I don't quite know what to say. You totally duped me. The Salvation Army outfit and bell made me think you were a good guy. I mean, why would a Mr. Creeps take a job standing in front of Smith's grocery store out in the cold, ringing a bell for charity? And I suppose the Holiday season has a way of numbing the defenses and allowing a person to skip their normal critical thought processes.
You see, while walking through the parking lot, I saw you staring at me. I saw your eyes pan over me, but I was distracted by the sound of your bell asking for money to save the world from hunger and hardship. So I walked by you and gave a hint of a smile, then continued on to buy my bread and butter, not giving it a second thought.
But, the same thing happened on the way out of the store. I saw you, back turned to the same people you were supposed to be ringing your bell at, staring at me. Again, I let the corners of my mouth turn upwards, not really knowing what else to do. You're the Salvation Army man, right? You wouldn't be giving me the eye, checking out my goods, right? I mean, you're practically related to Santa Claus.
And as I passed you by, I heard something. Something quiet, but clear:
"Bye Bye Baby."
Bye Bye Baby?
Baby?
You're getting nothing but coal this year.
Love,
Angie
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Dear Mrs. Cutiepants,
When I was 17 I had a boyfriend who thought Pamela Anderson was the most beautiful thing alive. I was not surprised, as I went through high school at the prime of Baywatch, if there ever was such a thing. Personally, I always thought she was too fake and, well booby- if you know what I mean. And I cringed at the thought of my flat-chested body being compared to such a form. When Baywatch would come on, I would try to shut it off or look away, but I had a secret fascination with getting a good look at what thousands of dollars of surgery really looked like. I grew to hate this woman who had made herself an icon for superficiality and a target for objectification and sexual fantasy.
Then one day I had a dream. In this dream we were best friends, and she was really funny and totally cool. We were rescuing a dolphin together and when we were done I couldn't help but like her. It was like, when I met the girl behind the boobs, all the jealousy and resentment went away and she was just a regular girl (though a bit misguided) like me and I loved her.
Well, you are not made of silicon boob, but you were on a billboard the first time I visited Provo and, well, it's never fun to see your new boyfriend's ex-girlfriend on a billboard. You were up there, high in the sky, blown up to a million percent, and smiling like an angel down on us as we drove by. I about called the whole thing off right there, Mrs. Cutiepants. Because it's hard enough to come in on a possible rebounding boy, but to find out that the girl is a Mrs. Cutiepants? Not fun. Devastating. Nauseating. And a little bit like the feeling when you peed yourself in kindergarten and you didn't want anyone to know so you just smiled and crossed your legs but you really want to try to figure out a way to get some dry pants soon because it's really uncomfortable. Remember that? Yeah, well I hear that happened to some people.
And it didn't help that everyone in his circle of friends who knew you would somehow think it was perfectly appropriate to tell me how "hot" you are. Why they didn't just round up a crowd, stick a big number 2 on my forehead and yell "You're ugly! Hahahahaha!" and then throw things at me and kick me in the stomach, I'm not really sure. I think there are laws against doing that kind of thing.
Anyhow, so you are pretty. So? So What?
Well, that's what my secure, adult self says. I mean, there are a lot of pretty girls in the world, and that doesn't mean they are a threat or that they are worth one bit more than me. And then I recite the Young Women Theme and bake some cookies for my Visit Teachies.
But the other, ahem...larger part of me (we'll call her Mrs. Green), well... that part is not so nice and secure. She thinks you're too pretty for your own good and she has a bone to pick with the Big Man Upstairs with his uneven distribution of the pretty gene.
And, well, it was Mrs. Green that happened to be the one who found your comment on my husband's blog yesterday. And, well, she wasn't pleased. Especially at the whole fake oblivious we're like totally friends and have been the whole time, right? vibe, which somehow excuses the fact that you are a married woman posting on your married ex-boyfriend's blog. But, hey, acting *cute* and *so friendly* and just a little bit *dumb* allows girls to get away with a lot I guess. It even allows them to get away with ADDING HIS BLOG TO YOUR BLOGROLL? Like you guys didn't have an awkward breakup where you pretty much avoided him and broke his heart? Like you didn't know that you broke his heart, and that he would have kept dating you?! Like you don't know that wives of such victims would be jealous?
Oh, Mrs. Cutiepants, you have so much to learn about this world. You see, there are Mrs. Greens everywhere. And you can't go around being so *friendly* to other women's husbands. You see, the correct way to rekindle friendships with old boyfriends who are now married is to .... well... I guess to not do it at all. And if you absolutely have to, then you might want to befriend the wife a bit first... you know, to test the waters a bit. To see how...green it is.
Well, I did a little bit of blog stalking, of course, and found that you are not only a Mrs. Cutiepants, but you also go by the name Littlemissperfect:
An elementary school teacher?
A supercute house?
