Dear 1-800-FLOWERS,

[photo via jackie-dee]

Dear 1-800-FLOWERS,

I'd had some bad experiences with a couple of local florists, so I thought maybe going with a corporate giant might be more reliable. Oh, how wrong I was. So wrong. When someone's birthday is on a Tuesday, they should get their flowers on a Tuesday. It's now 3:22pm on Wednesday, and the flowers have still not arrived. You suck.

Thanks for ruining someone's birthday,
Anna

UPDATE 4:03pm: They issued a full refund and a $20 gift certificate. And they say they will still deliver the flowers. WE'LL SEE, 1-800-FLOWERS. WE'LL SEE.

Dear Whoever Searched for Our Blog with This Term,

Dear Whoever Searched for Our Blog with This Term,

Please never come back. Gross.

Love,
Everyone

Dear G Train,

[photo via eyetwist]

Dear G Train,

Some people call you the "Get Raped Train," which I don't think is fair. I have never been raped on (or by) you. I prefer the term "Christmas Train," because a) your sign is green, like a Christmas tree and b) you are always a surprise! Will you run to the end of the line? I NEVER KNOW, G TRAIN.

Thinking it over, though, G Train, you are more like an abusive relationship. You do something really, really sweet and nice, like get me all the way to Robin's house in, like, basically no time at all, and then you go and fuck it up by not running to Astoria. "I should have seen this coming," I tell myself. "G Train never runs to Astoria." But I keep deluding myself, G Train, waiting, hoping for the day when I will be able to get from my house to Brigid's house without 2 transfers. I'm starting to think that day will never come.

But when it does, you know I'll come running back to you. Damn you.

Anna

Dear School Crossing Guard at the Divided Highway Near my House,

[pic via Let There Be More Light]

Dear School Crossing Guard at the Divided Highway Near my House,

I love that you are so dedicated to your job that even when the group of people crossing your street consists entirely of 20-something hipsters and 40-something Polish immigrants, you still march out and hold up your little stop sign. Mad props.

Reflectively,
Anna

Dear Reply All,

Dear Reply All,

In a lot of ways, you're like fire. Used appropriately, you can be useful.
fire : cooking :: reply-all : arranging transportation

Or amusing.
fire : fireworks :: reply-all : 70-email chain with your laydeez about your amazing lives

But used inappropriately, you are almost as dangerous as fire, Reply All.
fire : Peshtigo Fire* :: reply all : accidentally including everyone on an email with salacious information

But you have one thing fire does not, Reply All, and that is the ability to make me inappropriately angry when people do not know how to use you. That doesn't make sense, Reply All, because the result of someone using fire incorrectly? Could be fatal. The result of someone using Reply All incorrectly? Is just me fuming at my desk, reading emails that do not/never will pertain to me. Apparently wasting my time is worse than arson. Thanks for teaching me that, Reply All.

Please don't write back. Seriously, don't.
Anna

*more deaths than the Chicago fire, bitches. They were on the SAME DAY, and of COURSE Chicago gets remembered and poor Peshtigo is lost to the sands of time.

Dear Shiny Thing Beyonce is Wearing in this Picture,

[photo via jezebel]

Dear Shiny Thing Beyonce is Wearing in this Picture,

I want you on me. Now.

Love,
Anna

Dear Reader(s) of LTT,

[photo courtesy of The Master Shake Signal]

Dear Reader(s) of LTT,

I am so sorry for the silent treatment I've been showing you over the past couple of months. If it weren't for Anna, we wouldn't even have a site anymore. I can name any number of excuses which include (but are not limited to) my insane job that keeps me ACTUALLY working during the day (unacceptable), training for a half-marathon which leaves me away from my computer, and my nighttime job as my alter-ego and superhero KAT GIRL saving fashion-challenged hipsters everywhere. But this would be lame, as excuses are for wimps. I will say this. I'm sorry. I've missed you. And I'm never letting go again.

Hugs and kisses,
Kat

Dear 213 Woodpoint Road, Apartment 2,

Dear 213 Woodpoint Road, Apartment 2,

Let's be real here: you were a shithole. Sure, all our friends said it was "cute" and "quirky" and "had character," but the truth is that you sucked. Why did we have two different entrances, meaning I had to go out into the hallway to get to the bathroom? Why was one window in the living room blocked by the building next door? Why did the ceiling in the kitchen fall down one time and almost crush* my roommate? Some questions will never be answered. I'm glad we have left you behind.

But you know what? I will never be sad I lived in you, because somehow Craigslist Jesus brought me the best roommates in all of New York City. Also, you were very close to Atlantic Attic, where I have purchased upwards of 20 dresses. So that was good too.

Peace the fuck out,
Anna

*ok, she wasn't in there, but she could have been! She is frequently in there.

