Dear Sir or Madam or Questioning or Undefined By the Parameters of Society, Man–
This letter is for you.
It’s also not for you. It’s for your weird cat lady neighbour and your cousin who plays pee-wee softball and the weird guy who lives in the alley behind your office.
Presumably, if you are reading this, you have eyes and fingers and internet access and a decent grasp of the English language, which is pretty good on your part. Congratulations. Your life doesn’t suck as much as it could.
I’m writing this because there seems to be an absurd amount of open letters going around recently. It’s like a plague.
Conceptually, the open letter is what it is. It serves a purpose. It’s a decent outlet for expressing opinions of one sort or another. Some of them have seen a considerable amount of success at rallying people for a cause for at least a small period of time – say, from finishing reading the open letter to getting up to open the door for the pizza guy.
However, this shit’s getting out of hand.
This so called open letters are getting wayyy too specific.
Look at this.
And this one.
Look at this. Three open letters, and they are addressed to 4 or 5 people and an abstract concept. For shame.
So this one’s for you, you. This one’s for those many, many thousands of people who have never fallen under an open letter category, from me, the random whoever-I-am on the internet. Tell your sisters and your brothers that you’ve been addressed in a letter from the magical internet and have been called to action to keep being a good person.
And if you’re not a good person, then stop what you’re doing and re-evaluate yourself, fool.
Let this open letter inspire you to, at least for the next five minutes, be a productive member of society. Go ahead. Do a kind act for somebody. Learn an interesting fact and tell somebody about it. Like a Youtube video.
At least go shower, if it’s been a while since you’ve done that.
I have a shameful confession, internet.
Driving A Big Van Around Makes Me Feel Like A Badass.
This story-that-isn’t-a-story all started today when I was catering a big event for the University That Shall Not Be Named. It’s graduation weekend here in Westeros, and I’m working approximately 43,890 hours (okay, like 19) setting up all the super boozy receptions for the wittle 2013’s.
Because there are so many events this weekend, my catering company had to rent a few MASSIVE Penske’s to fit all the food for events that range from 50 to 2000 people. I was only doing an event today that hosted about 150, but all the normal sized vans were gone, so I got to take out a medium massive van.
I don’t know if it’s pure Napoleon complex, or the challenge of steering the thing, or machismo (reasons why I’m single #36 – I use the term machismo to describe myself) or what, but I LOVE driving the Penske. When I pull up to some little lowrider Prius or a tricked-out ’94 Volvo, I just look over at the other driver and think to myself, vroom vroom, biznatch.
Also fabulous? Driving pretty much wherever I want. I have started many a shift by chasing hapless college students down the narrow sideways in the university. I even invented a game called How Close Can I Get To This Guy With The Earphones Before He Notices Me (pro tip – very close).
Today I got to back out of a sideway into the middle of a busy intersection with a van full of food AND NO ONE SAID SQUAT TO ME. They just sat there in their inferior modes of transportation silently praying that I wasn’t going to hit them with the ass of my 16 foot truck.
Obviously I didn’t.
Because I’m a badass.
Continued from here.
“So anyways, how did the rebellion or uprising or coup or whatever go?” I asked.
“Oh, you know how it is,” Casandra-3 said wearily, even though it was obvious to both of us that I had no idea how it was. “One minute you’re traveling to Dimension-5 on a routine terrorist squashing mission, the next minute you’re tracking the lead suspect in an assassination attempt on your transdimensional-5th self through the chaos of space and time.”
“I see how that could be trying,” I said in response.
“I was hot on his trail in Dimension-23 when David Benetar gave me the slip, and now I’m somewhat at a loss, to be honest.”
“That’s funny you should be chasing a David Benetar,” I said, getting up to pour myself another cup of coffee. “That was my ex-boyfriend’s name.”
I heard a shattering sound as Casandra-3 dropped her coffee mug onto the floor.
“Shit!” I exclaimed, startled. “Could you at least pretend to try not to break everything in my house?”
“David Benetar was here?” Casandra-3 hissed at me.
“My ex, yeah,” I replied, sitting back down at the table, “but I’m sure it’s probably not the same David Benetar.”
“What did he look like?” Casandra-3 asked.
“Tallish, blonde, grey eyes? We broke up two months ago.” I said.
“Do you have a picture?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s not your guy.”
“Humor me. There can’t be that many tallish, blonde, grey eyed David Benetars running around.”
“Oh really, because there’s apparently thirty-seven of us,” I replied, but I went to get my computer anyways.
David Benetar popped up immediately in my Facebook search bar.
“Stalking your ex on Facebook is a little sad, don’t you think,” Casandra-3 snorted.
I clicked on his profile picture, which was a close-up of his big, doofus-y grin and his deep dimples.
“Is there a picture of him shirtless on here?”
I mindlessly clicked through 4 times without waiting for the images to upload. Casandra-3 mercifully ignored this.
The picture showed him standing on a mountaintop after a long hike. He wasn’t a very muscular guy, but he liked to show off the large tattoo splashed across his chest.
“That’s the guy. Dammit, 37! You dated this asshole?”
“I’ve had worse,” I said defensively. “Besides, he makes a really decent pie.”
I should preface this by stating that I have, in face, been punched in the face more than once. I was a bit of a scrappy middle schooler.
However, this particular story distinguishes itself from the crowd because I not only got punched in the face, but I also lost a ski race and broke a tooth and got broken up with on the same day.
Needless to say, it was not a very good day.
