You are currently browsing the daily archive for January 23rd, 2009.
Dear Truck Driving Lady,
You came roaring up the on-ramp and shot wildly across the four lanes of traffic, only to settle into the far left lane and slow down to 5 under the 65 MPH speed limit. I am still wondering why you did this. It was really weird. Was someone chasing you? Are you just really stupid?
Seriously, what was that all about?
In case you are wondering, I was driving one of the cars you narrowly avoided sideswiping, only because I noticed your erratic movement and anticipated your trajectory of vehicular insanity. I slowed from the 73 MPH I was doing in a middle lane and stayed back until you completed your pointlessly dangerous maneuver.
You’re welcome,
Tawni
********
Dear Truck Driving Man,
Just because you throw garbage in the back of your truck while it is parked, thereby forcing the highway winds to suck it out as you speed along, piece by wretched, flapping-back-to-smack-my-car’s-windshield piece, it does not absolve you of the crime. You’re still littering.
Dickhead.
You’re trash,
Tawni
********
Dear Other Drivers,
Please pull up into the empty twenty feet of space you are leaving in front of your car as you sit, waiting for the light to turn green. You’re totally freaking me out.
It is not only weird to leave this big space in front of your car; it is inconsiderate to the cars further down the line behind you. They might not make the light once it turns green because you inexplicably decided you needed to keep a football field’s length between you and the next car.
More than being angry at you for being rude, I am perplexed to the point of bewilderment by your strange behavior.
If I am waiting next to you in the left turning lane as you sit in the straight lane, I sometimes stare at you, then at the large gap of space you aren’t pulling into, then back at you. Sometimes I hold up my hands in a questioning manner. This is my way of trying to say: “What the fuck?”
(I thought that I should probably explain that to you, since you are obviously oblivious to the most kindergartenly, bare basics of concepts, such as forming a line.)
The next time you leave a huge space in front of your car, I am going to get out of my own car, leap spastically into the giant space you are not pulling up into with your vehicle, and dance around like a maniac. I might also simulate swimming around in the large area in front of your car before I flip you off, and get back into my car before the light turns green.
My husband thinks I should pretend to parallel park a car into the space in front of your car. That’s pretty funny; I might go with that one. I haven’t yet decided. I’ll surprise you.
Curmudgeonly yours,
Tawni
********
Dear Spider,
Stop biting my fucking toes while I am sleeping. You’re really starting to piss me off. I’m tired of limping around like an old lady because my toes are hurting and tingling where you have bitten me. I am afraid to sleep in my own bed, you arachnid bastard.
I washed the bedding and sprayed Lysol around and under the bed, hoping to deter you from crawling on me as I sleep. I am neurotic enough to be afraid of exterminators and the carcinogenic Mist of Certain Death they bear, but I will be forced to call one and bomb the shit out of your stupid stinking spider world if you do not desist.
We have had many health issues since moving to Oklahoma, and your toe biting has further cemented my belief that this state is a festering boil on the ass of America. Please, I beg of you. Give me a fucking break.
I know you probably don’t understand what I’m saying, because you are a fucking spider, and your biggest daily dilemma is flies versus toes for dinner, but I’m going to say it one more time; you’d better choose the flies next time, or I will choose YOU. For bug spray death.
Stop it. My toes hurt. Asshole.
Charlotte dies at the end of the book,
Tawni
********
Dear Gray Hairs,
You stayed away for 37 years. Why are you happening now? Why don’t you try to set some sort of “gray resistance” hair record and shoot for an even 40? I know I would be impressed. Everyone needs goals, right? See you in a few years?
Dare to dream,
Tawni
********
Dear Triple Paste Diaper Cream,
I lied.
I took advantage of your kindness. I saw the Money Back Guarantee written on the side of your stately tub, and I saw dollar signs.
You worked okay on my kid’s ass, but come on, not 30 dollars great. You cost $32.79 with tax. That is a lot of money to people who haven’t been able to buy groceries for two weeks straight and have been eating the odd cans of old food languishing in the back of the pantry.
In short: My son had garbanzo beans and a dusty can of pineapple for dinner last night. So thanks for the refund.
Apologetically,
Tawni
********
Dear Trashy Neighbors,
Thank you for inviting my son and me to your child’s birthday party. The water slide was really fun for the kids. Great idea.
I noticed all of the men drinking beers, so when you offered me a drink, assuming I’d drink kiddie punch with the other mothers, I chose beer. I hope you don’t think less of me for this, but I felt like you did.
As I drank the forbidden Female Beer, I felt the disapproving stares of the women. I hope you ladies didn’t mind my display of Fuck the Boys Club, but I don’t have much patience for gender stereotypes and the ensuing judgments of the holier-than-thou crowd.
Father of the birthday girl: When you said to me, “We should party sometime,” I had a hard time not laughing at you. Are we teenagers in the seventies or something? Is your daughter’s birthday party theme Dazed and Confused? Are we going to smoke a doob behind the bouncy house? Was it the beer thing that made you think I want to “party” with you? I mean really—who says things like that?
Mother of the birthday girl: Your husband is gross. And I am tired of listening to your arguments as to why I should spank my son, while my well-behaved child who has never been hit in his life is shoved around by your horribly-behaved, constantly-beaten children. Hey, here’s a little clue: It’s not working. Your children don’t respect you—they fucking hate you. By hitting them constantly, you’ve completely desensitized them to all discipline. In stoner terms, for your husband; you started with the discipline knob on 11, and you have nowhere to go but up (i.e. more violence).
When your creepy husband leeringly told me I needed to “smack that ass” when I mentioned that my son doesn’t take naps, not only did I know that you two have discussed my non-spanking beliefs, but I was completely grossed out by the way your icky husband said “smack that ass.” Sexual innuendos and children do not mix. Learn it, live it.
Also: When you hit your 3-year-old daughter in the head like that, I want to steal her away from you forever. She’s a sweet little kid and I hope she puts you in a nursing home that smells like cat piss someday for all of the times you’ve smacked her around.
In short: I think you are fucking carnie freaks and I am never coming to another birthday party or play date at your house again.
Honestly,
Tawni
P.S. You sent me a link to your family blog and I do read it, but only to make fun of your atrocious spelling and grammar blunders. And when you listed “shoot my first buck” as one of your New Year’s Resolutions, I nearly peed myself laughing.
********
Dear Son,
When you and I were driving in the car to preschool this morning and you correctly identified the band playing as Superdrag, my heart swelled with pride.
When you told me to turn up the Subways and then sang along to their song Rock and Roll Queen without missing a lyric, my pride-swelled heart nearly exploded.
You just turned 3 yesterday, little dude, and you’re already a rocker. You are going to be so much cooler than your nerdy mom ever dreamed of being. If you want a drum set or a guitar, you got it, kiddo. I support you.
Also, as long as we’re talking, if you could stop dramatically screaming “IT’S A RED LIGHT!! RED MEANS STOP!! STOP, MOMMY! STOP!!” at every red light, I would really appreciate that. It’s a bit unsettling.
Love you,
Mommy