Dear Greek Barbecue Sauce,

[photo via kirstiefuller]

Dear Greek Barbecue Sauce,

When I requested "all the sauces" with my order of chicken tenders last night at my favorite diner, I assumed I would probably get honey mustard, ranch, and barbecue. What arrived were the first two sauces and something that just looked like mayonnaise, but turned out to be Caesar dressing (which, by the by, is gross on chicken tenders).

"I'm not particularly enamored of this sauce," I said to the overly-friendly server.
"Do you want...THE BACKUP SAUCE?" he asked.
"Backup sauce? I asked for all the sauces!"
"This one is special."

He returned moments later, stirring a small bowl of what appeared to be French dressing.

"Did he make that sauce?" asked one of my dining companions, incredulous at and possibly disgusted by the possibility.

"I'll let you figure out what it is," the server said as he set it down in front of us.
Sweet and sour? No.
French dressing? No.
Barbecue-like...but no.

"It's Greek barbecue sauce. There's honey in it," he informed us after a time.*

Greek barbecue sauce, if you really ARE Greek barbecue sauce, you are delicious. I don't actually care much for regular barbecue sauce, but you have just enough tangy sweetness to satisfy this honey-mustard devotee. I'll make sure next time, you won't be the backup sauce - you'll be the only sauce.

Love,
Anna

*Note: a Google search returned only one recipe for Greek barbecue sauce, and I see copious amounts of red wine, but no honey.

Dear Bluefly Accessory Wall,

Dear Bluefly Accessory Wall,

I feel like I'd just started getting to know you when you were ripped away from me and replaced with the Macy's Accessory Wall. Frankly, this makes me woeful. I am woeful, Johnny. Bluefly is a much more hilarious name, and Macy's already has so many sponsorships. Taking the Accessory Wall from you and giving it to Macy's is like ripping a piece of candy from a poverty-stricken child's hands and presenting it to the CEO of Hershey's.

So I'm building a memorial to you in my new bedroom. I hope you like it. There will be many shelves. What you see above is a start.

Auf wiedersehen,
Anna

Dear Infinity,

[photo via John Kroll]

Dear Infinity,

Yo, I know you're, like, infinite and shit, I know that's like your thing or whatever, but seriously, it's harshing my buzz. Try not to be so vast for a second. God.

Love you forever,
Anna

Dear Dave and Buster's,

[pic via maddogmarko]

Dear Dave and Buster's,

Until I moved to New York, I had heard of you only in the vaguest way - that you were something like a Chuck E. Cheese for adults (or those who, at least legally, count as adults for purposes of drinking). I considered the pros and cons of such a place:

Pros:

• Beer
• Video games
• Possibility of hilarious prizes

Cons:

• The type of person who would frequent such an establishment

In this case, I determined that the cons outweighed the pros, and decided that I would not, in fact, enjoy you, Dave and Buster's. I imagined overgrown fratboy types saying things like "Broseph, you really killed it on that last Fast and the Furious brand video game" while giving each other sweaty high-fives upon getting the hot waitress' number. Gross. Not my scene.

So when a friend's birthday party took place there recently, I was skeptical. Said friend is a theater person, and as such the invitees were also primarily theater people, but still: who else was going to be at Dave and Buster's? On a Monday? In Times Fucking Square?

The answer: a wide variety of demographic segments, all there just to hang out and have a good time. A surprising number of kids. We had some nice moments with some trivia-game-loving mini gangstas. The staff were surprisingly nice and helpful, considering the shit they likely must put up with. All in all, not too shabby.

So Dave and Buster's, you're okay in my book. But your $9 beers have got to go, broseph.

Laters,
Anna

Dear Downstairs Neighbor,

[photo courtesy altemark]

Dear Downstairs Neighbor,

I'm sorry that I walked barefoot on my floor last night after midnight, and that the floor's squeaking disturbed your slumber.

But I regret to inform you-- when you spend the afternoon shouting the word 'butt-crack' repeatedly through a megaphone, you relinquish all rights to issue noise complaints.

Yours in Christ,
The Girl Upstairs

Dear Baby Wants Candy,

[photo via ari_nyc]

Dear Baby Wants Candy,

I know it's kind of wrong for me to love you. You go against every tenet of musical theater writing I have learned in the BMI Workshop. Your rhymes are lame (love/above? Come on, y'all), sometimes they're slant rhymes, and sometimes there are no rhymes at all. And sometimes you are a little too self-aware of yourselves and that you're doing improv.

But you know what, BWC? You are still FUCKING AWESOME. You are all expert improvisers and good-to-mediocre* singers. Every time I see you, I laugh so hard my face hurt and my abs feel like I just did the ab rotation I used to do when I was briefly on the rowing team in the fall of 1999. When I can see a show that starts with a chorus of people on a banana boat and ends with a human-monkey war with the monkey side being led by Richard Pryor (who was in disguise on the banana boat for a number of years), I know that all is right with the world. Also, you have a totally sweet live band.

