Dear Mr Redford,

I'm not sure when you first began sending me your Sundance catalog or from what online source you received my mailing address. Because let's face it, Bob. I can't afford any of your gorgeous wares.

Your hand tufted wool rugs painstakingly woven by Nepalese monks, adorable cashmere cardigan (which I can somehow dysfunctionally justify buying); your slouch bags - for $225? Slouch? I do not correlate slouching as costing anywhere near two-hundred dollars. The cotton pants, however. Those I can imagine paying the market value you are suggesting.

This mother of three is quite familiar with what it means to need pants with a zipper length longer than my pinky nail. Or the need to tuck the excess flab below my navel securely into my pants. Not to mention my exposed bum crack coin slot saying Hey! See me? Drop a coin in!

Sitting on the gym floor of my kids school with Egan in my lap, surrounded by the entire student body and their families, we all anxiously await the grand finale raffle drawing to see who takes home the coveted Wii and $100 Hy-Vee gift card (which, a-hem, we proudly received). As the gym filled and the crowd moved closer and closer to the stage, I suddenly noticed a cool breeze...on my exposed bum. I turned nonchalantly around, you know, like I was looking for someone in particular when I made deadlocked eye contact with the gentleman sitting directly behind me with his kid on his lap. Sheepishly smiling and pulling my elastic-y cotton shirt over my ass, I returned my attention to the drum roll of the impending raffle drawing.

Point being, Bob, I like your clothing. The fashionable Emily-type, age-appropriate clothing, adorably simple accessories, lamps, and vintage dining room chairs. But please, Bob. See about lowering your prices.

Nevermind. I see there's an an outlet page! I will now liken the Sundance catalog with the Anthropologie catalog. I can only go online to shop the sale items.

Thanks, Bob.