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.

If you want to live, you will stop wearing khakis.

Today for work I had to visit the science library at an Ivy League university, and while there I noticed a disturbing trend in the male population.  Namely, they were all wearing khakis.  And as it's a Wednesday, and I'm at the fucking library, I see no reason why these people (college students, mind you) should be so damn overdressed.  And poorly overdressed at that.  Thus, I have a little something to say to the people here (and to those, I imagine, at all other pretentious schools like this one):

STOP WEARING KHAKIS.  Stop it. Just. Stop.  It is a well known fact that khaki pants do not look good on anyone.  Aside from the general knowledge that khaki is a more disgusting looking version of the color nude (which can occasionally look nice on shoes), you must also know that khaki in pant form makes your ass look fat.  And I'm sorry, but fat asses on guys are just wrong. Also, it makes your crotch bulge in inhuman (and inhumane to the observer) ways.  That could just be the horrible pleats (whoever thought those were a good idea, I don't know), but still.  You, khakis wearer, must know that this makes me a hapless victim.  I am forced to stare in sickened awe at your bulgy, globular crotch wondering just what is in there.  And I'm not wondering that in a good way.  So stop.  Please.  For me.  I beg you.

While you're at it, you might also want to reconsider that absurd spring in your step.  I'm going to overlook the fact that you decided to wear sneakers (really?  come on) with your khakis and skip to the part where you bounce along like you'd rather be skipping.  What is wrong with you?!  Did they put some kind of peppy crack in the water here?  Why are you walking like that?!  You're a man.  Learn to man-saunter.  Quit this bullshit fairy crap.  Unless you're gay.  Which I know you're not because a gay man wouldn't be caught dead in khakis (smart ones, they are).  So it looks like you're out of excuses.  Enough of the heel and roll to tip toes. I'm putting my foot down, and hopefully you will too.  Shuffle if you must.  I'm serious.

Enough is enough.  I want some eye candy, not eye dandy.  Ugh.

Have I mentioned I love my job?  

tattoos = naked chicks. who knew.

Yet again, I find myself in a classic awkward situation.  Which is mostly in my head, but still.

So I'm at work, and -being the quality employee that I am- I'm on Google looking for new tattoo ideas.  At the moment, I happen to be looking for some inspiration for a shoulder/quarter sleeve piece.  Like a responsible worker, before beginning my search I consider what kind of results I'll get.  Naturally, I figure that the arm is a benign enough area and will turn up safe images.  Or at least you would think it would.  So WHY is there vagina all over my screen?!  After I searched "girl quarter sleeve tattoos." On my work computer. Vagina.

As if you didn't already guess how awkward this is for me based on what I told you in my last post, you can at least appreciate how freaked you would be if soft core porn suddenly appeared on your work computer.  In the middle of the day.  With your boss walking around the corner as you frantically try to click Microsoft Outlook back up to cover things. Yea, that's what I thought.

Really though, what's the deal?  Having tattoos doesn't mean I like vag.  It just means that I will likely search to see other people's ink.  Which I would prefer to see when they're clothed.  Gah.  If I was more malicious than I am, I would wish that someday those naked pictures would come back to bite those chicks in their perfect, shiny asses.  Oh well.  Guess I'll just have to look like a perv as I squint at the search results to find what I'm looking for.  It happens.

Snow day productivity means meeting art

After heroically battling the snow this morning, I got to work only to find the windows dark and the building empty.  Turns out we had a snow day.  Whoops.  After getting a few things done (might as well have since I was already there), I decided to head home.  Strangely, I proceeded to go on a cleaning spree - intermingled, of course, with hilarious walks with my dog.  Deep snow + dog who sees shadows on what was clearly white = confused dog digging furiously and continuously pouncing on nothing.  

Anyway, I decided to go through all of those evil papers and receipts that tend to accumulate over the course of mmmm about five years.  Somewhere in that frenzy, I decided it was finally time to dig out my printer and hook it back up.  So congratulations, friends, there are now a few things on the Meeting Art page for you to look at.  I'm a little spedly sometimes though, and the images aren't saving in the right place so it takes nine years to get them where I want them.  I hope to fix this soon so I can provide you with more of my illustrative genius (and the weird creepy face I tend to draw over and over...you'll see).  For now, though, take a look.  Make sure you look at the Road Rage demon I described in my other post.  I drew it just for you so you could see what I save you people from.  See, you didn't even know.  You're welcome.