Never stop, Baby Wants Candy. Keep on musical improv-ing.

With guilty pleasure,
Anna

*this is not meant as a slight, only as a statement of fact. In this case, I'd rather watch a good improviser who can't sing very well than a good singer who can't improvise very well.

Dear Irregular Choice Shoes,

Dear Irregular Choice Shoes,

I was first introduced to you many moons ago when my girl Jessica worked at a relatively upscale shoe store and gave me a sweet, sweet discount on some terrycloth floral print pumps (which I subsequently broke the heel off of during a particularly wild dance party, but later got repaired). Your styles, in a nutshell, boggle my mind. You occupy a misty grey area, like the moors of Scotland, between shoes that are "cute," those that are "fashion-forward" and those that are "batshit crazy." I thought the terrycloth floral print pumps were bonkers. It turns out that compared with the rest of your line, they are like the orthopedic polio shoe my Grandma Luella wore before she died.

Cases in point:

Okay, this little baby, named Polly Picked a Pepper, is pretty much adorable. Cute but bold color, sweet detailing, interesting heel, etc. We start to see the cuckoo-bananas creeping in with the combination of a red shoe and a lavender flower. Not a combo you see often.
Slow Descent to Insanity Scale Rating: 2 (chewing your hair)

Cookie Green Blythe is the next stop on the Crazy Express. Still very cute - almost too cute, almost Japanese kawaii cute - but fashion-y enough that if you wore them, everyone would undoubtedly comment on them and their almost-a-wedge-but-not-quite-a-wedge-thank-god- because-I-hate-wedges heels. Also, they have a print, which is weird, but not unwelcome, in a shoe.
Slow Descent to Insanity Scale Rating: 4 (planning an elaborate wedding in your head for you and the cute guy across the train)

This boot, with the relatively pedestrian name of Parrot Talk, is hot pink and has a fucking parrot on it. And yet, in the world of Irregular Choice, this is, like, what your mom wears. To church.
Slow Descent to Insanity Scale Rating: 5 (feeling bugs crawling on your arms though there are no bugs)

This is what I'll be wearing in my upcoming production of Tartuffe's Zig Zag Can Can Extravaganza.
Slow Descent to Insanity Scale Rating: 7 (lengthy conversations with imaginary people)

My luchadora name is "La Defenestradora," or "she who defenestrates." These, dubbed Wrestlemania, are La Defenestradora's shoes, hands down. Note: these are not being sold as a costume. These are being sold as actual shoes you wear in your life, like to the drugstore and stuff. They're actually listed under the "Trainer" heading, implying that you could rock the elliptical in these. I'm not gonna lie: I'd do it, till the sequins fell off. But still: bonkers.
Slow Descent to Insanity Scale Rating: 8 (lengthy conversations with imaginary monkeys and/or unicorns)

I. Wait. What? There's a rope. And a triangle? For a heel. Secret Sailor, I have nothing to say to you.
Slow Descent to Insanity Scale Rating: 9 (lengthy conversations with Bilbo Baggins, who you call your "financial adviser" and have on "speed dial," though your "cell phone" is actually a banana)

Look, all I'm saying, Irregular Choice, is that while every single shoe you carry is some level of nuts, I still love all of them. And if that makes me crazy too, well, I don't wanna be sane.

I'm head over heels for you,
Anna

p.s. I'm usually about a US8-8.5/Eur39 in your shoes. Just, you know, in case you feel like sending me any.

Dear Letters To Things,

Dear Letters To Things,


What's going on? You appear like a bright shining star in the firmament of things on the internet that distract me from work and then without warning you barely update. What am I supposed to do... actually type up invoices for me boss? Christ, Letters To Things... do you know how boring that is?

Come back. The interwebs miss you.

Typed in an act of procrastination,
Deborah

Dear Deborah,

It's summer. We're all just so hot. That's our story, and we're sticking to it.

We still love you,
Letters to Things

p.s. Yes, we know how boring that is.

Dear Passion Fruit Sorbet Intermezzo Palate-Cleansing Course,

[photo via my camera]

Dear Passion Fruit Sorbet Intermezzo Palate-Cleansing Course I Had at a Fancy Wedding,

You are the epitome of Fanciness. And also of Deliciousness.

Please be in every meal I eat.

Love,
Anna

Dear Crazy HOTT Gym guy,

[photo from google image...but trust me, my guy does not look this douche-y]

This post is part of People Who Should Date Us Mondays.

Dear Crazy HOTT Gym guy,


We have been going to the same gym for so long, I feel like we've basically been dating for months. But alas, I am the only one who knows about it. I really think it is time that we take our relationship to the next level...reality.

I have been with you through so much...and so many hairstyles. Through your original ponytail, when I first fell in love with you. Till now with your short crop of adorable brown locks. I even stood by you through that weird half-mullet thing you tried. I was there!

