A desperate plea

Dear Corey,

For goodness sake, please let me sleep. 

I realize it is soooo hilarious to wake me up five times in the middle of the night to listen to my awkward ramblings, I'd wake myself up if I knew I'd hear me yammering on about crackers and beluga whales (you know how sleep talking stories affect me), but this girlfriend needs her full eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

I need to be able to keep my eyes open when I iron my pants, drive to work, talk to constituents, eat my lunch, use the facilities, play scrabble with Jill on my phone, and drive home again.  And I'm sure you'd prefer me to be awake during our special time.

You know, when we watch taped episodes of Restaurant Impossible.

Also worth mentioning: I'm downright grumpy and throw pillows at your face.

So, if you don't mind, leave me to my sleep.  And only interrupt if the house is on fire or the dog is doing that gaaarrummph thing before he pukes.

Thank you,
Stacie

For the Love of All That Is Clean and Orderly

To the employees and volunteers of X Office with whom we are obligated to share our kitchen and bathroom:

I respectfully request you stop being gross.  A collective "you" is implied here as I can't pinpoint which one of you is the mess maker and the rest of you who also use this space do not see a need to clean up after him/her.

Your coffee maker is dirty, permanently.  I know this because I tried to clean it.  With bleach.  And when you start up a fresh batch in the morning, the normally pleasant aroma is mixed with the stench of yesterday's take out sitting on top of last week's take out in the towering trash heap in the corner.  To make matters worse, that smell is then mixed with the Febreeze Aloha air freshener in the bathroom and before you know it I'm using the ladies' facilities in the Burger King next door.

Every day I clean off our counters hoping you will notice and be more conscientious when cutting open your bagel.

Nope.

I put your stuff away, thinking you might put it back when you are finished using it.

Mmmmhmm.

...

So now that you are aware of our issues, might you find a second or two in your busy day to wipe up your coffee splatters?

Maybe you could put paper towels in the garbage?

Oh, and we would love a little room in the fridge to put an occasional bowl of soup or can of soda.

Also, if you could wash down your crumbs before they dried it would save me a lot of chipped nail polish and name calling I will later regret.

With that, I appreciate your thoughtful consideration of my requests.

Stacie



An open letter to all of you who do not flush your dookies in public bathrooms

(Corey, I know this is uncomfortable and inappropriate, but the truth must be told.)

First let me say, kudos to you who have the courage to make a number two in a public bathroom with others standing, or sitting, around listening to your business.  Those of us who can barely make a number one without intense coaxing are impressed and even jealous of your complete control over your innards.

However, just because you are among the respected few, that does not give you the authority to literally shove your accomplishments in our faces.  Specifically, our noses.  It's just mean.  But also very gross.  You see, after enough time passes, the doodie chunks break down; there is just something about fuzzy turds that makes me want to throw up.  And I think poop jokes are hilarious, so you can imagine what is going on in the gag sector of more proper individuals.

So please consider me and the others who use the facilities after you.  Flush those kids you just dropped off at the pool.  Because they belong with the other stinky poo-kids.

Thank you.

Wanted: Kitty Katt

I'm going to come right out and say it:  I need a kritter. 

A fuzzy little kritter that eats, drinks, and is excessively neurotic, like me.

Something I can chase around the table, bark at, maybe even snuggle with when no one's looking.

Just not a hamster or gerbil.  They look like furry turd chunks.

Or a guinea pig.  Too hairy, too paranoid.

I do like chinchillas, or as I call them: balls.

And I like squirrels, especially for dinner with a marmalade glaze and side salad.

But please no mice, rats, or raccoons.  Cute, scary, cute (respectively), but nasty scavengers.

I would prefer a meerkat, because they're fidgety like me and can sing.

But I could settle for a regular cat that sleeps all day and claws at my face.

Thank you,

Oliver

A quick note

To my concerned neighbors,

No, Corey and I are not holding a sickly 85 year old man against his will in our apartment.

That coughing you hear at 7:00 in the morning, followed by hacking and then spitting is Corey.  The gagging, however, is me.  He shows me the spit.

You can imagine how hard it is to relieve throat ticklies at his age, 37.  So I try my darndest not to cringe in front of him when his hacking fits take hold of him.  I wouldn't want to embarrass the dear.

The slow, cautious shuffle steps are his also.  Contorting your face and body to cough up a dog fuzz is exhausting.  Again, he is almost middle aged, and his physical abilities are greatly diminished.  So, after one of his fits there is not an ounce of energy to pick up his tired legs.  Poor soul.

And if there is ever an extended period of time where you hear absolutely nothing coming from upstairs, don't panic.  Corey is curled up on the bed with the heating pad, a cold compress, a box of tissues and hot chocolate.

What you really need to be concerned with is an excessive amount of movement.  While annoying, I'm sure, it probably also means someone has taken over the apartment.  In this case, call the police and secure your valuables.

Thank you,

Stacie

A note to the corporate offices of Taco Bell

To Whom It May Concern,

I appreciate the little bit of humor you add to my day every other week around lunch time.  Honestly, without the cute little sayings on my sauce packets, I would find nothing funny about my bean burrito minus red. 