A photographer?
A *$%#@&*-*%^@*!* mission to Africa?!!!
You're killing me.
The thing is, while I was browsing through your cyber-life, looking at your cute pictures of the kids you teach, the Africans you reached out to, and your cute short haircut, I also experienced a wave of nostalgia... that I couldn't... quite... place...
...something to do with a dolphin...
...and silicon...
OH!!!!!!
Oh-oh-oh!
I know!
I went to marine world once in silicon valley! That's it.
Anyway, I hate you.
Love,
Angie
Then one day I had a dream. In this dream we were best friends, and she was really funny and totally cool. We were rescuing a dolphin together and when we were done I couldn't help but like her. It was like, when I met the girl behind the boobs, all the jealousy and resentment went away and she was just a regular girl (though a bit misguided) like me and I loved her.
Well, you are not made of silicon boob, but you were on a billboard the first time I visited Provo and, well, it's never fun to see your new boyfriend's ex-girlfriend on a billboard. You were up there, high in the sky, blown up to a million percent, and smiling like an angel down on us as we drove by. I about called the whole thing off right there, Mrs. Cutiepants. Because it's hard enough to come in on a possible rebounding boy, but to find out that the girl is a Mrs. Cutiepants? Not fun. Devastating. Nauseating. And a little bit like the feeling when you peed yourself in kindergarten and you didn't want anyone to know so you just smiled and crossed your legs but you really want to try to figure out a way to get some dry pants soon because it's really uncomfortable. Remember that? Yeah, well I hear that happened to some people.
And it didn't help that everyone in his circle of friends who knew you would somehow think it was perfectly appropriate to tell me how "hot" you are. Why they didn't just round up a crowd, stick a big number 2 on my forehead and yell "You're ugly! Hahahahaha!" and then throw things at me and kick me in the stomach, I'm not really sure. I think there are laws against doing that kind of thing.
Anyhow, so you are pretty. So? So What?
Well, that's what my secure, adult self says. I mean, there are a lot of pretty girls in the world, and that doesn't mean they are a threat or that they are worth one bit more than me. And then I recite the Young Women Theme and bake some cookies for my Visit Teachies.
But the other, ahem...larger part of me (we'll call her Mrs. Green), well... that part is not so nice and secure. She thinks you're too pretty for your own good and she has a bone to pick with the Big Man Upstairs with his uneven distribution of the pretty gene.
And, well, it was Mrs. Green that happened to be the one who found your comment on my husband's blog yesterday. And, well, she wasn't pleased. Especially at the whole fake oblivious we're like totally friends and have been the whole time, right? vibe, which somehow excuses the fact that you are a married woman posting on your married ex-boyfriend's blog. But, hey, acting *cute* and *so friendly* and just a little bit *dumb* allows girls to get away with a lot I guess. It even allows them to get away with ADDING HIS BLOG TO YOUR BLOGROLL? Like you guys didn't have an awkward breakup where you pretty much avoided him and broke his heart? Like you didn't know that you broke his heart, and that he would have kept dating you?! Like you don't know that wives of such victims would be jealous?
Oh, Mrs. Cutiepants, you have so much to learn about this world. You see, there are Mrs. Greens everywhere. And you can't go around being so *friendly* to other women's husbands. You see, the correct way to rekindle friendships with old boyfriends who are now married is to .... well... I guess to not do it at all. And if you absolutely have to, then you might want to befriend the wife a bit first... you know, to test the waters a bit. To see how...green it is.
Well, I did a little bit of blog stalking, of course, and found that you are not only a Mrs. Cutiepants, but you also go by the name Littlemissperfect:
An elementary school teacher?
A supercute house?
A photographer?
A *$%#@&*-*%^@*!* mission to Africa?!!!
You're killing me.
The thing is, while I was browsing through your cyber-life, looking at your cute pictures of the kids you teach, the Africans you reached out to, and your cute short haircut, I also experienced a wave of nostalgia... that I couldn't... quite... place...
...something to do with a dolphin...
...and silicon...
OH!!!!!!
Oh-oh-oh!
I know!
I went to marine world once in silicon valley! That's it.
Anyway, I hate you.
Love,
Angie
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Dear Uggs,
Hey guys. I need to get something out in the open.I know you've noticed the hesitancy lately with which I've put you on. And a few times I've even grabbed for you, stopped, and then passed you up for Converse. I've seen the questioning look in your soles, and I want to explain what's going on.
Well, I guess I'm kind of deciding whether or not we can keep doing this, me and you. You know, like whether we can keep carrying on this way. I just think it might be time that you two are indoor shoes only, like slippers or house-socks. Let me explain:
I am not one to jump on a fad or ride on the tail-end of it until it crashes into oblivion. As a matter of fact, I pride myself on my originality, which I foster by not watching television or reading trashy pop-star magazines. I get most of my fashion inspiration from fashion blogs, my particular mood on any particular day, and the weather.