I don't know what to do. I have written you TWO missed connections on Craigslist. I have awkwardly stared you down for minutes at a time. I've even almost bumped into you. Do I actually have to talk to you for you to ask me out?!

I've done my part. Now it's time for you to do yours.


Meet you at the smoothie bar,
Kat

Dear Lindt Chocolate,

[photo via fenchurch!]

Dear Lindt Chocolate,

I think my husband is becoming suspicious of our affair. How does the usually clueless one finally have one? It could be the bag of truffles hidden in my undies drawer; or maybe he discovered the truffles in the Green Giant Brussel Sprouts bag in the freezer; or maybe he's noticed my jeans hugging my ass more tightly.

Whatever it is, I think he's on to us! We must be more discreet in our liaisons. . . meet you on the back porch at midnight?

I adore you and don't know if I can ever live without you.

Evil Eva

Dear flies that have made a home in our office,

[photo by hessiebell]

Dear flies that have made a home in our office,


You are disgusting! How the hell did you get in here? Why are you plaguing us?

I bought a new trash can with a tight fitting lid. I have taken out the recycling. I have even cleaned my desk area with Clorox wet wipes. What more can I do?!

Look, I don't want to kill you. I don't even want to hurt you. I just cannot deal with constantly having to bat you out of my face. Perhaps a truce? I know the office across the hall has an exceptionally messy kitchen with many goodies for you to feast on. What do you say?


Please buzz off,
Kat

Dear Daffy's,

[photo via x-eyedblonde]

Dear Daffy's,

When I first saw you in Herald Square, I took your tagline - "Bargains for Millionaires" - to mean that you were a designer discount store, thus meaning that a "bargain" would be a $4000 dress marked down to $1000. So I didn't visit you for a long time. But then, one fateful rainy day, I stopped in to see if you had umbrellas. "Surely the umbrellas will be reasonably-priced," I thought, "even if nothing else is."

And a whole new world opened up to me.

Sure, some of the things you have are cheaply made and weird. Sure, a lot of them are from brands no one has ever heard of. But if one is very, very patient, and very, very lucky, sometimes a diamond will be nestled among the cubic zirconia of fashions. Among the scores I have made there are: a pair of over-the-knee burgundy striped socks; a pair of pseudo-ballet shoes in a sensible brown; and a delightful "I'm going to buy a cardigan because it's cold but OMG this cardigan is actually really cute and I wear it all the time now" cardigan.

But yesterday, Daffy's, you made my heart sing.

On the rack, the dress looked perfect. A color I adore, a length that's flattering, a silhouette that anyone can wear, a brand that people actually know. But it was marked as a size that I have not worn since before I developed a huge set of boobs (thanks, Grandma). Still, I had faith. I tried it on...and I died of happiness. And then was resurrected (also by the happiness). I dropped just $40 and now I'm ready for all the weddings I have to go to this summer. Your 18 locations in NY, NJ, and PA are a wonderland of bargains.

Bless you, Daffy's. Blaffy's.
Anna

Dear Garnier Nutrisse Chocolate Caramel Level 3 Permanent Creme Haircolor,

[photo via drugstore.com]

Dear Garnier Nutrisse Chocolate Caramel Level 3 Permanent Creme Haircolor,

Look. I know part of this is my fault. I should know by now - after having dyed my hair various colors since the age of 12 when I convinced my mom to let me get Clairol GLINTS semi-permanent haircolor to go black "just for Halloween" - that my (naturally brown, rather boring) hair desperately wants to be red. It really does. If the box says "brown," it will turn out red. If the box says "golden," it will turn out red. If the box says "red," "auburn," cherry," or any other term that might actually be red, well shit: I'm gonna look like Julianne Moore, except not luminously beautiful. The only words that will keep my hair from turning out some shade of red are "black" and "peroxide."

So really I blame myself here for the redness that happened when I used you. But the lady on the box looked like she was having so much fun being a Medium Golden Mahogany Brunette that I couldn't resist. Plus, I was bored. At least it's not like that one time I tried to go blue. Pro tip: don't trust crazily-colored dye at Walgreens. Those kids at Hot Topic really do know what they're doing. Let them help you. Manic Panic. Forever.

Anyway, Garnier Nutrisse Chocolate Caramel Level 3 Permanent Creme Haircolor, we're still cool. I don't look crazy, I just don't look as lightened-up as I'd hoped. Next time we have a date, let's make it a three-way with my old flame peroxide.

Love,
Anna

Dear Job,

[photo by mikecolvin82]

Dear Job,


You can suck it.


Love,
Kat

Dear Mammatus Clouds,

[photo via CoreBurn]

Dear Mammatus Clouds,

You are named "mammatus" because you look like boobs. Okay, udders, technically, but still: boobs. But I think you look like the end of the world. By the transitive property, that would mean that boobs are the end of the world, which I can say with some authority is patently untrue. Please get a better name more suited to your end-of-the-world-ness, like Rapture Formations, or Massive Global Explosion Puffs, or Michael Bay Wins an Oscar Clouds.

