Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Letters I'd love to write
Dear Person Walking Slowly In Front Of Me While Carrying An Umbrella The Size of Jupiter:
Hi! You probably don't see me, after all, it's got to be impossible to have any kind of peripheral vision with that thing. But I'm the girl ducking and weaving behind you, trying to pass your magnificent umbrella without losing an eyeball so I can get to my bus and get the hell home.
See, while I'm glad you golf (after all, what other venue would require an umbrella big enough to whisk away a rotund Mary Poppins), I thought I might make a suggestion.
Perhaps you've seen these new-fangled travel-sized umbrellas. (They appear to be available in virtually every major retail outlet.) Buy one. Now. Because at rush hour, just like the streets, the sidewalks of downtown Chicago are jam-packed.
Or, alternatively, perhaps you would consider walking slightly faster than my 100-year-old grandmother.
Thanks and have a great day!
Dear Behr Paint:
Thank you for making Pale Daffodil.
It's looking quite splendid in my new sewing studio and has the added benefit of being a cathartic breakup cure. Perhaps, given the recession and the fact that virtually everyone _ everywhere _ is seeing revenue vanish faster than that free makeup department stores gave away yesterday, you should consider marketing your product to the recently single.
I can see it now! You can partner with therapists. And bakeries. And wineries. And hair stylists, who most often bear the brunt of the female post-breakup angst. Just teach your sales clerks to look for that dejected shopper lugging a half-eaten pint of ice cream with them to the hardware store.
Oh, and while you're at it, perhaps you could figure out a way to dog-proof your paint. My excited mutt left an ass print on a wet wall and now is sporting a rather odd 1980s look, thanks to the streak of yellow paint that she won't let me clean off the side of her face.
Dear Mother Nature,
Ha ha. You win.
Dear Chicago Transit Authority:
What's with the flying-high-on-uppers-happiness that seems to have overtaken your train conductors and bus drivers? Did you give them a raise or something?
Don't get me wrong, I completely prefer this to the jerkfaces who pull the bus away while I'm still standing at the corner. When it's -30.
But, seriously. Let a girl get some coffee flowing through her veins before assaulting her with their Prozac-fueled morning bliss.
Dear Girls At My Gym:
FYI: Make up is not necessary for your daily workout routine. Why? Because half the dudes at our gym are gay.
See, it's spitting distance from BOYSTOWN. I know the name sounds confusing, but trust me when I tell you that these boys are just not that in to you.
Plus, you and your fake eyelashes are giving me a complex.