But you, on the other hand, happen to be an exception that I cannot fully explain other than to blame it on my lack of cold-weather attire knowledge. You are most definitely a fashion fad- one who has seen it's better days and now might be hanging on by a string. But, I didn't ever choose to join this fad. You see, when I first moved to Utah a few years ago from California, I had scarcely a proper coat and only shoes made of canvas, which, it turns out, aren't waterproof. Who knew? So I spent the entire winter shivering and cursing the snow on behalf of my soaked, numb feet.
I began to dream of warm footwear, and my fashion instincts went out the window. Last year, on a pre-Christmas shopping trip at Costco, I passed a display of Kirkland boots that were on sale for $30.00. My first reaction was to stop and peer out of the corner of my narrowed eyes. I slowly surveyed the display boot...panning up and down, as one would do to a stranger whom they are suspicious might be a Russian spy. I quickly turned away as images of countless 13-23 year-olds in cut-off jean mini skirts and Ugg boots flooded my mind. Every self-preserving urge inside of me told me to walk away, Angie...walk away!
But my toes.
Oh, my toes.
Who were still little blocks of melting ice.
And weak and poor of spirit.
My toes, who were in pain, called out from bellow in a collective cry:
"Try them on! Just try them on for goodness sakes! We beg of you!"
So, there I was- a mother bending to the pressure of her whining children: I peeled my wet canvas shoe from my soggy foot. I dried it a bit on my pants, and slipped it into a size 9- the only size they had left that would remotely work.
I can not fully describe what happened in that instant. My foot sang tidings of great joy (which was perfectly appropriate, as Costco's Christmas carols provided the lovely accompaniment), and I knew that I had to buy those boots. I did not care that they were a size too large, making it appear as if I were wearing some sort of leather casts. I vowed not to care about form- lousy, uncomfortable, unpractical form! Function was my new focus! No more wet feet! No more time-limits out in the snow! I could slosh around all winter long!
I wore them everywhere, from morning until night. At bedtime, I placed them at my bedside, where they would stand, like little obedient guards waiting for the dawn to protect and serve. I wore them to the bathroom, took them off while showering, and promptly resumed wearing them after drying my feet. I loved this new warmth and comfort that I lived in, and I wondered why anyone would ever choose any other shoe, until...
One day, I took a good look at myself in the full-length mirror. I was astonished at my profile: my feet were completely out of proportion to my body. I was like a cartoon. Further, I couldn't help but realize how unattractive the whole ensemble appeared.
How did I get this way? I asked myself.
But then I heard a chorus of familiar friends, who obviously grew up watching the same after-school specials as I:
It's the inside that counts, Angie, not the outside! And the inside is fuzzy and warm!
I decided that it wasn't that bad, and that maybe it only looked that way because the boots were too large. I would simply buy a pair in my correct size, and everything would be fine.
Mark and I went home to California for Christmas, and my mother started to press me about what I wanted for a gift. A few days before Christmas I was out doing some last-minute shopping and I passed by a pair of innocent-looking Ugg boots in the window of a country-western clothing store. They sat there staring at me with their fuzzy little bits popping out from the insides. I decided to stop in and try them on.
And that's where I found you, my good friends. Yes, that's where I first slipped you on my feet and fell in love. You were so much softer than the Kirklands! So much lighter and less bulky! I promptly phoned my mother to let her know that I had found my present.
Since then, my dear ones, you have been even more loyal that the Kirks. I have taken you outside even when there's just a hint of a breeze.
But I cannot lie. I have noticed the stares. I have heard people talk of Uggs and their "ugg-liness." I have heard the accusations that you are not boots, but slippers- unfit for outdoor wear. I have been told that the wearing of them is fashion suicide (hello, Janeva), they look like camel-colored baby seals (Hi, Naomi) and that most people would not be caught dead in them.
I wish I could say that I am immune to such opinions, but I am not. I guess I am not as original as I thought I was, Uggs. I am starting to feel more and more ashamed of my Uggness. I am neither brave nor confident in my wearing of you lately, and today, as I entered the bank with you on my feet and a bag full of pennies and nickels to deposit (long story...) I noticed the look of scorn on the teller's face. No, I'm sure it wasn't due to the pennies. It was you, Uggs. She was thinking, "I would never wear those out in public." Yes, I can read minds. Anyway, as I left I wondered if I should just get rid of you all together.
No, don't fall over like that. Don't turn away your fuzzyness and pout. I would never do that. If need be, I would hide you in the back of my closet for all eternity, but, no, I would never in a million years throw you out. We have too much history together- too many rainy, snowy, (and even sunny and warm...but shhhhhh!!!) days spent tromping around in happy comfort.