Apocalyptically,
Anna

Dear 10-Year High School Reunion,

[photo via Dean Terry]

Dear 10-Year High School Reunion,

I knew going in that you were not going to be exactly what I wanted you to be, which was some combination of Grosse Pointe Blank and Romy and Michele's High School Reunion, which I guess means that I would make out with a hitman and wear a minidress made of a hologram.

However, I think I really did my best in making this as cliche an experience as possible by:
- graciously gloating about living in New York
- getting extremely drunk
- making out in a car
- depending on my two best friends to take care of me like they always do

So, thanks for being held at a bar. See you in ten years!!

Stay sweet,
Anna

Dear Rad New Grey Boots I Got From My Girl Lauren,

Dear Rad New Grey Boots I Got From My Girl Lauren,

You know I love you. I think that's fairly apparent, since I have worn you basically every day since Lauren granted me with your presence. But guys - we have to talk about your slippery soles. It's great that you're flat and all, since I walk a lot every day, but the benefits of the flatness are somewhat negated when your heels are so slippery that they cause me, for no reason, to slide around on a regular city sidewalk and end up ass over teakettle on 2nd Avenue, leaving me with a scrape on my knee that you might normally see on a tomboyish and/or clumsy eight-year-old.

So when I take sandpaper to your slippery soles, Rad Grey Boots, don't be offended. It will only bring us closer.

You have "suede" my heart,
Anna

Dear June,

[photo via nicola wilcox]

Dear June,

You just can't seem to crack 68 degrees, can you? It was 57 degrees when I woke up this morning to go to work. It’s 65 degrees now. Also it’s been raining since I can remember. You are really affecting my life for the BAD, June. I can’t work on my tan, I don’t know what to wear, I can’t sit outdoors when I am dining out, and I am as moody as all get out. Also I wear my green Hunter wellies like every day- cuz I just assume you’re gonna rain, June. I don't even check weather.com anymore and THAT AIN’T COOL. Even April gave us a couple of days of 90 degrees! What's up witchu, June?!?!? Hormones?!?!?!

All I'm gonna say is that June 21st marks the first day of summer otherwise known as the summer solstice.

ARE YOU READY, JUNE?!?!?!?

Warm Wishes,
Jackie

Dear Rain,

[photo by jhorn1]

Dear Rain,


You're gonna need to calm it down.


Thanks,
Kat

Dear Choward's Lemon,

[photo via bestbuycandy]

Dear Choward's Lemon,

I was aware of your bizarrely-flavored cousin, Choward's Violet (both "mints," though they are really just pastilles, and gum) via an old-timey-candy searching expedition I took once to find Black Jack chewing gum (licorice flavored, incidentally, and surprisingly good to me, someone who does not typically care for black licorice). Your violet relative is good. I was not, however, aware that you, the lemon version, even existed, until I saw you the other day when I was buying a $4 umbrella due to a sudden cloudburst. "Lemon Choward's?" I said to my wet self. "This is just the thing for a rainy day."

Or any day, it turns out. You are just tart enough to be lemony, but just sweet enough to be candy. Just hard enough to suck on, but just bite-able enough to bite through when I inevitably get bored of sucking on you. Plus, you look old-timey enough that I feel like I'm in a History Channel re-enactment of, like, a murder at a candy store. Which I think would be fun.

Keep on tangin',
Anna

Dear Spa Castle,

[photo via international friendly]

Dear Spa Castle,

Let's be honest... we've experienced so much together that... really... there's not much that we can add with paltry words. But I will try.

I knew from the moment that I was instructed to store my shoes in my very own shoe locker, opened with my magnetic wristwatch key, that we were going to share something special together. After donning our uniforms and making our way up to the 3rd floor pools and jacuzzis, I could tell there was something different about you. Was it your dozen different massaging jet setups spread across four different pools? Was it the giant yellow mushroom that rained down warm water, seeming more at home in an LSD hallucination than a family spa water park? Or maybe it was the bright green Gatorade jacuzzi "event tub", brimming with warm water and the slightest hint of aromatherapy? The answer is yes, yes, and yes.

When I felt the firm pressure of the giant water jets beat the stress out of my neck and shoulders, it became clear: this wasn't some cheap date. This was the real thing. You were not fucking around, and neither was I. And yet, it was the gentle trickle of water down the back in front of a flatscreen displaying a communist-themed Spongebob Squarepants that showed me how your tenderness could relax every muscle in my back. Your dumplings were amply sized, and delicious.

And then the saunas... I've never experienced such heat, such passion. I could feel your hot breath leech the toxins out of my very skin. It was the kind of heat that had me sweating more than I had in recent memory, and not the gross humidity sweat of New York City summer, but the sweat of a burning cleanse. It was a rollercoaster ride of temperatures, from the 150-degree colortherapy sauna to the 55 degree, ice-walled "Ice Land" sauna, to the fantastically sweltering 187 degree Loess sauna.

