Archive | August, 2010

Dear Possessed Microwave

31 Aug

Dear Possessed Microwave,

At first, I thought you just had a little virus.  I was so hopeful that with some tender loving care, you might come back to me and stop randomly setting yourself to 5 minutes and going like hell.  A fever, perhaps.  A temporary interest in experimenting.  You just weren’t yourself, but it was ok.  We would get through it, I thought.

Then, I began to suspect the worst when you wouldn’t listen to me.  You just…you’d changed.  I don’t know how else to say it.  Whereas before you were responsive, now you sat sullenly and then flew into uncontrollable hot rages.  There was no calming you.  I had to cut you off at the source.  I wanted you to learn to control yourself, but I couldn’t risk having you burn the house down while I was away.  I begged, and then finally I started constraining you when I left.  It was for your own safety.

And when you shut down completely– when you just wouldn’t let me in anymore– wouldn’t let me near you, couldn’t stop your uncontrollable urge to run and run and go hotter and hotter (but always in 5 minute increments, it gave me hope, some sign of consistency and rationality, I wanted it to mean something so badly, I still wonder if there was some sense in you I might have appealed to)– I finally had to let you go.

I’m sorry.  I wanted to help you, but I just didn’t know how anymore.  I wanted to be there for you, but I have my own life to live.  I can’t sit with you every day and all night to keep you from burning yourself down and taking me with you.  I want you to know that I wish you the best, and I tried to find you the nicest dumpster I could.

Love,

MM

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Dear Shirtless Boys

26 Aug

Dear Shirtless Boys,

While you certainly are scenic….I’m not sure how smart you are.  For one thing, you are choosing to play soccer (aka exercise) during the hottest part of the day.  I know, I know, it’s 4:00, but it’s still 91 degrees in the cool shade of the parking lot (car thermometer reading) and 300 degrees in the full sun (emotional reading).  YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE WATER BOTTLES WITH YOU.

I know because you’re shirtless.  If you were carrying anything I would be able to see it.

I bet you’re not even wearing sunscreen.  Not that I’m looking that closely or anything.

MM

PS– The grass probably “feels totally weird” because there are signs all over saying, “FIELD CLOSED”. I mean, do what you gotta do. But.

Dear License Plate “R U EZ”

22 Aug

Dear License Plate “R U EZ”,

For the sake of argument, let’s say that I am EZ and that you are too.  Let’s also say that I’m the type of EZ attracted to people with vanity license plates asking me about it.  Now what are we going to do?  Here I am, sitting behind you at the stoplight on the freeway off-ramp, and my, your black BMW is awfully shiny…and there’s that invitation, right there on your rear end (snicker)…

But wouldn’t I have to be both EZ and QCK in order to make something happen before the light changes?  I mean, I’m guessing your fancy car has automatic locks and all, so I can’t even just slide in and leave my car to block traffic.  Should I follow you for a while and see if you stop at a 7-11? And maybe you need to buy some Cheetos so you go into the store and then I could park my car and tie my t-shirt up in a knot above my belly button (that’s the right outfit for this, right? Tim Gunn? Can I get a ruling?) and display myself on your windshield like a hood ornament!  That would be great!

Hopefully, when you come out of the store, I won’t have to blatantly point at your license plate to explain my presence.  That would just be awkward.

Email me here if you get this since the light changed and you were gone in a flash, leaving me to regret that split second when I questioned my impulse to hurl myself out of the car into oncoming traffic because you just seem like such a great catch…

MM

Dear Bagel Boy

12 Aug

Dear Bagel Boy,

When you’re too high to toast a bagel and put cream cheese on it in a moderately consistent fashion, you’re smoking too much before work.

Just a thought.

MM

Dear Kindle Readers

9 Aug

Dear Kindle Readers,

How am I supposed to know what you’re reading?  And therefore, how am I supposed to know if you’re smart?  Or shallow?  How am I supposed to strike up a conversation without being able to say, “Oh, I read that”?

(I guess I could try it anyway.  And then try to bullshit my way through it when you say in response: “Oh, really?  You read Everything You Need to Know About Elephants and Your 18th Century British Trading Company?”)

How am I supposed to know if you’re someone I want to date?

I mean, come on, I already can’t see you walking down the street and judge you by the music on your boombox.  Further into our relationship, I can’t walk into your apartment and check out your record collection, or even your cassette tapes, or your cds.

And now I can’t judge you by your book cover?!?  This. is. tragic.  This is a catastrophe for the modern world.

I mean, yes, you probably wouldn’t have spent $189.00 on a digital reading device if you aren’t a so-called “reader.”  And yes, with a Kindle, I too could avoid being judged when I want to read trash in public.  (And sometimes a girl needs to read a little trash. Why else do you think we get haircuts so often and it takes us so long?)

But what about when I’m reading something smart?  How will you know I’m intellectual and hip if you can’t see that I’ve got a sustainable food narrative in my hands?  That I’m scholarly and literary if you can’t see the frayed edges of my well-loved Aeneid?  That I’m sensitive and artistic if Collected Poems isn’t typeset across my book cover?

I mean, seriously, what’s next?  Do I have to judge you based solely on whether or not you have a fixed-gear bicycle? What’s going to happen to all the New Yorker readers when it stops printing hard copies?  Will they have to wear name tags to identify themselves to one another as being fit for cultural conversation?

Will we all stop wearing clothing so I won’t even be able to judge you by the stitching on your jeans pockets???

Say it ain’t so,

MM

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