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.

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.

Bathroom Phenomena

I honestly had no intention of posting again so soon, but after my little adventure in the land of bathroom etiquette just now, I had to sit down and get this out (no pun intended, really).

You may have noticed -actually you should have noticed, and if you haven't this is directed at you- that there are certain unspoken rules when it comes to using public restrooms.  For instance, in the chick world, there are some cardinal bathroom practices:
-  Always help out another girl who is stranded without toilet paper.  You know it could be you next time.
- Do your best to avoid lurking near the cracks between stall doors lest someone think you're trying to spy on them.
- Wait calmly in line( unless you're lucky enough to find a deserted ladies' room).

- If it is too quiet in the bathroom, you know someone is trying to poop.  Leave as fast as you can so they can get on with it. 
-No cell phone conversations.  Ever.  Hang up and call back. Your chatter in the stall next door makes me self conscious.

Of course, rule numero uno for any bathroom is that you DO NOT use the stall next to someone when there are other open stalls.  You just don't.  It's creepy.  You're too close to me, and when I can hear every move you make -when I can hear you breathing-  I know that you can hear me too and it just ruins my bathroom experience.
 
So, why do people at my office insist on choosing the stall next to mine when the bathroom isn't crowded? Why would they even want to?  How could they possibly not fathom how awkward the situation is?  I can not only hear you trying to hold your breath, but the sound of you peeing is so loud that you might as well be on my lap.  Uncomfortable and unnecessary. Please, there are three other open stalls in the bathroom (four if you count the one with the door that gets stuck closed).  Pick one of them.  I strategically placed myself in this stall so you have the optimum number of other-stall options.  MOVE OVER.

Also, how is it that everyone chooses to use the bathroom at the same time?  I'm honestly vexed by this question.  For the past month, I've noticed that at certain times when I walk into the bathroom  ALL of the stalls are taken (except for one).  This presents a horrible situation.  I obviously have to pee, but I want to leave because the bathroom is packed.  I'm trapped, however, by that one open stall.  I have to use it.  Which then makes me that person who sits in the stall next to you.  But I can't avoid it because all of the other stalls are taken.  Thus I'm trapped in a warped vortex of bathroom manners that pulls me in all directions.  Have to pee - must stay.  Too many people in here - must go.  But there's an open stall - must STAYYY. But I don't want to sit next to someone - must GOOOO.  All in all I generally end up agitated and dash into the empty stall, holding my breath so the person next to me doesn't hear me and trying to get out of there as quickly as possible.  If you tell me this hasn't happened to you at least once, you're lying.

...I draw pictures. poorly.

Yes, it's true. But then again, I also do this when people are in the room.  In fact, most of my drawing occurs in a room full of people.  People who are discussing things that I should, but generally do not, care about.  OK, so mostly I just draw in meetings when I'm bored, and I do it mostly to stay awake.  There is something about a three hour meeting in which I don't get to participate that just makes me tired, no matter what time of day it is.  The sun is warm on my back, my eyelids inevitably start to slide shut, and my head nods (which I try to pass off as agreeing with whatever is being said). Somehow micronaps have the power to overcome any and all of my good staying-awake intentions. This is especially true when everyone already know the outcome of the meeting, but we have to sit there for three hours listening to five people -who don't even work for us-  banter back and forth only to eventually tell us what we already know.  Which makes these meetings pointless.  Completely. Pointless.  The upshot to this waste of time is that they feed us.  But this doesn't go very far in terms of keeping me awake.  In fact, sometimes I think it just makes me more sleepy. 

So, in my quest to stay awake and not get fired during these redundant gatherings, I've turned to drawing.  Scribbling is perhaps a more appropriate term.  My attempts at art are honestly quite sad, and frequently resemble (if you can even decipher what I was trying to depict in the first place) something a six year old would bring home from kindergarten.  While I'm by no means proud of these doodles, I happen to have amassed a small pile of them on random scraps of paper.  For your viewing pleasure I've created a page dedicated solely to these masterpieces of boredom.  I'll continue to add them as they come about (and also after I get my printer/scanner hooked up to my laptop again.  You'd think after nine months in my current apartment it'd be all set, but no).

From my calendar, I can see that I have not just one, but two of these never-ending meetings coming up right after Thanksgiving.  So prepare yourself for a miraculous show.