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.