Dear E. Jean: The day after my houseguests arrived from Iowa, I fell off a scaffolding, broke my leg, and badly cut the other. So now I’m living on a foldout sofa in the living room with no privacy, taking heavy doses of painkillers, and feeling angry and frustrated—particularly about the horrible, messy state of my tiny kitchen! It’s being used by three people, one with large, open wounds on her legs. What can I do to get them to clean up after themselves? —Held Hostage
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Legs, my lily stalk: What’s your address? I’ll come over and clean the kitchen. And after making certain you’re all fluffed, sparkling, propped up, and comfortable, I’ll tiptoe out of the room and beat some manners into your guests with my Swiffer.
You need peace! You need quiet! You can’t grow strong again if you’re stressed. Tell your friends to go to a motel. If they refuse, order in your meals and make them pay for it. My God! I never heard of such swine!
This letter is from the E. Jean archive.