Dear Shasta: Well, sweet girl, today’s the day . . . When we pick you up after work today, you will officially be spayed. Just in time for your birthday, too. How’s that for a present? Trust me, you’ll thank us later :] In the meantime, we’ll be sure to pick up a fun toy or something to aid in your recovery, because, really, you are totally our fur child.
Dear Readers: Please, enlighten me—is it normal for a young couple with no kiddos to feel this way about a pet?
Dear Archibald: Yes, I've named you, wretched, ginormous arachnid that you are. I sit down at my desk and you dart out from under my purse, huge and creepy. Spiders have too many joints, friend, among other things. Like legs. Eyes. Creep factor. But you . . . well, you left me alone. You moved slowly, taking each step with care, like some minature eight-legged-dinosaur. We all know the reason you, a speedy wolf spider, weren't racing around: you totally knew you were big enough to take on me AND my flip flops. I wasn't going to try. You sat still for a photo op (which all turned out DREADFULLY due to my phone cam's confusion over the carpet pattern), then I turned away. I look back, and you're gone. The worst kind of spider? The kind you can't see. It's been two days. I'm still expecting an ambush. Curse you, Archibald. Curse you!
Dear Thunderstorms: I love you. Yes, you’re hell to drive through, low visibility, flooded streets, lousy drivers, all that, but you’re still awesome. I love days snuggled in at home listening to you sing, howl, and pound against the earth. Favorite. I love getting to dance in your early and late sprinkles, like kisses from heaven. I love that you’re big and dark and ominous. Will we have storms like you in California? Or, after this Spring, will you be something so very rare and far away? I hope not. Cause I kind of love you a lot.
Dear Thunderstorms: I love you. Yes, you’re hell to drive through, low visibility, flooded streets, lousy drivers, all that, but you’re still awesome. I love days snuggled in at home listening to you sing, howl, and pound against the earth. Favorite. I love getting to dance in your early and late sprinkles, like kisses from heaven. I love that you’re big and dark and ominous. Will we have storms like you in California? Or, after this Spring, will you be something so very rare and far away? I hope not. Cause I kind of love you a lot.
Dear Celestial Seasonings: I suppose I should thank you for creating such delectable teas, but, at the same time, you make me nervous. Why??? Because your Nutcracker Sweet Black Tea is too stinkin' GOOD. My GOSH. Add some vanilla creamer, and it's a direct flight to heaven. I tell you what. One day, I made the hubs a cup of it. Now, he can't get enough. He RAVES about this stuff. Unfortunately, Publix only carries it around Christmas . .. and my four remaining boxes didn't stand a chance. So we found you online, and ordered six boxes. SIX. I don't think they'll last long either. If we go broke, I'm blaming you for brewing awesomeness.
Dear Dante:
I have a suggestion for your masterpiece, The Inferno. No, I get it, it’s already a masterpiece and doesn’t NEED any improving, but, if you REALLY wanted Judas, Cassius, and Brutus to suffer, once Satan gets tired of chewing them, turn them into women and place them in a swimsuit shop. Not even kidding. Not only will they be rendered completely senseless by the onslaught of feelings (so many feelings), paranoia, body image issues, and all those other tendencies that make women so complicated, but then they have to buy a swimsuit.
Because, you see, really, this is Ninth Circle kinda bad.
When swimsuits are IN season, the good ones cost an arm and a leg, and, really, you’re supposed to lose poundage before donning one of those anyways, so let’s wait a bit . . . . Well, maybe you have or haven’t lost weight, but now, you NEED a suit for something, anything, and they’re almost out of season. BUT they’re finally on sale! Huzzah! Still . . . since it’s almost fall . . . all the good suits are gone, and you’re left with the scraps, and NONE of them in the right size. Oh, and then the style you want?? Can’t find it. Not at all. I mean, really, is it THAT hard to make a black tankini???? Does it all have to be a string bikini or a one piece? Seriously??? Come on, designers.
So make your three traitors wander around, trying on suit after suit and FAILING. Oh, my gosh, make every one of those little suckers fail. Self-esteem, plummeting, stress building, urgency rising . . . and doggone it, nothing offers any support where it matters.
You’ll break those guys. I mean just annihilate them.
Afterwards, if you’re bored, send them bra shopping.
And BAM! Tormented beyond repair for all eternity.
You’re welcome.
I have a suggestion for your masterpiece, The Inferno. No, I get it, it’s already a masterpiece and doesn’t NEED any improving, but, if you REALLY wanted Judas, Cassius, and Brutus to suffer, once Satan gets tired of chewing them, turn them into women and place them in a swimsuit shop. Not even kidding. Not only will they be rendered completely senseless by the onslaught of feelings (so many feelings), paranoia, body image issues, and all those other tendencies that make women so complicated, but then they have to buy a swimsuit.
Because, you see, really, this is Ninth Circle kinda bad.
When swimsuits are IN season, the good ones cost an arm and a leg, and, really, you’re supposed to lose poundage before donning one of those anyways, so let’s wait a bit . . . . Well, maybe you have or haven’t lost weight, but now, you NEED a suit for something, anything, and they’re almost out of season. BUT they’re finally on sale! Huzzah! Still . . . since it’s almost fall . . . all the good suits are gone, and you’re left with the scraps, and NONE of them in the right size. Oh, and then the style you want?? Can’t find it. Not at all. I mean, really, is it THAT hard to make a black tankini???? Does it all have to be a string bikini or a one piece? Seriously??? Come on, designers.
So make your three traitors wander around, trying on suit after suit and FAILING. Oh, my gosh, make every one of those little suckers fail. Self-esteem, plummeting, stress building, urgency rising . . . and doggone it, nothing offers any support where it matters.
You’ll break those guys. I mean just annihilate them.
Afterwards, if you’re bored, send them bra shopping.
And BAM! Tormented beyond repair for all eternity.
You’re welcome.
