Category: Food

Last week, while perusing The Marcia Archives, I made an amazing, life-altering discovery.

My children are ages four and two. So, knowing it would be highly unethical to read my children’s private mail, not to mention a betrayal to the intentions of 1982-Angie, I decided I would refrain from tearing open the envelope with the sole purpose of exploiting its contents.

Instead, I called on an episode of Kate & Allie and used my steam iron.

As expected, within the envelope was a letter from 1982-Angie. Much like Nostradamus’ eerie prediction that we would grow fins and live in underwater suburbs by the 21st Century, 1982-Angie’s prophetic words will astound you.


Thus, I’m sharing this letter today in hopes that you will learn from this voice of the past.

Dear Rosebush, Unicorna, Blinky, Rubik and Farrah,

Oh, my children. I love you more than the fruit-flavored jelly-simulated substance inside of a Pop-Tart.

That’s why it is important for me to write you this letter and tell you what I know.

I have freckles. I have blond hair. My favorite Smurf is Smurfette. My favorite food is frosting.

By now you are living it up in 2004 on your new planet. Ron Reagan is continuing his father’s five-term legacy by serving as your 41st Commander in Chief. Soon, in a dramatic upset, President Ron will fail the Pepsi Challenge, lose reelection, and Leif Garrett will return to power.

If I could stay up all night, first, I’d eat popcorn until I threw it up. Then, I’d play UNO with my mom. Finally, I’d put on fancy dresses, purple eye shadow and watch Falcon Crest.

As you sit eating your packaged astronaut dinners, you may be surprised to know that people in 1982 once ate their food whole and served on plates. Yes. While we here in 1982 are gobbling down our push-up pops and cherry chapstick, we can only dream of the day when all food comes packaged in tubes.

Sometimes I pretend Tenderheart Bear and my Cabbage Patch Kid fist-fight over who will sleep next to me. Sometimes I make them say, “She loves me best.” “No, me.” “No, me.” “I’m gonna rip out your yarn hair, bitch.” And so on and so forth.

My financial advisors tell me you should buy stock in apples.

“And she’ll tease you. She’ll disease you. All the better just to peas you. She’s a locust. And she knows just what it takes to make a toe brush. All the boys think she’s a spaz. She’s got Bette Davis eyes.”

I like that song.

I have a really bad feeling about a man named Ryan Seacrest. Do not trust him. He’s what we call back here in ‘82 “a buttmunch farthead dickweedface”.

One time I fell off my bike and got a piece of gravel stuck in my forehead. My mom picked it out with her eyebrow tweezers.

Well, my Shrinky Dinks are in the oven so I better skedaddle. But I want to leave you with an important piece of advice. Listen to Dolly — working 9 to 5 is no way to make a livin’. Do what you love. Look at me, by now I’ve fulfilled my dream of running a profitable mylar balloon store.

Yours truly,


P.S. What’s your favorite color? Mine’s rainbow.