But, dear Uggs, I must tell you of my plans. I have decided to buy another pair of boots that I will wear this winter. They will be knee-highs like you, but they will not be of the fuzzy sort. They will be more form than function and they will probably disappoint.
I tell you this now because I don't want you to be alarmed when they show up next to you in the closet in a few weeks. Please don't harass them or make them feel unwelcome. I want you to remember that, while they are on my feet more than you, they are not loved nearly as much. They are simply more aesthetically pleasing and acceptable to the public.
Oh, Uggs, I am so sorry about this. Really, I am. I did not intend to cast you away so abruptly after all of your service. I do appreciate all you've done. I will never forget you, and I will slip you on when I am at home now and again. And I might even once in a while take you to the video store late at night with your best friend, Sweats. But, you know, I've had to have this same talk with him a few years back and he's already dealt pretty well with it. Maybe you guys should talk.
Anyhow, thanks for everything.
Love,
Angie
Well, I guess I'm kind of deciding whether or not we can keep doing this, me and you. You know, like whether we can keep carrying on this way. I just think it might be time that you two are indoor shoes only, like slippers or house-socks. Let me explain:
I am not one to jump on a fad or ride on the tail-end of it until it crashes into oblivion. As a matter of fact, I pride myself on my originality, which I foster by not watching television or reading trashy pop-star magazines. I get most of my fashion inspiration from fashion blogs, my particular mood on any particular day, and the weather.
But you, on the other hand, happen to be an exception that I cannot fully explain other than to blame it on my lack of cold-weather attire knowledge. You are most definitely a fashion fad- one who has seen it's better days and now might be hanging on by a string. But, I didn't ever choose to join this fad. You see, when I first moved to Utah a few years ago from California, I had scarcely a proper coat and only shoes made of canvas, which, it turns out, aren't waterproof. Who knew? So I spent the entire winter shivering and cursing the snow on behalf of my soaked, numb feet.
I began to dream of warm footwear, and my fashion instincts went out the window. Last year, on a pre-Christmas shopping trip at Costco, I passed a display of Kirkland boots that were on sale for $30.00. My first reaction was to stop and peer out of the corner of my narrowed eyes. I slowly surveyed the display boot...panning up and down, as one would do to a stranger whom they are suspicious might be a Russian spy. I quickly turned away as images of countless 13-23 year-olds in cut-off jean mini skirts and Ugg boots flooded my mind. Every self-preserving urge inside of me told me to walk away, Angie...walk away!
But my toes.
Oh, my toes.
Who were still little blocks of melting ice.
And weak and poor of spirit.
My toes, who were in pain, called out from bellow in a collective cry:
"Try them on! Just try them on for goodness sakes! We beg of you!"
So, there I was- a mother bending to the pressure of her whining children: I peeled my wet canvas shoe from my soggy foot. I dried it a bit on my pants, and slipped it into a size 9- the only size they had left that would remotely work.
I can not fully describe what happened in that instant. My foot sang tidings of great joy (which was perfectly appropriate, as Costco's Christmas carols provided the lovely accompaniment), and I knew that I had to buy those boots. I did not care that they were a size too large, making it appear as if I were wearing some sort of leather casts. I vowed not to care about form- lousy, uncomfortable, unpractical form! Function was my new focus! No more wet feet! No more time-limits out in the snow! I could slosh around all winter long!
I wore them everywhere, from morning until night. At bedtime, I placed them at my bedside, where they would stand, like little obedient guards waiting for the dawn to protect and serve. I wore them to the bathroom, took them off while showering, and promptly resumed wearing them after drying my feet. I loved this new warmth and comfort that I lived in, and I wondered why anyone would ever choose any other shoe, until...
One day, I took a good look at myself in the full-length mirror. I was astonished at my profile: my feet were completely out of proportion to my body. I was like a cartoon. Further, I couldn't help but realize how unattractive the whole ensemble appeared.
How did I get this way? I asked myself.
But then I heard a chorus of familiar friends, who obviously grew up watching the same after-school specials as I:
It's the inside that counts, Angie, not the outside! And the inside is fuzzy and warm!
I decided that it wasn't that bad, and that maybe it only looked that way because the boots were too large. I would simply buy a pair in my correct size, and everything would be fine.
Mark and I went home to California for Christmas, and my mother started to press me about what I wanted for a gift. A few days before Christmas I was out doing some last-minute shopping and I passed by a pair of innocent-looking Ugg boots in the window of a country-western clothing store. They sat there staring at me with their fuzzy little bits popping out from the insides. I decided to stop in and try them on.
And that's where I found you, my good friends. Yes, that's where I first slipped you on my feet and fell in love. You were so much softer than the Kirklands! So much lighter and less bulky! I promptly phoned my mother to let her know that I had found my present.
Since then, my dear ones, you have been even more loyal that the Kirks. I have taken you outside even when there's just a hint of a breeze.