However, now that they have their own little personalities, I feel bad tearing off a "limb", squeezing out its "guts", and just throwing it away as if our "conversation" (although one-sided) meant nothing.  I can picture my latest packet, who is afraid of the dark, sitting in the trash can wondering what it did wrong.  Was it too forward?  Too soon in the relationship to share its fears?  Did it scare me off?

So, although I felt a moment of happiness from that sauce packet, now I am racked with guilt.

Thank you,

Stacie

A general plea to the masses

People, please, let's practice good grammar.  Take advantage of your computer's spelling advice.  Because you never know if the person you are sending a letter, memo, or note to may have undiagnosed adult attention deficit disorder and is completely thrown off by the most innocently misplaced comma.

I'm speaking generally, of course.

Think about the recipient of that letter.  Is he or she going to read the same sentence 18 times and still not know your dog, John Charles, is sick because you did not separate his name from the rest of the sentence with the proper punctuation?

Is he or she going to eventually become so frustrated over incorrect verb tense that he or she must stand in a corner and rock back and forth while humming Journey songs until the world is right again?

All things to consider when drafting that "Dear John" letter, or the "..doesn't that skirt make Judy's butt look big?" accidental mass email.

We can all make a conscious effort to make good grammar choices so these silently tortured individuals can find some peace.

18 days...

Attention New York State residents:

Yes, I do realize it is my job to listen to your conspiracy theories. And yes, I am supposed to help you obtain your teaching license by tomorrow morning for your interview at 10am.

But allow me to get down on my knees....it will take me a second, I am getting older, you know...and plead for you to consider my fragile emotional state in these last few weeks of pre-wedded bliss.

In order for me to keep my sanity (and help you regain yours), please follow the guidelines below:

• You have 10 minutes. Give me your information like a press release: most important first...just in case I accidentally hang up on you.
• Save the details of your hip replacement for conversations over coffee with your girlfriends.
• Before you call sober up, wake up, spit out your gum.
• Save us both some time and go directly to your lawyer.
• Make yourself an outline. Follow it. Fax it to me.
• Ask for Keith.
• Don't yell or curse at me or else I will tell you what I really think of your "disability."
• Send me a box of chocolates....or maybe a simple stinkin' Thank You.

That is all. Thank you for your time.

A letter to my parents

Dearest Mother and Father,

It has been the greatest of pleasures living in your home for the last 27 years...or, my whole life. You fed me, clothed me, and kept me from turning into a dirty hippie.

Although, you did let me wear my hair long and frizzy and this incredibly nerdy Kermit Klein shirt every other day in 7th grade.

I've greatly enjoyed Cinnamon Roll Night calorie fests and the ensuing sluggishness. And I will miss Mom's good home cooking...actually, I've been missing it for about three years.

But this is no time for tears! You will have one less person using your hot water, complaining about getting frostbite inside during the winter, or leaving TVs on in various rooms of the house.

You can butter to your heart's desire as I will not be able to lecture you on trans fat and heart disease statistics.

Daddy, watch your extreme outdoor grody survival shows as loud as you want. I won't be there to threaten you with vomit or premature deafness.

And Mom, the amount of times you will have to nag at me to keep the basement door closed will be significantly reduced. That's a win-win for both of us.

In 50 days there will be an empty bedroom (with a broken closet door) upstairs and I suggest you spend the time you would use grieving over my departure and instead plan the layout of your yoga-dojo, or whatever you old folks do with your spare time.

Much love,

Stacie

A letter to our guests

Dear Future Wedding Attendees,

Your invitations are on the way! But before you get your hands on those little jerks that brought on bouts of late night sob-fests I just wanted to explain a few things.

Ten of you are getting the wrong directions. Sorry. I tried to give them all to my friends and family in California who are not likely to make the trip, but Grandma, just in case you do decide to come, when it looks like I'm trying to send you into a tree, I really wanted you to turn the other way. Sorry.

Some of you will have partial paw prints on your envelopes. Yes. My parents have a dog that likes to get up on the furniture when people aren't around. Furniture that I leave empty addressed envelopes on.

Oh, and if you find fragrant little brown flakes in your envelope, they actually are not part of the invitation. They are part of a brownie.

I look forward to seeing everyone! Don't forget to spay and neuter your pets and RSVP on time.

Stacie

A letter to my future husband

Dear Mssr. Corey,

Oh what a joy it will be waking up in the middle of the night to my ramblings of crackers, make believe animals, and other such nonsense while I drool all over myself.

How excited you must be to partake in soggy rice, over cooked eggs, and interesting new recipes using rarely paired ingredient combinations.

And I, equally, cannot wait to wake up to Sports Center, eat breakfast to the Weather Channel, relax to horse racing, eat dinner to ESPN and fall asleep to the game of the day.

I look forward to your nightly rants about the office, the losing team, the guy who cut you off in traffic, and the Starbucks employee who gave you a carmel-mochachino-latte instead of a carmel-macchiato-double foam.

You'll be glad to know I am only bringing 20 pairs of shoes, 30 purses, two closets full of clothes, and approximately 950 pounds of books.

I have also reduced my knick-knacks to only the most essential: paper mache flamingo, ceramic fish on a pedestal, jar of California shells, and 25 stuffed animals.

So I will see you at the altar in 87 days, and maybe we can get a coffee before then.

Love,

Beetle