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.




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.




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.



Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Dear God,

Scratch that last letter. I've figured it out, thanks to this guy.

Next question:

Why did you create the soy bean?




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.


Say hi to Aunt Liz for me. Both of them- meaning Mark's also.

K. Thanks again.



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.



*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.