But the piece de resistance came in the men's- and women's-only "naked rooms". There, I went from the near-scalding hot bath to the cool bath, enthralling me in the drastic temp change. From the cool tub into the Jasmine tub, back to the cool tub, and then into a tub with jets to soothe the back one more time. Finally, a few minutes in the nude hot sauna to get out the last of the toxins, and then an exfoliating shower, followed by a shave and shampoo at an ingenious half shower/half sink, all capped off with a complimentary toothbrush and toothpaste, to give me that "just cleaned" feeling.

Usually sharing something this primal makes me feel dirty (in a good way), but I left you feeling cleaner than I had in... ages.Hopefully we'll be able to do this again, someday...



-Charlie.

Dear Sassy Office Gay,

[photo via bestweekever]

Dear Sassy Office Gay,

Occasionally I like to imagine myself as the leading lady in a cliched romantic comedy, as I'm sure many ladies do from time to time. This is probably unhealthy in a number of ways, but I don't care about that. That is not what this letter is about.

One thing that a Romantic Comedy Lady often has is a Wise Sassy Friend. Now, these friends are pretty much two-dimensional stock characters. They speak primarily in catchphrases, say "girlfriend" a lot, and only show up when the RCL needs some sass injected - and quick. The Wise Sassy Friend in a big, Hollywood, white-ladies-targeted romantic comedy tends to take one of two forms: the Wise Sassy Non-White* Lady, or the Wise Sassy Gay.

Now, I have actual non-white lady friends in my life, and I have actual gay friends in my life, and I assure you, these people, while occasionally sassy, and usually wise, bear little resemblance to the Wise Sassy Stereotypes you see in the movies, because they are real people who have multiple dimensions and shit. Which is where you come in, Sassy Office Gay.

I only see you at work, and even then, not often, as you work on the other side of the floor. But every time I see you, you call me "sweetie" and compliment my outfit. Today, you told me you were going to "steal my dress and wear it." Because I only see you occasionally, every interaction I have with you is only a tiny window into your actual personality, so you are more two-dimensional than my actual Wise Sassy Friends. I feel like if I broke up with my boyfriend (not that I have one, but I would, obviously, in the romantic comedy), you would be like "girlfriend, don't even worry about it! You're too fierce to be sad! Work it!" and then we would go get a manicure on our lunch break or something.

I know you have actual friends and more to your life than the secondary or tertiary role in my imaginary movie. But can't I still pretend sometimes?

Work it,
Anna

*almost always Black or Latina, only Asian if the filmmakers claim to be "breaking stereotypes"

Dear Mr. Clean Magic Eraser,

[photo courtesy pirate johnny]

Dear Mr. Clean Magic Eraser,

I know I'm late to the party, but DAMN. You are a remarkable piece of equipment. I am an occasional bathtub cleaner at best (living alone encourages my Pigpen-like qualities), and decided to try you out last night.

Holy shit, man.

You wiped away soap scum and those gross rings that you get around your shampoo bottles with ease. You took fucking RUST off the area around my faucet (very old fixtures). You demolished mold. I barely even had to scrub. And yet, somehow you didn't sear the flesh from my hand. I don't know what you are, or how you are. All I know is that you are amazing, and my bathtub will never be the same.

Thank you, Mr. Clean. I've always liked bald men.

Spotlessly yours,


Laura

Dear Boss,

I have to admit, when you came around asking us if we "preferred hard or squishy" my mind went a few places. But when you showed us the stress balls you were giving away, I had to laugh.

I appreciate the effort but seriously - if I was stressed I would NOT want to look at this creepy thing.

Next time I'll just take the 32 cents.

Um, Thanks?
Lauren

Dear Chris Pine,

[photo by the ether]

This post is part of People Who Should Date Us Mondays.

Dear Chris Pine,

There’s no other way to say it: you are dreamy. Is it your weirdly bright blue eyes? Or your half-cracked smile? At first, I found my attraction to you strange--I spent so many years thinking that no James Tiberius Kirk could ever be hot. Not that I have anything against William Shatner, I’m just saying I just don’t want to go to that particular place no man has gone before (to the best of my knowledge, anyway). I’m getting off topic.

You spend most of Star Trek getting the ever-living shit beat out of you, and though I’m not into BDSM or leather or anything (though not opposed to it, if that’s a thing for you), you do sport your black eyes with a sexy aplomb (yes, I went there) that I feel is unrivaled.

Last year, at San Diego Comic-Con, I was at a party where your co-stars Zachary Quinto and Simon Pegg made an appearance, and I’m worried/terrified you were there too, and I missed our only opportunity to have a “moment”. On the other hand, I was so stupid drunk by the end of the night, that I was trying to convince TV’s “Chuck” to date my friend Sana (I don’t remember that, btw) so maybe not running into you was a good thing. If you’re there this year, I’ll try and stay respectfully tipsy. For you.

