LETTERS: Cable company

Dear 877-blahblahblah-something something something Optimum cable,

I know you're probably just psyched I spelled your name right (and P.S. I didn't). Optimum? Optimal? Optic fcking nerves blowing up in my head? STOP THAT COMMERCIAL RIGHT NOW.

Lucky for me I know how to write a proper business letter, so that I can scribe this one to you now and make it effective.

At the risk of humiliating myself and my forefathers (and mothers), you need to know something irregardless. When your commercial comes on the air, I TURN THE TV OFF. Yeah, I don't even "mute" it and divert my attention otherwise. I don't raise the volume on the new hot song playing on my computer. I don't change the channel to see what Rachael Ray wants me to cook in 5 minutes or less. NO. I have to turn it off. I'm in the middle of watching a pointless youtube flick, and I literally stand up, walk allllllll the way across the room, and shut the TV off, just so I do not have to listen to your commercial for the a thousand billionth time. And yes, that's a real number.

I don't want to hear all that crap about how TV is bad for me, blahblahblah. I know it is. Why else would I watch it? But if I'm going to be properly inundated with product endorsements and propaganda that I pretend to believe I think I agree with, then at LEAST make it a good commercial! Your song (or jingle or whatever) is worse than a Mariah Carey ballad at Christmas. It's worse than some 6 year old kid who wants to be famous and belts it out for guest judge Sharon Osbourne. Your commercial is so bad it makes my cat bark. Your commercial is so bad it makes me think Vanna White is my hero.

Ever read a book called The Tipping Point? Yes? No? Yes? The point, my FRIEND(z), is not to make your audience tip over in their chair because they think they are going to go insane if they hear your commercial one more time during a Tyra B. rerun. Girl, I am trying to learn how to strike it fierce, and you are ruining my runway walk practice time.

So. In conclusion. Stop airing that commercial. So that I can return to being the passive, complacent television watching viewer that I've always been.

Gracias.
And good night.

Life: Annoying

I have an influx of fruit flies in my apartment.
If anyone can tell me how to get rid of them, I will pay you a million dollars.

Thank you.

Story: Letter #2

Dear Mrs.

I am writing to inform you about my pending resignation which is about to occur.

Last night your husband asked me to drive with him to the mini mart, the one with the good eggs and the bad milk, you know the one, and receive change in quarters for his one dollar bill, because he owed me $4.75 and not $5.00.

Your son, I am in love with, but it's not the same kind of love that you have for him, which is why I can leave. You love him enough to have me fill your shoes and I don't love him that much. You love him enough to feel guilt about the size of his birthday presents and concern about the cleanliness of his school uniform. You love him enough to practice your signatures on a napkin (I found them) so that his applications for everything are neat and professional looking. I do not love him that much and that is why I can leave.

I have left the things you have lent me in the back closet. I have returned the shawl with the beads on the fringes because it makes a strange noise when I walk through the aisles of Fairways buying your cheeses and deli meats. I have returned the tweezers you did not know I had. I have returned the note you left me 4 months ago, requesting that we no longer have pizza nights on Thursdays in the household as a preemptive move to curb your son's appetite for inappropriately labeled food groups. I thought you would want that for safe-keeping.

This is the part of the letter where I bring things to a close and let you know that I will be unreachable by phone, but always available by fax. This is the part in the letter where you start to sense that I am bidding à tout à l'heure.

My best to you and your family and future employees and all of your goals and aspirations of which I have not and will not be able to help you accomplish.

Until next time, or sooner,
Ms.

Story: Letter #1

Dear You,

I got the mix tape. It wasn't what I expected, but then again, not much is nowadays. Though now that I think about it, now that I take pen to paper, I realize that you did, actually, leave me the least bit misty eyed with your rendition of Let My People Go on the didjeridoo. You knew that would get me, didn't you? You knew. You know me too well.

Ms. Finch asked about you again. She said, and I quote, "Nice weather we're having, isn't it?" and then she raised her penciled eyebrow at me. She's on to us. She's also got beautiful eyebrows. But whatever. I don't care anymore. I mean, we're adults. We hire people to pay our taxes for us. We hire people to walk our dogs and do our laundry. It's about time we got something of our own to hold on to, you know? I won't fight it anymore. I know, I know, you've heard me say that before. But this time I mean it.

I was going through some old things of mine in a drawer under my bed and I came across a letter you once wrote me, but never sent, but I found anyway and stole. There was a quote that stuck out for me. It said: And I quote, "The town where I grew up has a zip code of E-I-E-I-O." I can't make this stuff up.

Did you know Valerie Harper was born today? I think that's fitting.

Until next time, or sooner
Yours.