What am I? Made of money?

16 Jun

Dear Bridal Showers,

You seem so innocent, with your flowery invitations, crustless cucumber sandwiches, and lavender-scented party favors. But you’re not fooling anyone. The joke’s over.

You may be the world’s worst excuse for a party.

Sure, a wedding is cause for celebration, but you’re more of a shakedown than a shindig.

First, you brow-beat some poor bridesmaid into blowing her paycheck on all the trappings of a classy party. Otherwise, she risks looking like the WORLD’S CRAPPIEST FRIEND.

Then, you sucker all the bride’s friends into paying homage to her love with lavish gifts.

Bridal Showers, I have questions:

Why does a woman, who has found her true love, also need three toasters, a George Foreman Grill and a truckload of fluffy bath towels? Why can’t she take her soon-to-be-double income and buy her own kitchenware and linens?

You’re really just a clever tax on single women, aren’t you?

Let’s face it, the bride’s married friends have already collected their own treasure-trove of household gadgets.

And no one is expecting the groom’s friends to pony up the cash for a gravy boat or a cast iron skillet (or blow a perfectly good Saturday afternoon sipping punch and wearing a toilet paper wedding dress).

Meanwhile, no one spares so much as a carrot peeler to celebrate the life choices of single women. Are you worried that we might use it to slit our wrists and end our miserable spinsterhood?

Fat chance.

A couple of years from now, while the bride is watching her garage turn into a “Man Cave” instead of a place to park her car, we’ll be parking wherever we choose.

And while the bride is “enjoying” the 25th installment of The Fast and the Furious, we’ll be watching something with Sandra Bullock in it… Or not. Bottom line is: it will be OUR CHOICE.

You’re an expensive joke, Bridal Showers. But we single girls will get the last laugh.

Sincerely,
RJ

My eyes are burning!

9 Jun

Dear Hardcore Bike Commuter,

I applaud your commitment to fitness and fossil fuel conservation. Your head-to-toe spandex, however, leaves its own brand of pollution: visuals I cannot cleanse from my mind.

I’m trying hard not to get an eyeful as we’re trapped together—awkwardly silent—in the elevator. But it would be a whole lot easier if you would refrain from shrink-wrapping yourself in a neon sign that blinks, “Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!”

I’m just minding my business in the office kitchen/hallway/morning meeting. So I’m not quite sure why you’ve decided to launch this full-scale attack on my retinas, but if you’re going for Shock and Oh! My eyes!—mission accomplished.

Unless you’re training for the Tour de France on your way to work every morning, may I suggest that a less aerodynamic outfit might be acceptable? Perhaps even preferable, once you factor in your coworkers’ ability (or lack thereof) to look you in the eye.

But maybe I’m misunderstanding your intentions.

Is this possibly a misguided attempt to appear more approachable? Sort of a “just-picture-me-in-my-underwear-while-you-give-your-presentation” thing? If so, I’d prefer you wore something less like an acid trip… I’m just a little distracted by the sight of psychedelic spandex strangling my coworker.

Or could it be a cry for attention? Do you need a little positive affirmation on your healthy lifestyle choices, athleticism and superior dedication to the environment? Believe me; your seizure-inducing bodysuit has convinced us all that you are fully committed. (Or need to be committed.)

Or maybe you’re just trying to show us your rebellious side? Screw the office dress code! Modesty is for conformists.

After all, ladies do love a bad boy… So sexy!

You know what else is sexy? Mystery.

Go change already.

Sincerely,
RJ

500lb Baby

6 Jun

Oh, Upstairs Neighbor,

Do you know what I love about you? (Granted, we’ve never met, so the list is woefully short. I apologize.)

I love your willingness to blame me for every irritating noise you hear. Your faith in my ability to produce such a constant stream of sounds—and in such wide variety—is humbling.

But more than that, I love how fearless you are in expressing your displeasure by stomping around like a 500lb baby. Most adults use their words… but such a vigorous, primal response is awe-inspiring.

This morning, however, you really took it to a new level.

