finds you well. I have been thinking of you lately with a longing and fondness that touches my heart. I haven’t seen you in such a terribly long time that I’ve forgotten what you look like. I know you’re angry with me as evidenced by your frequent disappearing act, but please know whatever offense I have given, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.
You’re so important to me and I accept you in all forms, yet you punish me. Maybe you should be the one apologizing, yes, and begging for my forgiveness. How much of your shenanigans do I have to take before I lose it? I try something different and buy you with your cap attached and no, you don’t disappear; instead, you get your paste all stuck inside your crevices. Then, as if I’m not in a rush and have time to clean you up, your paste dries and turns into toothpaste toast.
I have news for you, dear Cap, toothpaste toast is incredibly disgusting. It’s hard, grimy and makes me feel like a slob. The gunky paste stops you from closing all the way and so I have to leave you open and exposed to the air…the bathroom air. The. Bathroom. Air.
Why did you insist on rolling into the sink and getting lodged in an awkward position between the stopper and the depths of the hole? I never put you there purposely; you lunged in and decided to frustrate me as I used the curvy part of a hanger to fish you out.
Now that I’m thinking about it, I really shouldn’t have apologized. Where do you get the nerve? I take you off and set you aside for two minutes while I brush my teeth with the hope that I can place you back on and move along with my day, yet you decide to somehow roll to the back of the toilet. How did you get there? I know how: you did it on purpose. Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you, you piece of plastic baloney.
You know what else annoys me? You think I’m just some simpleton who wouldn’t know any better, don’t you? I know all about your act, the word is all over town. I’m talkin’ about how you pretend to be a bottle of shaving cream. Nobody wants to buy you in the shape of shaving cream! Anyone who happens to read this letter might not even know what I’m talkin’ about because it’s all an act, see? You’re not so smart, see?
So how’s about you consider this a goodbye letter? I can live with putting the toothpaste tube in a plastic baggie to stay fresh. Just watch me, Cappy ol’ pal. I’ll buy you, throw you out and all my problems will be solved. You’ll be swimmin’ with the fishies if you catch my drift. Check your bed for a horse’s head, your days are officially numbered.
Oh I’m sincere,