But I cannot lie. I have noticed the stares. I have heard people talk of Uggs and their "ugg-liness." I have heard the accusations that you are not boots, but slippers- unfit for outdoor wear. I have been told that the wearing of them is fashion suicide (hello, Janeva), they look like camel-colored baby seals (Hi, Naomi) and that most people would not be caught dead in them.
I wish I could say that I am immune to such opinions, but I am not. I guess I am not as original as I thought I was, Uggs. I am starting to feel more and more ashamed of my Uggness. I am neither brave nor confident in my wearing of you lately, and today, as I entered the bank with you on my feet and a bag full of pennies and nickels to deposit (long story...) I noticed the look of scorn on the teller's face. No, I'm sure it wasn't due to the pennies. It was you, Uggs. She was thinking, "I would never wear those out in public." Yes, I can read minds. Anyway, as I left I wondered if I should just get rid of you all together.
No, don't fall over like that. Don't turn away your fuzzyness and pout. I would never do that. If need be, I would hide you in the back of my closet for all eternity, but, no, I would never in a million years throw you out. We have too much history together- too many rainy, snowy, (and even sunny and warm...but shhhhhh!!!) days spent tromping around in happy comfort.
But, dear Uggs, I must tell you of my plans. I have decided to buy another pair of boots that I will wear this winter. They will be knee-highs like you, but they will not be of the fuzzy sort. They will be more form than function and they will probably disappoint.
I tell you this now because I don't want you to be alarmed when they show up next to you in the closet in a few weeks. Please don't harass them or make them feel unwelcome. I want you to remember that, while they are on my feet more than you, they are not loved nearly as much. They are simply more aesthetically pleasing and acceptable to the public.
Oh, Uggs, I am so sorry about this. Really, I am. I did not intend to cast you away so abruptly after all of your service. I do appreciate all you've done. I will never forget you, and I will slip you on when I am at home now and again. And I might even once in a while take you to the video store late at night with your best friend, Sweats. But, you know, I've had to have this same talk with him a few years back and he's already dealt pretty well with it. Maybe you guys should talk.
Anyhow, thanks for everything.
Love,
Angie
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Dear KFC,
I'm so happy that Prop. 2 passed. Now you won't be able to do this anymore:
Shame on you. And shame on all those who are aware of this and still buy your food.
Love,
Angie
Shame on you. And shame on all those who are aware of this and still buy your food.
Love,
Angie
Monday, November 10, 2008
Dear China,
I'm sorry I snooped in your room. I'm sorry I read your diary. I'm seriously the biggest jerk ever and obviously not very respectful of boundaries. I can't believe I even did that.
But for the record, it was years ago and I was in a period of my life where I felt very alone and isolated and you were this big question mark to me and I wanted to know who you were, really. Not what people said about you or what you looked like from the outside. But the inner workings of your mind.
I guess I was just really lonely and wanted to connect. Pathetic, I know.
The thing is, I didn't do it to judge you. The truth is that there was nothing that you could have written about yourself that would have made me think you were weird. I mean, I was quite aware that weirdo-status had already been reserved by yours truly by stooping to snooping level to make a friend.
I'm really embarrassed. I promise I would never do that these days. Really, I'm all growed up.
I hope you got over your eating disorder and your fear that boys would never like you. You did not have fat thighs. And I hope you know that that one guy really is a jerk and you're lucky you never dated him. And no, you're not going to die lonely and you most definitely will live an interesting life.
Sorry again.
Love,
Angie
But for the record, it was years ago and I was in a period of my life where I felt very alone and isolated and you were this big question mark to me and I wanted to know who you were, really. Not what people said about you or what you looked like from the outside. But the inner workings of your mind.
I guess I was just really lonely and wanted to connect. Pathetic, I know.
The thing is, I didn't do it to judge you. The truth is that there was nothing that you could have written about yourself that would have made me think you were weird. I mean, I was quite aware that weirdo-status had already been reserved by yours truly by stooping to snooping level to make a friend.
I'm really embarrassed. I promise I would never do that these days. Really, I'm all growed up.
I hope you got over your eating disorder and your fear that boys would never like you. You did not have fat thighs. And I hope you know that that one guy really is a jerk and you're lucky you never dated him. And no, you're not going to die lonely and you most definitely will live an interesting life.
Sorry again.
Love,
Angie
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Dear Homework,
I'm sorry for ignoring you. You have every reason to be angry. I have kept you locked up in a backpack for days and you have not only been patient, but you've not moved an inch. You're so loyal.
I think I've figured out why I've been so distant lately: I'm intimidated by you. You are so smart and good at everything you do, and it makes me so nervous when I'm around you. I get all flushed and jittery, and I know you can tell. It's super embarrassing. You must think I'm such a boob.
