Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Dear Wednesday...

Dear Wednesday,

Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I know you've got a silly nickname, but I try not to call you that, so please let's be friends. I won't hold it against you that today started with a headache and I haven't managed to stop being a whine-filled ball of crank since. Please don't hold it against me that I like other days better than you. I mean, Monday is the black sheep and Tuesday is sort of the underdog. Thursdays are generally just overlooked on the way to Friday, and everyone knows that Saturday and Sunday are the pretty girls we all wanted to be in grades K through 12. Anyway, we're here now, and I'd really like to enjoy you. It's Date Night tonight after all, and that's a really big selling point. So, if you stop the random acts of malfeasance, I'll be sure to tell everybody that you're really the best day of the workweek. Please consider my offer.
Respectfully, Crabby Baby

Dear PT Cruiser,

You know that I've dreamed of having you since your debut so many years ago, right? Other than a 1998 Red VW Jetta, there is no car I've wanted more (that I had a reasonable chance of obtaining in my lifetime, because it would be a disservice to compare you to any Aston Martin). My brother may think you're ugly, but I don't. I think you're cute and spunky and I've taken really good care of you these past two years. So please stop the diva-like behavior. You do not need constant attention from the guys at CarMax. You're better than that! You've got more self-respect than that! You go for your regular oil changes and maintenance. Igot you detailed just a few months ago. You're not neglected! So please stop blowing random fuses and flashing your "check engine" light at me. Is this because I chose to drive the Rondo to work last week? Are you feeling jealous? Listen, it's not you, it's me! I just needed the extra gas mileage. I love your Turbo GT whatever. Your leather seats get so delightfully scorchy in the Texas heat. I adore the bliding rays of sunshine from your sunroof. I've even completely adapted to the window controls being on the center of the dash instead of by the actual windows. Please, can't we put this petty repair business behind us? Sincerely, The One Who Buys The Gas

Dear Aaron Sorkin,

You're really good at writing. Geez, what a crappy sentence. Ok, it's true and I don't have a more eloquent way of saying it. I got hooked on West Wing and I don't even like politics. Then again, it wasn't really a show about politics any more than Studio 60 was a show about a tv show. As my Improv instructors have drilled into my brain, all good stories are about relationships. Anyway, because of you, I've decided to watch everything that Bradley Whitford has ever been in, except for whatever show has him in that ridiculous mustache. I can't do that one. Anyway, thank you for ending Studio 60 in a highly satisfactory manner. There is nothing worse* than getting to the end of a series to find a bunch of cliffhangers, un-answered questions and what-ifs, and yes, I'm looking at you, Joss Whedon! So, Mr. Sorkin, thanks for stealing many of my couch-time hours to fill my head with good stories of real-feeling relationships between characters that feel like people I know. (I'm such a Donna sometimes, right? I know!)
With affection, The Holder of The Remote Control

Dear Treadmill,

We need to have a talk. I know that we're both new to this relationship, but I'm finding that I'm getting increasingly frustrated. I've tried to talk it out with you, but you just don't seem capable of change. The problem really isn't me, it's you. You're too loose. And I'm not talking about the fact that you will give a free ride to every cat, dog, or husband who happens to saunter on by. No, the real issue here is your belt tension. I got into this relationship looking for something challenging, but familiar. Your incline is a little steep, but I can deal with that. What I can't deal with is the fact that you seem incapable of only two speeds: Run For Your Life, Zombies and Hip Replacement Rehab. As you may have noticed, I don't run, so that's right out. Also, I may be a former president of the Universal Convention of Awkwardness but I can manage to walk at a smooth and steady pace, so that leaves us at an impass. Don't tell me that because you are a "manual" treadmill the speed is my responsibility. I wish that were the case. If that were true, we wouldn't be having this conversation. No, you need to get your belt tightened so I can tighten mine. Relationships are about compromise, so why don't you just give me what I want so we can both be happy?
With Respect, Trying To Be Less Blubbery

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