You can kiss this green alien anytime…

-Charlie.

Dear Michael J Fox,

[image from the best ever]

This post is part of People Who Should Date Us Mondays.

Dear Michael J Fox,


Wow. I can't believe I'm here again. Writing to you. I spent the better part of age 7 writing to you weekly. Sending you drawings. And poems. And basically anything that I thought would lure you to me.

As for millions of young girls, Back to the Future changed my life and you were an integral part of that. Your boyish charm and carefree good looks hooked me. And the red, puffy vest. Oh that vest!

Now that I think about it, every guy I've been attracted to has had some resemblance to you. Maybe I've got some issues. But I'm willing to work through them. With you. In bed.

Call me!


I'm legal now,
Kat

Dear Neil Patrick Harris,

[photo courtesy tchuntfr]

This post is part of People Who Should Date Us Mondays.

Dear Neil Patrick Harris,

It speaks volumes about my life that I had a major, for-serious crush on you during your Doogie Howser, M.D. years. Super cute! Good at computers (or, at least, typing)! And a doctor to boot! Be still, my beating 9-year-old heart. At the time, it made sense because I wanted to be a doctor.

Now, it makes sense because you like dudes. Crushes on gay dudes are to theater-loving chicks as STIs are to the contestants of any MTV "dating" show: intense, frequent, and difficult to get rid of.

Look, I'm not saying I want to bone you. I mean, I do, but that won't work on a number of levels. Basically, when we go on a date, it will just consist of us being hilarious and doing a musical number at some point. Surprisingly, this is actually all I require of a date (boning is more than welcome, but optional). Suffice it to say: most dudes I date are just a little gay (or a lot gay).

This date is gonna be legen - wait for it - DARY.
Anna

Dear Right Ankle,

[photo courtesy OpenSkyMedia]

Dear Right Ankle,

I know we haven't always had the best relationship ever since that time I attempted to take ice skating lessons and the teacher basically told me not to bother. My friend's dad had to lace up my skates every time because my tiny, 8-year-old hands could not pull the laces tight enough to support your weaknesses.

But we powered through together, through the time I fell when I was showing my mom a dance I made up, through the time when I bit it on my rollerblades on André's street and was worried his crazy mom would come outside and see me writhing in pain on the ground, through the time when I ran too fast backstage and got a killer bruise. And I really thought we were doing ok.

So why you gotta waste my flavor by getting sprained after I did absolutely nothing sprain-worthy? I told a whole crowd of people that I sprained you in a bear fight because it sounded cooler than the truth, which is that I was literally turning around. You made a liar ou=t of me, Right Ankle.* But I'm still gonna be nice to you and wear that splint thing that looks like it's from the Civil War, and I hope this helps re-solidify our friendship.

The left one would never do this to me.
Anna

*not true...I was a liar long before this happened.

Dear Sick Day,

[photo by Timm.Greg]

Dear Sick Day,

I am not happy that I am sick, but I am happy that I took you. I have been following your sage "sick day" advice. I rested. I drank plenty of fluids. I even rested again. And you know what? I think you helped. Sick day, you are soooo smart.

I'll try not to barf on you,

Kat

Dear Craigslist,

Dear Craigslist,

I feel like you get a bad rap sometimes, what with the whole "Craigslist killer" thing, and the many dirty, dirty people trolling about for anonymous sex, and the notoriousness of roommates found on Craigslist being sketchy people who steal your rent money and use it for meth and then, whilst high on the rent-meth, kick a hole in your wall and drop food down into it, causing an unidentifiable, untraceable smell for all the residents of the apartment.

But Craigslist, I need to give you props. Because through you, I found the best roommates ever. Basically, they embody everything good about the world. When I get sick, one roommate says, "You know what will cure you? WHISKEY. Here, I have brought you some." When I come home and am tired and have to do my laundry, the other roommate says, "Oh, by the by, I just made an incredible fucking meal and there is so much of it! Please eat some." Then we all sit on the couch and laugh and laugh.

Craigslist, I love you forever.
Anna

Dear Huitlacoche,

[photo courtesy bkusler]

Dear Huitlacoche,

Huitlacoche, I have been intrigued by you for over a year, and have occasionally looked for you in bodegas that seemed like they might carry you. I looked around in the 3-aisle "Hispanic Foods" section of the Food Bazaar for a canned version of you, but with no luck. So when I walked past the new "auténtica cocina mexicana de Williamsburg" by my house and saw the taco de nopales, hongos y huitlacoche on the menu, I was READY.