The thing is, I don't even know why you want to hang out with me. I don't even like the same things you like. I can't tell you the year that the Ottoman Empire fell. I don't know what a sonata is, exactly. I'm not really as refined as you are. My idea of a good time is dressing up like a guy and going to pick up my husband at the airport.
I don't know, homework. I just kinda feel like we don't really click very well. It's not your fault. If anything, it's mine.
No, I'm not saying that I won't hang out with you. I'm totally going to. As a matter of fact, we can hang a bit tonight.
But can you just try to be a little less....dorky? Like, maybe you could pop your collar or something.
Thanks.
Love,
Angie
I think I've figured out why I've been so distant lately: I'm intimidated by you. You are so smart and good at everything you do, and it makes me so nervous when I'm around you. I get all flushed and jittery, and I know you can tell. It's super embarrassing. You must think I'm such a boob.
The thing is, I don't even know why you want to hang out with me. I don't even like the same things you like. I can't tell you the year that the Ottoman Empire fell. I don't know what a sonata is, exactly. I'm not really as refined as you are. My idea of a good time is dressing up like a guy and going to pick up my husband at the airport.
I don't know, homework. I just kinda feel like we don't really click very well. It's not your fault. If anything, it's mine.
No, I'm not saying that I won't hang out with you. I'm totally going to. As a matter of fact, we can hang a bit tonight.
But can you just try to be a little less....dorky? Like, maybe you could pop your collar or something.
Thanks.
Love,
Angie
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Dear Provo Juice N' Java,
You are the armpit of Provo. You are a magnet for the transients who arrive via the Greyhound station located directly behind you. You are Provo's only coffee house, thus securing your role as a vortex for Mormon sinners who forfeit eternal happiness for a cup 0' joe. You are a stinking corpse, a fruitless dominion, a mangy mutt.
And your service is horrible.
You sprawl your obese thighs around the corner of 200 West and 100 North, where you sit, festering, in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Your scent attracts drones from miles around, who invade your open cavities to immerse themselves in your putrid stench. These parasites have many different forms: Homeless Junkies, Hopesters (wanna-be hipsters), Toothless Toms, Gutter Punks, and the occasional tobacco-loving father who uses you as a place to bring the kiddies on visiting day. Yes, there's nothing like blowing smoke into the faces of your children to say, "I love you."
Oh, Juice, I don't know quite what to say. You have really outdone yourself as a gathering place for the dregs of Provo society.
At least you're a shoe-in for yearly "Provo's Best Coffee House" awards.
Congratulations.
Love,
Angie
And your service is horrible.
You sprawl your obese thighs around the corner of 200 West and 100 North, where you sit, festering, in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Your scent attracts drones from miles around, who invade your open cavities to immerse themselves in your putrid stench. These parasites have many different forms: Homeless Junkies, Hopesters (wanna-be hipsters), Toothless Toms, Gutter Punks, and the occasional tobacco-loving father who uses you as a place to bring the kiddies on visiting day. Yes, there's nothing like blowing smoke into the faces of your children to say, "I love you."
Oh, Juice, I don't know quite what to say. You have really outdone yourself as a gathering place for the dregs of Provo society.
At least you're a shoe-in for yearly "Provo's Best Coffee House" awards.
Congratulations.
Love,
Angie
Friday, October 17, 2008
Dear Lazy Bone,
We have known each other for many years now. I have sought refuge in your comforting ways. You have always been welcome in every aspect of my life, from school to work and even showering at times. You have been a trusty friend and confidant, and I am grateful.
But I think it's time to part ways. My house is dirty, my homework is piling up, I haven't returned calls, I need to shower, and my husband is wondering what's going on. I haven't really told him about you, and I think it's a better idea to just cut this thing off before he finds out. He really thinks doing the laundry is hard work, so in the laundry I hide you. But he's starting to get suspicious.
Believe me. This is hard for me also. I really don't even know how to be without you by my side. What will my house look like? What will people think of me? Will I have less cavities?
Only time will tell. But you'll be fine. I know there are plenty of people in this world that will welcome you into their lives.
Thanks for the memories.
Love,
Angie
But I think it's time to part ways. My house is dirty, my homework is piling up, I haven't returned calls, I need to shower, and my husband is wondering what's going on. I haven't really told him about you, and I think it's a better idea to just cut this thing off before he finds out. He really thinks doing the laundry is hard work, so in the laundry I hide you. But he's starting to get suspicious.
Believe me. This is hard for me also. I really don't even know how to be without you by my side. What will my house look like? What will people think of me? Will I have less cavities?
Only time will tell. But you'll be fine. I know there are plenty of people in this world that will welcome you into their lives.
Thanks for the memories.
Love,
Angie
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Dear God,
Why did you make people homosexual?
You did, didn't you?
Can you overnight your reply? There's an election coming up real soon.
Thanks.
Say hi to Aunt Liz for me. Both of them- meaning Mark's also.
