Open Letters...

Today, I want to shake things up a bit.  And this time, I've decided to try the classic "write a letter" approach.  Well, my friends, it seems as though I have several letters to write...


To the man in the burgundy Mercedes in front of me this morning,

QUIT PUSSYFOOTING AROUND AND JUST MERGE ALREADY!  If you're going to cut me off, you need to just do it.  This bullshit floaty dance you're doing with your car where you jerk the wheel into my lane and then back into yours (even though I've clearly stopped to let you go) is just pissing me off. You have a nice-ish car.  Learn how to drive it.

While I'm thinking of it, you might want to talk to your douche bag buddy in the green CR-V.  It seems he has no concept of merging either.  Continuing to drive next to me when your lane ended 500 feet ago is a good way to make me start thinking that real life bumper cars aren't such a bad idea.  Too bad I like my car too much.  Consider yourselves lucky.


Dia.



To the warm cozy bed I had to leave far too early,

I love you more than you know.  I'll be home soon. ;-)  Be prepared to snuggle.  And to be mobbed by the animals, who seem to love you as much as I do.

Love,
Me



To the girl walking down the street in the minidress,

Um, it's 20 degrees and windy outside.  What the hell is wrong with you?  Are you that desperate for attention that you are willing to freeze to death?  You have nice legs, great, we get it.  Now go put some pants on.  I don't know if you know this, but pants can also make your legs look nice.  They're called skinny jeans.  Find some.  Besides, then your butt won't look so lumpy.  I don't like feeling like I should put more clothes on to make up for your lack thereof.  So stop it.


Dia.



To the gremlin who lives in my TV,
 

I'd really appreciate if you could stop randomly turning off the TV at the most inopportune moments.  I mean, really bro, knock that shit off.  I know you may think it's all fun and games, but you really are starting to stress me out.  I don't handle suspense well.  And thanks to you, I don't know the DNA results from the hair found on the Monsterquest expedition.  (Narrator: "The Monsterquest team has just received the DNA results from the suspected Big Foot hair it found while doing it's field search.  And the results came back..."  Beep BoopBoopBoop.  TV off.  Great.)  Listen, man, if Big Foot exists, I NEED TO KNOW! 

You're pushing me into an awkward situation my small friend. I like to like my TV.  We're cool.  It helps me relax.  But not knowing the answer to the final Jeopardy question because you think the TV needs a nap is really starting to bug me.  I don't like making threats, but you've left me no choice.  Watch it, kid, or I'll be forced to evict you. 

Really, though, we should just be friends.  It would be way cheaper. 

Love,
Me.



To my squealing shower head,

WTF.  Why do you do this to me?  You know very well that I have enough trouble getting up in the morning, so why are you trying to make the experience worse?  I know that you don't always squeal like a dying pig, so why only do it when I try to make the water hot?  Are you trying to make me miserable?  I think you are.

I hate you.  This means war.

Hatefully yours,
Me.



To the random animal that has made itself at home in my wall,

Please don't die.  If you're going to die, go do it outside.  I can handle the fact that you want to live in there, but please refrain from decomposing and stinking up my place.  It would be much appreciated. 

Also, could you save your creepy scratching sounds for a time when I'm not trying to sleep?  I think you must have peep holes, because you always manage to start rummaging in there right as I'm drifting off.  And it freaks me out.  And confuses the dog.  And makes the cat want to hunt you.  And you know she'll want you dead, which I've already asked you not to do inside.

Really, I think it's in your best interest to relocate.  But that's just me.  Suit yourself.  Just remember, no dying in the house.

Love,
Dia.



To the TV Pilates instructor,

We need to get something straight here.  "Balance and grace" are both things that I lack.  So when you tell me to move positions with balance and grace, you must realize that I will be doing a lot of shaking and falling instead. 

As long as you're cool with a sometimes student who is a little bit spastic, the we're good.


Me.

P.S. It might just be me, but Swan makes me feel like I'm humping the floor or something.  There's got to be a better way.  Also, Seal makes me feel special.  And not in a good way.



To PsychoDog,

Could you not try to eat my feet while I'm trying to follow along with the Pilates lesson?  Cause I think that might be just a little bit helpful to my cause. 

K, thanks.  We'll go for a walk later.

Wuve you,
Me.



To running,

You're pointless, and I hate you.  You make my lungs hurt when it's cold out and I spend the next three days coughing like I have the plague.  Why everyone raves about you is beyond me.

I think we have a date later today.

Love,
Me. 



To Route One,

You are the bane of my existence.  That is all.


Ugh,
Me.

so uh....

So yea, I have a funny little story for you today, courtesy of my lame apartment complex.  Allow me to explain.