Sometimes I wonder about the first person to have eaten a thing, like, in history. Like, who was the dude who saw lobsters and was like, "You know what might be delicious? THOSE THINGS. Let's trap them and feed them to our pigs.* Oh wait, no, let's also eat them ourselves." Or mussels, or mushrooms, or hot dogs, or any number of things that, in theory, sound super-gross, but turn out to be amazing.

But, you, Huitlacoche, are probably the king of Things That Sound (and Also Look) Gross But Are Actually Delicious. Reason number one: YOU ARE INFECTED CORN. You're the most basic foodstuff - the building block of the food chain of the New World - that has been INFECTED with a FUNGUS. It's like someone said, "Hey, do you want to eat this hamburger? The cow had cancer so it's extra good!!"

But somehow it works, Huitlacoche. And for that, I will always love you.

Besos,
Anna

*seriously, the pilgrims did this.

Dear G2 from the Makers of Gatorade,

[photo courtesy bea-t]

Dear G2 from the Makers of Gatorade,

I noticed that you were called "G2" in the drugstore when I went to pick up TheraFlu, Kleenex, and ramen noodles just now, but I chose to ignore it. My head is too congested to try to figure out what "G2" means and how it is related to regular Gatorade. I just wanted the electrolytes, okay? But then I got home, and it was revealed to me: you are low-calorie. How this is possible when your second ingredient is high fructose corn syrup (the first being WATER), I don't know. And you know what? I don't think I want to know. If I grow a second head in the next couple of days, I'll know why.

But you know what, G2? You're okay. You do taste a lot like the syrup that gets drizzled on a Hawaiian Shave Ice at Summerfest, but in my physically-compromised state, I am a-ok with that. I feel more hydrated already.

It is, in fact, in me.
Anna

Dear Universe,

[photo courtesy mishwad]

Dear Universe,

Okay, I get it. I must have done something really, really bad in a previous life. Maybe I was the guy who guillotined people in the French Revolution. Maybe I am Jack the Ripper reincarnated. Perhaps I poisoned people, laughed at single mothers and the elderly, or invented lucite. I messed up. I'm sorry. But please, for the love of all that is holy, do you have to keep making me run into my ex and his awful new girlfriend every other day? I might have been bad in a past life, but I've changed. I'm an organ donor! I like puppies! I tell people that the camera adds 10 pounds and that to me they've never looked thinner. Please do me a solid and stop all these chance encounters. It's not "Serendipity." It's not cute. Shut it down.

Thanks in advance,
Laura

Dear Totino's Party Pizza,

[photo courtesy cafemama]

Dear Totino's Party Pizza,

We have a past, present, and, as far as i'm concerned, a future. When I was in college, without easy access to an oven, I had to forego baking you to a crispy golden crust and settled for nuking you in my roommate's microwave for three minutes. I grew to love you soft, against manufacturer's warning.

Then, in grad school, when I lived in an apartment with an oven, I renewed my love for you in your natural state: baked crispy. Back then I'd go get you and eat you the same night; but now that I live at home, I have access to not only a microwave and oven, but a deep freezer. I have recently learned that you are quite possibly the only frozen food on earth that can be caked unecognizable in freezerburn and consumed one year after purchase, and still taste as fresh as the day you were (orignally) made. Thank you is an understatement. Know that your trans fat has never bothered me; nobody's perfect.

I look forward to what lies ahead for us in our future; may it not include foodborne illness.

Grazie,
Joanna

Dear Sun,

[photo courtesy Kevin H.]

Dear Sun,

It's safe to say that I couldn't live without you. Thanks for making life possible, what with the warmth and the photosynthesis and all. That's pretty cool. You're like the king of planets.

But listen, Sun. Why you always gotta be shinin' all bright and shit when I gotta be inside workin' and shit? Shit. You should only shine when I am available to bask in the full glory of your 5,500 °C temperatures that take 8 minutes to get to Earth. Let's make a date for later today.

You're hot.
Anna

Dear EZ Combs and Those Who Wear You,

[photo by my magic phone - actual sighting!]

Dear EZ Combs and Those Who Wear You,


Why do you exist? And what year is this? I saw your commercial on TV when I was at the gym a few weeks ago and I thought they must have switched the channel over to TVLand...or maybe SNL from the early 90's. There is nothing cute or stylish about you. The only "plus" is that you are easy to put in one's hair. And yet your company can't even spell "easy" correctly.

Also WHO would wear you (in a non-ironic non-hipster way)? Not a woman of style and elegance for sure. And then I saw it. I was running to catch a flight at JFK last Friday and I jumped on one of those "moving sidewalk things" (a subject of a future letter, god willing). And there she was...in all her EZ Comb glory. A woman strutting her stuff down her own version of a runway, rocking the EZ Comb.

Airport Lady - I give you props for making this your own; but I hate to tell you - the EZ Comb is not a thing you wanna associate with. And if I was the one working the security check point that day at JFK, I would not let you past the gate. Clearly you are a danger to yourself.

Call my stylist,
Kat