K. Thanks again.
Love,
Angie
You did, didn't you?
Can you overnight your reply? There's an election coming up real soon.
Thanks.
Say hi to Aunt Liz for me. Both of them- meaning Mark's also.
K. Thanks again.
Love,
Angie
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Dear AE Polo Shirt Guy,
You are such a putz. I am seriously so embarrassed for you. As for your date, I wish I could send her some flowers and chocolates for her trouble. It would probably be the first sweet gesture that has been extended to her in quite a while if her date with you is any indication of the kind of luck she's been having lately.
My husband and I sat right behind you at the California Pizza Kitchen on Saturday night. We spent the majority of our date night staring at your table in admiration of your rudeness. Your very tolerant date noticed, but- not surprisingly- you did not. As a matter of fact, the only thing you did seem to notice were the many women who happened to not be your date.
I got the impression, from the getting-to-know-you conversation vibe, that this was the first time you had taken this girl out. It might have even been a blind date. Maybe you had decided that she wasn't the one for you in the first five minutes, which was the total time that you spent in conversation with her, but that's still no excuse. After those first few minutes, and right in the middle of her polite attempts at conversation with an obvious moron, you spot someone you know and get up to get her attention. This third party, who happens to be gorgeous, comes screaming and giggling over to your table, and- obviously relishing the attention- throws her arms around you. A gaggle of girls come to join her, and they all express intense interest in you, throwing the occasional fake smile to your date, after performing what I like to call *The Utah Stare. These girls, I'm sure to your dismay, all have husbands who eventually come trailing behind them to see what the fuss is about. Your friend, we'll call her Bambi, introduces the husbands to you, and you shake their hands while telling them how "incredibly hot your wives are. Seriously, Bros, you've got some hot wives. Heh-heh."
Giggle-Giggle, "Oh, you're so nice!" proclaim the flock.
The husbands furrow their brows.
The date stares blankly into space.
Mark and I gag on our food.
After receiving enough validation, I suppose, to relinquish all insecurities, one of Bambi's flock decides to show some charity to the date:
"Hi, I'm Amber. What's your name?"
And Amber and the date talk pleasantries for the next 30 minutes, while you are completely absorbed in conversation.
Finally, the husbands usher the flock out the door. Dramatic waves and giggles are thrown your way all the way to the parking lot.
It's just you and your date again. However, before the awkwardness of the moment might have had the opportunity to reveal to your psyche what a blunder you just made, another girl walks up to your table:
"OMG! Is that you, AE Polo Shirt Guy? How are you?!"
And the hugging pursues.
And so does the inconsiderate behavior.
Congratulations. You are officially initiated into the Douche Chronicles.
Love,
Angie
*A slow vertical pan starting at the shoes and working it's way shamelessly to meet the questioning eye of the victim. This stare lasts so long due to its frequent stops along the way to calculate, in full detail, the worth of the individual based on the following criteria:
1.Shoes (price, brand, cuteness)
2. Clothes (price, brand, cuteness, modesty level)
3. Purse (price, brand, faux or real?)
4. Body style (do I hate her for being skinny/busty/tan or am I better than her because she's chubby/too tall/too short/too thin/pasty?)
5. Face (pretty or ugly?)
6. Hair (do her back-combing skills outweigh mine?)
My husband and I sat right behind you at the California Pizza Kitchen on Saturday night. We spent the majority of our date night staring at your table in admiration of your rudeness. Your very tolerant date noticed, but- not surprisingly- you did not. As a matter of fact, the only thing you did seem to notice were the many women who happened to not be your date.
I got the impression, from the getting-to-know-you conversation vibe, that this was the first time you had taken this girl out. It might have even been a blind date. Maybe you had decided that she wasn't the one for you in the first five minutes, which was the total time that you spent in conversation with her, but that's still no excuse. After those first few minutes, and right in the middle of her polite attempts at conversation with an obvious moron, you spot someone you know and get up to get her attention. This third party, who happens to be gorgeous, comes screaming and giggling over to your table, and- obviously relishing the attention- throws her arms around you. A gaggle of girls come to join her, and they all express intense interest in you, throwing the occasional fake smile to your date, after performing what I like to call *The Utah Stare. These girls, I'm sure to your dismay, all have husbands who eventually come trailing behind them to see what the fuss is about. Your friend, we'll call her Bambi, introduces the husbands to you, and you shake their hands while telling them how "incredibly hot your wives are. Seriously, Bros, you've got some hot wives. Heh-heh."
Giggle-Giggle, "Oh, you're so nice!" proclaim the flock.
The husbands furrow their brows.
The date stares blankly into space.
Mark and I gag on our food.
After receiving enough validation, I suppose, to relinquish all insecurities, one of Bambi's flock decides to show some charity to the date:
"Hi, I'm Amber. What's your name?"