I realize that my bathroom fan is loud. It might even be comparable to a small jet engine. And, clearly, it’s all my fault.

I confess. Since apartment maintenance came out to fix the problem last year, I’ve been tinkering late into the nights, hoping (once again) to strike just the right combination of deep, whirring base notes and vibration to send you into a fit of rage.

This morning’s symphony of hammering on your bathroom floor (and other admirably loud construction-type noises I can’t identify) was obviously a proportional response to my using the bathroom fan for the 20-30 minutes it took me to shower and brush my teeth.

Perhaps if you weren’t awake and thumping around above my head at 3:00 a.m., my 8:30 bathroom time wouldn’t trigger such an honest, uninhibited reaction… Perish the thought! I do so love our new morning call and response routine. I hope it will continue for some time.

Although, I sincerely doubt that anything will ever top the time you sent security to my apartment at 11:30 p.m. for having the audacity to shower at 10:00, I do hope you will continue to strive for that kind of excellence.

I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed chatting with a stranger about “drilling noises” while wearing my pajamas. I wish I could do more of that.

Don’t ever change, Neighbor. If the thought ever occurs to just write a nice note asking me to call maintenance to fix my fan again, please, resist the urge. We must do everything we can to keep this spark alive…

We make such beautiful music together.

Sincerely,
RJ

Ode to your leftovers

1 Jun

Dear Office Microwave Offenders,

Fish is delicious, you say. And it’s heart-healthy.

Congrats on your superior choices. Please live to be 105.

However, don’t expect to reach that ripe, old age with your friends by your side if you insist on stinking us out of the office every day. After all, we survived your Pasta Alfredo Armageddon last Tuesday, despite your attempts to choke us all with the fumes of your 4-cheese sauce. (Make that four kinds of old, rancid cheese, wrapped in dirty gym socks.) But how much more can we take?

I don’t care what you microwave in the privacy of your own home amongst consenting adults. But the office microwave is hallowed ground. Thou shalt not defile it with anything that smells like the following:

1. A sewage treatment facility
2. The county garbage dump on a hot summer day
3. Vomit
4. Davy Jones’s Locker
5. Any combination of the above

This isn’t rocket science: if you make my cubicle smell like the armpit of a sweaty gorilla with your Chicken Feta Surprise, I will be sharpening my pencil to put your name on my List.

Far be it from me to interfere with your passion for foods cloaked in noxious gases. I am merely suggesting that microwaving popcorn on high and WALKING AWAY will end in tears. For me. As I gasp for breath.

And won’t you feel guilty, stumbling across my dead body, when you come over to ask me about that thing you wanted done yesterday?

My guess is you’ll feel a little sick… and disgusted. I plan to be a very stinky corpse—much like your 3-day-old trout smothered in caper sauce.

And that will be my ultimate revenge.

Sincerely,
RJ

And then I got my money back…

29 May

To Whom it May Concern,

I didn’t realize when I purchased Lauryn Hill tickets that the real price of my ticket would be:

1) $80

2) Standing in heels on a concrete floor for hours

3) Being pressed up against the back of a giant man, who felt the need to break out his best dance moves–6 square inches of personal space be damned!

4) HOURS of waiting

5) A little piece of my human dignity

At 10:30, I finally decided that hearing Lauryn Hill sing would not improve my mood or my night. Although I do hope, for the sake of the hundreds of people there, that she came out and sang with the sweetness of the Baby Jesus backed by a choir of angels.

I realize that I cannot expect you to un-elbow my ribs, un-blister my feet, or refund 3.5 hours of my life (preferably weekend hours), but I am asking for my $80 back (and while I’m at it, the $80 I spent on my friend’s ticket), since I would have had a better musical experience sitting at home on my couch with my laptop, watching YouTube videos of Keyboard Cat.

You can rest assured that I will tell all my friends, and the internet, about the worst concert experience I’ve ever had. But my story can end with me saying “…but at least Double Tee Concerts did right by me, and refunded my money…”

Or I can say “…And then Double Tee Concerts told me that my ticket to this hostage experience was non-refundable.”

Sincerely,

RJ

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