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.

try explaining Viagra to your grandfather

Really.  Try it and then let me know how it goes.  I need to compare stories.  I feel traumatized.

So I'm in the South visiting my grandparents, and my Nannie (grandma), Popop (grandfather), and Grandnannie (great-grandma) are sitting around the table with me and my mom.  We're just enjoying each others' company and chatting, when Viagra suddenly comes up.  God only knows why.  And apparently my Popop has no idea what it is.  And for some Godforsaken reason they all look to me to explain. At which point, I freeze and proceed to die. Of embarrassment.

Let me give you a little background.  Growing up, my family just didn't talk about those things.  I don't think I ever got "the talk," and I definitely never talked about boys with my mom.  Silence was golden when it came to anything reproductive, body, or sex related.  Thus, as an adult, I'm extremely uncomfortable discussing these things.  With anyone. Even my best friends mock me for the way I react when such a topic comes up.  I'll do anything to change the subject and still can't help but blush at certain words.  Like penis.  Hehehe.  This...phobia (if you will, for lack of a better word) has driven me to extremes. Seriously. Like jumping off a boat. To escape a conversation JD and her mom were having about dildos.  A little drastic, maybe.  But you can't tell me that subject isn't awkward.  At least a little.

Anyway, now that you have some background, I'm sure you can imagine my intense feelings of humiliation as my GRANDPARENTS stared at me waiting for a description of VIAGRA.  Insert me sitting there dumbfounded and completely red-faced and flustered.  During the pause while I was trying to regroup and think of a delicate way to approach things, my Nannie hints - in between giggles, I might add - that the little pill has to do with sex and enhancement.  My Popop takes this to mean that it helps women.  At which point he starts blabbering excitedly and asks me if gives you bigger "titties." Insert hysterics from my mom, Nannie, and Grandnannie. Awesome. Thanks, Nannie, for making my job WAY more difficult. *

By this time I figure that I should probably intervene before things get even more out of hand.  So in my awkward way, I tell him no, it has to do with helping a guy.  But apparently Popop doesn't make the right connection.  Insert Popop's confused rant wondering why a guy would want bigger balls.  Great.  Nooo, I say, its for the other guy parts.  But obviously, my vague descriptions aren't doing the trick.  Nannie gets his attention and uses her finger to demonstrate.  Popop's eyes light up with understanding. Cue end of any decipherable speech.  Mom and Nannie are both in tears laughing, and Grandnannie is so pink I think she might have a heart attack from the excitement. And I just sit there.  Red and stunned with a grimace on my face.  Yessssss.

I am scarred for life.

* I love her though.  She and my Grandnannie are the cutest.  :)

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.

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.