And Amber and the date talk pleasantries for the next 30 minutes, while you are completely absorbed in conversation.
Finally, the husbands usher the flock out the door. Dramatic waves and giggles are thrown your way all the way to the parking lot.
It's just you and your date again. However, before the awkwardness of the moment might have had the opportunity to reveal to your psyche what a blunder you just made, another girl walks up to your table:
"OMG! Is that you, AE Polo Shirt Guy? How are you?!"
And the hugging pursues.
And so does the inconsiderate behavior.
Congratulations. You are officially initiated into the Douche Chronicles.
Love,
Angie
*A slow vertical pan starting at the shoes and working it's way shamelessly to meet the questioning eye of the victim. This stare lasts so long due to its frequent stops along the way to calculate, in full detail, the worth of the individual based on the following criteria:
1.Shoes (price, brand, cuteness)
2. Clothes (price, brand, cuteness, modesty level)
3. Purse (price, brand, faux or real?)
4. Body style (do I hate her for being skinny/busty/tan or am I better than her because she's chubby/too tall/too short/too thin/pasty?)
5. Face (pretty or ugly?)
6. Hair (do her back-combing skills outweigh mine?)
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Dear Mr. Black,
You will never be president. And even if you become a candidate, we will never vote for you. Because we'll remember how lame you were when, after marrying your Hillary Clinton, you decided that anyone who could not help you in your quest for social advancement was not worth knowing anymore. Even if that meant ditching some really solid friends who had been there for you.
You know, when I first met you I thought you were so great. My husband had so many good things to say about you. You were so funny and smart. I was happy that he had friends like you. Then I started to notice a few red flags here and there. The first one was after that funeral when Mark had to leave early and you offered to drive me home. We had such a great conversation and I began to really trust you. You asked me about our plans to invest in a home, and I told you about the townhouse we had been looking at that was such a great deal. You asked me about the details and, not thinking, I told you everything- about how a friend of ours had tipped us off about it and that it seemed really under priced. I confided in you that I was a little wary because I had never bought a home before. You told me that it didn't seem like that great of a deal to you, and that I had a right to be worried.
A few days later, Mark tells me that he heard that you had asked around to find out where the townhouse was and had taken a look at it, with the purpose of being interested in purchasing it.
Really? Why would you do that?
Then I find out that you and another friend pitched a "once in a lifetime" deal to my husband, where he takes all the risk and only receives 50% of the profit.
Hmmmm. Not such a great deal, thinks I.
Let me tell you something, Mr. Black, that I love about my husband: he is so kind, forgiving, good-natured, optimistic, and loving, that he would accept you back into our lives with open arms. Even though you don't return his calls. Or texts. Or emails. Even though you have admitted that your Hillary Clinton, we'll call her Lucy for short, won't let you associate with anyone who won't advance you.
But me, on the other hand... well let's just say that I'm a bit harder to persuade.
One last thing- I do feel a bit sad for you. I do feel a bit like you are a dog in a cage. I do feel like your master should let you out from time to time to run around and meet other dogs at the dog park. Even if she does dress you in a sweater and put little booties on your feet.
Looking forward to voting time.
Love,
Angie
You know, when I first met you I thought you were so great. My husband had so many good things to say about you. You were so funny and smart. I was happy that he had friends like you. Then I started to notice a few red flags here and there. The first one was after that funeral when Mark had to leave early and you offered to drive me home. We had such a great conversation and I began to really trust you. You asked me about our plans to invest in a home, and I told you about the townhouse we had been looking at that was such a great deal. You asked me about the details and, not thinking, I told you everything- about how a friend of ours had tipped us off about it and that it seemed really under priced. I confided in you that I was a little wary because I had never bought a home before. You told me that it didn't seem like that great of a deal to you, and that I had a right to be worried.
A few days later, Mark tells me that he heard that you had asked around to find out where the townhouse was and had taken a look at it, with the purpose of being interested in purchasing it.
Really? Why would you do that?
Then I find out that you and another friend pitched a "once in a lifetime" deal to my husband, where he takes all the risk and only receives 50% of the profit.
Hmmmm. Not such a great deal, thinks I.
Let me tell you something, Mr. Black, that I love about my husband: he is so kind, forgiving, good-natured, optimistic, and loving, that he would accept you back into our lives with open arms. Even though you don't return his calls. Or texts. Or emails. Even though you have admitted that your Hillary Clinton, we'll call her Lucy for short, won't let you associate with anyone who won't advance you.
But me, on the other hand... well let's just say that I'm a bit harder to persuade.
One last thing- I do feel a bit sad for you. I do feel a bit like you are a dog in a cage. I do feel like your master should let you out from time to time to run around and meet other dogs at the dog park. Even if she does dress you in a sweater and put little booties on your feet.
Looking forward to voting time.
Love,
Angie
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