This morning when my phone alarm clock went off at 6:35 I hit snooze and refused to get up (which isn't unusual).  It went off again, over and over until about 6:55 when I finally decided I should probably wake up and make the effort to shower.  But I'm starting to think someone, somewhere likes me dirty.  Because right as I lifted my head and did the cliche stretch and blink (still in bed because my apartment is freezing), I heard a little click and the power went out.  All of my clocks went blank and the heater turned off.  Why the hell did this happen?  I have no idea, especially since no one has anything turned on yet at such an ungodly hour.  But my apartment complex is lame and the power tends to flick on and off at times.  I swear I don't live in a ghetto, but something is seriously up with the electrical.  Frequently I picture a little mouse behind my walls chewing away at the wires or something.  Or I picture the retarded electrical sparking a fire and burning down all of my earthly possessions.  Because I'm cheery like that.  But I digress.

Anyway, since I'm used to having the power flick back on, I figure I'll stay in bed and wait it out since there's no use taking a shower if I can't dry my hair (since it's maybe 10 degrees outside) and there's no use getting out of warm bed to wander around my cold apartment when the heater is off.  So I wait.  And nap.  And wait.  Nothing happens.  7:30 finally rolls around and my apartment is still dark, cold, and powerless, but I don't want to be late for work.  So I get up and stumble around in the dark to find clothes, throw my hair in a ponytail (with cute braided hairband Blondie gave me for Christmas!) and give my best attempt at putting on some makeup blind. Cool.  I'm set, even if i do feel like a scummer for not washing my hair for the second day in a row.*

Fast forward to ten minutes ago when I had to pee from drinking three cups of hot cocoa.  Cue me finishing up and looking down.  Insert chagrined face as I realize I am not a vampire, I cannot see in the dark, and my underwear is inside out.  Awesome. I love my life.


*Usually I'm a nazi about taking showers etc.  I like being clean.  However coming back from break does things to a person.  Yesterday my desire to sleep longer outweighed my desire to wash my hair.  Don't get me wrong, I showered.  But there was no hair washing involved thanks to my handy dandy shower cap.  and my hair still looked perfect from the day before because God is amazing and created the CHI straightener. Which he then gave me for Christmas because it solves all hair evils.  Or maybe it was from GMK (my brother, dear readers).  Who knows.

I'm paranoid and it's Monday.

Holy Holiday, Batman!  Yeesh, it's been a long time since I've posted.  But never fear, my virtual amigos, I haven't forgotten about you.  I've spent the past several weeks doing last minute Christmas shopping and enjoying some quality unplugged downtime with psycho dog, kitty meow, and half of my family.  Alas, I'm back in the coal mines and I have plenty of fuel for my blog fire.

Being back at work means two things to me: 1) I have to endure ridiculously sad looks from my dog when I crate her before leaving for work and 2) I have to start dealing with office supplies again. Now, after some time, I have regretfully become accustomed to enduring said puppy dog eyes, but the same ease has not come when faced with the latter.  As was evidenced today. By my wild flinging of whiteout.  All over my pants.  My. Black. Pants. Awesome. I love work. For good measure today, I even threw in a nosebleed this morning when I was out of my office issue tissues, and a little something I like to call eating-shit-on-the-mail room-floor-because-my-heels-are-slippery-from-the-snow.  Cool.  I love Mondays.
 
Despite these things, and in spite of the mountain of email I had after being out for almost two weeks (what part of Out-of-Office auto reply don't you people understand?!), I'm in a pretty good mood today.  Which is why I am taking the leisure time (take that, deadlines!) to discuss being paranoid.  Now I don't mean being paranoid in the strict psychological sense of having a mental disorder.  No, no.  What I'm referring to are those little moments when you're walking down the sidewalk with one person behind you and you wonder if something is stuck to your butt.  Or when you're driving home on the highway and someone takes the same two exits as you and you start to wonder if they're following you. Or when someone you're talking to wipes their nose and you suddenly think you must have VBs (visible boogers, for those of you not in the know) so you start wiping yours too.  Or when you're in the bathroom and you feel like everyone can hear you breathing (newsflash - they CAN!).  For some reason, this happens to me all the time.  Seriously.  Anytime someone looks at me, I wonder what's wrong with me.  And you know you do it too.  Just think about it.  Or maybe not, because then you'll be paranoid about being paranoid.  Gah.

Maybe I just think this way because I'm prone to accidents and random embarrassment.  If I think there's something on my face, there's a fair chance I have a pen mustache.  Because I'm five and I don't play well with ink.  Just sayin'.  Who knows man.  And if you just tripped over something and you're all alone, yes, someone somewhere saw you.  And laughed.

And it may have been me.

Why are you doing 55 in the fast lane?! Oh, you're from Pennsylvania. That's why.