It all started the first week of my freshman year of high school. I was outside after school one day enjoying the sunshine when a scruffy looking kid in those weird baggy chain pants and a choker necklace pointed at me and declared that I was his new best friend.
At the time I was shy and had weird hair and was chunky and had a penchant for suede sweatpants. I basically did what any introvert would do – I ran away.
Kudos to the boy, however, because he chased me down and to this day he is one of my closest friends, although he’s look outgrown the scruffy skater boy look. I refer to him as Barney Stinson.
Yet I digress. Barney and I became close friends, and on January 20th, 2005, we made out on a chairlift.
From that point on we were the high school equivalent of a couple until February 14th, 2005. Valentine’s day.
I can’t exactly remember why Barney and I broke up, although it probably had a lot to do with the fact that we were 15 and had no idea how relationships worked other than kissing sometimes and holding hands in the hall and writing each other stupid notes to put into each other’s lockers. This was before Facebook, so I didn’t even get to change my status, although I’m betting there was a Myspace equivalent.
But Barney Stinson isn’t the point of the story anyways.
Barney Stinson is the reason I was upset on Valentine’s day, which, although it was a Monday, I had a ski race on. Because I was upset, I performed worse than I usually did in GS, which was my favorite event.
I scuffed it badly enough that I was just on the end of the flip 30.
(Basically, in racing, you always get two runs. The first run is timed and ranked, and the lowest 30 times get “flipped” in order for the second run, so that the quickest time runs 30th and the 30 best time runs first. You get it. It’s not that important anyways. Shutting up.)
Just before my second run, a boy (who for the life of me I can’t remember) whom I knew came over to wish me good luck and punched me in the face.
Yes. You read that correctly.
He punched me in the face with his ski pole still in his hand.
And then he skied away.
Now, I honestly can’t explain why this happened or what was going on in his head or whether or not it was an accident, because I was too busy spitting out sections of my canine to be super concerned about it, and I didn’t really have time to think about it anyways, because it was my turn to race.
The second time around I actually placed 3rd, but it still wasn’t enough to podium, which quite frankly was okay with me because at that point the adrenaline was wearing off and I was in a significant amount of pain anyways.
Had I thought about it at the time, I would probably have hunted the kid down and asked him what happened that day. I’m about 75% positive it was an accident.
I also find it weird that I don’t remember who it was. You’d think that that would be something you wouldn’t forget.
High school, right?
Dear Yogis –
The weather here is finally getting warmer, which means that for whatever reason, the yoga clothes in the studio are starting to get shorter.
For some of y’all, however, there’s no more fabric to get rid of, short of just taking your clothes off.
I realize, as a yoga instructor, that I get to see my students in some compromising positions, and that there is a difference between true ignorance and willful ignorance in regards to yogic clothing mishaps. Yes, sometimes it’s hard to tell whether or not a pair of yoga pants are going to betray you in a wide legged forward fold before you buy them. Yes, sometimes you have no laundry and you need to put on a black pair of underwear under your light pink pants.
However, please, please stop coming into class with cotton short shorts on, because ladies, in some poses, your naughty bits are NOT covered up.
As much as it may feel good to get a bit of a breeze going on down there, everybody else is super grossed out, and honestly, if you saw yourself, you’d be super embarrassed.
This goes for men as well. Those long coverage basketball shorts WILL ride up, fellas. There are some dangling bits you have that are compromised by some of the more constricting positions we yogis like to do, anyways, so a little preventive underwear action will go for miles.
Accidents happen. I know. I have personally had a Janet Jackson style nip slip in the middle of a 200 person workshop. Important yoga people saw my right boob.
Do understand, however, that there’s a difference between an accident and having about 3 inches too little fabric.
Don’t despair, yogis.
There is hope.
It’s called spandex compression shorts.
With a little forward thinking, we can end this yoga flashing epidemic.
Together, we can restrict yoga class nudity to those people who elect to be nude for that sort of thing (nude yoga classes are a real thing, if you’re into that. I am not.).
This has been a Public Service Announcement.
Thank you for reading.
If you’re paying any attention to this blog, you may notice I’ve already mentioned mi Madre in quite a few posts.
This is because my mother is a badass.
She’s a hardworking, yogatastic, doesn’t take no for an answer kind of woman. She’s a studio owner, a dog lover, a chef, a gardening enthusiast, and very, very picky about the amount of cranberry juice in her cosmopolitans.
Mamma Mia is a moving target, essentially.
I love her.
I’m going to go hang out with her now.
Have you ever done something stupid, looked at yourself in the mirror, and thought, I am the reason why we can’t have nice things?
I have, internet. Many a time.
Today I broke the top of a porcelain flour container we’ve had since the dawn of time.
On the plus side, we still have a large quantity of peanut butter cookies.
On the negative side, when I say I have butter fingers I’m being literal, because I was making cookies and I’d just greased the pan. So that was intelligent.
I have a long, long history of breaking things, internet. I have put my hand through three of the several doors in our house with glass windows (design flaw), one of them twice.
I still remember in spine tingling, cringe-inducing details the time when I was over at a friend’s house as a youngster and I broke one of the plates that was hanging on the wall in the bathroom. I’d closed the door and ran my hand over the wall looking for a light switch in the dark. Smart.
Although both my mother and my friend’s mom ran over and asked what happened, I insisted on telling them that the plate had totally been broken before I’d gone in there.
Liar liar pants on fire.