In the interest of full disclosure, I'll admit it.  I speed.  A lot. Because I can*.  For that matter, most of the people I know speed whenever they drive.  So maybe that just sets me up to encounter this problem, but still.  Seriously people, if you're going to drive slowly, then get the hell out of the fast lane. You never know what's behind you.  Consider that fair warning.


Since I drive so fast, it is only natural that I encounter people who are moving slower than me.  That's fine, I accept it.  In my state, when people see me speeding up behind them they just move over.  Problem solved, tailgating avoided, and everyone is happy.   But driving in Pennsylvania** is a completely different story.  Pennsylvania drivers don't seem to understand the concept of having a "fast lane" and a "travel lane" (travel being the operative word for slow in this case).   Oooooooh no.  To them, every lane is the travel lane.  And that means that they will sit in the fast lane doing 55 while I try to hold on to my sanity behind them. And by sit, I mean that they will NOT move, even if there is an opening in the other lane (which there isn't because they're doing the same speed as the people in the other lane so you end up with that frustrating phenomena of two cars driving right next to each other for miles....).  

So I tailgate.  As my way of saying " F***ing MOVE already!"  But this only results in stern looks from the offending driver in their rearview mirror.  At this point, I start to feel funny -  like I'm going to burst open or something.  My face starts to flush and the car feels too hot because my soul is suddenly a boil- skinned, fire-breathing, winged monster stuck inside a tiny body and it's trying to get out so it can forcibly remove the car from the path of my driving rampage.  To save the person in front of me from a horrible death and the world from imminent destruction, I'm forced to take action.  While swallowing hard to douse the flames and keep the beast at bay, I resort to my last choice - I pass on the right.  Much to the consternation and disapproval of the person being passed.  Even though they started it.  I want to tell the "Man, I just saved your life." But no.  Instead I just smile blithely and continue on my way.  I wonder if they can see the demon glaring out my eyes.

So, Pennsylvania drivers, now do you see why I need you to move?   If you're suddenly flame roasted and snatched up to eat as a snack on the fly, don't say I didn't warn you.




*If you know me, you know just how true this is.  And you also know how good I am at getting out of tickets.
**I went to college in Pennsylvania.  I almost lost my mind during my four years there.

three more reasons why the bathroom is the bane of my existence

Yea, I know.  But it has to be said.  Before I go insane and start laughing hysterically while I'm in there.  Because that would probably just make things worse.

1) Other people.  Stop following me into the bathroom!  Stop it.  Please.  I cannot go with you in there, and it's awkward for me to hold the door open for you when we both know that one of us probably has to shit.  It's even worse when that person is me. Because I can't do that with other people around.  So I wash my hands and leave.  Which leaves me with two problems: I still have to go, and now I look like a weirdo for coming to the bathroom to wash my hands when I could have used the office kitchen.  That's a double whammy.*

2)The toilet paper dispensers.  They. are. the devil.  Either there is too much paper shoved in them so it won't spin and you have to pull off one piece at a time or there is no paper at all, leaving you stranded.  If you are lucky enough to find the happy medium roll, you spend so much time fumbling around trying to find the end sheet while the dispenser squeaks mercilessly that it sounds like you're having a seizure. It's just a lose-lose situation.

3) Automatic flush toilets.  Why? Who thought this was a good idea? They supposedly have sensors to tell them when it's ok to flip the switch, but it never works.  They ALWAYS flush while you're still sitting there.  So you always end up racing them.  Trying to finish first. Before they flush and send a gust of air and splash of cold water straight into your crotchel region. **  While this may be what the inventors of the bidet were going for, in practice this is much less refreshing than it sounds.

Maybe public restrooms are just a bad idea in general.  Then again, maybe having to go to the bathroom is just a bad idea.  Solution: we should all be vampires. Shazam! Problem solved.


*For the love of God, I hope someone gets this reference. Mitch Hedberg.
**On a side note, it's always a little scary when the toilet flushes with you on it.  Aside from the gross factor, I can't help but be a little afraid it'll suck me down too.  Or that an alligator will crawl up in place of water.


UPDATE: I lied.  I have a number four for you.  Courtesy of a convo with Iz.
4) How there is never anything to dry your hands with.  The paper towels are always gone. So you're forced to turn to the hulking wind machine on the wall. Which is a bad idea.  Those blow drier things never work.  And once they're on, you feel like you're eighty and can't hear anything.  While you're thinking about the permanent damage being done to your hearing, you look down and see that you suddenly have mutant hands because the stupid drier is blowing your skin in all kinds of shapes and directions. Do you really have to put that much power into a bathroom blow drier? It doesn't dry anything anyway.  So you give up and wipe your hands on your back pockets. And walk around with wet hand prints on your ass for a while.  Yessssssss.