Hot?

The following is an actual conversation. These are not actors. These are waiters.

Situation: New Job           Time: 11:30 PM (ish)

Scene: Co-workers and myself "hanging-out" (polishing silver) back of house while we talk (semi-complain) about life

Co-worker #1: "Hot people don't have real problems"

Before I could muster out my response of, "Um, excuse me. As a prim/proper Catholic woman I know I should be completely and morally opposed to you calling me that, but thanks(?) For the compliment...also, what do you mean, 'hot people don't have problems?' are you trying to say that deciding between getting a Grande Iced Mocha and a Venti Iced Mocha on my break isn't a real problem!?"

Co-worker #2 chimed in: "Yeah seriously, Jessica Simpson throwing a hissy fit about being pregnant is not news worthy"

Emily: (again thinking to myself) "Oh you weren't calling me hot? But people say I look just like Jessica Simpson!"

Dear Co-workers,

Thanks for:
The two second ego boost.
The immediate serving of humble pie
Inspiration for the latest blog post

Love,
Your not so hot co-worker

Still Bleeding

Dear Mom and Dad,

The Mexican checker at my local grocery store asked me a question today and I'd like to relay it to you.

"How did a white girl like you end up being born in New Mexico?"

Instead of going into the lovely story of my parents relocating to New Mexico for my Dad's job so they could afford things like diapers and wipes for me, I gave him a look that said, "What is a Mexican like you doing out of Mexico." Oops. After I shot him a glare, he quickly apologized and said he was just giving me a hard time. I on the other did not apologize at all. I'm sure I added a couple fort nights of purgatory time to my sentence. What can I say, other than 'sorry I'm not sorry. Not even a little bit.' Maybe in conjunction with working on biting my tongue I should also perpetually wear sunglasses so as to not destroy a man's soul after he says something totally harmless that I take offense at.


Dear Mom and Dad,

If you're looking for me, I'll be in the confession line per yoo-zhoo-uh.

Love, 
You're daughter who repeatedly keeps thinking, "Is Lent over yet? I can't keep striving for perfection under these near impossible conditions"

Judgmental

To Whom It May Concern: (the incredibly old/rude woman sitting next to me in mass)

If you lean over to your husband and complain about the "noisy" baby that is really just babbling to his mother one more time, I am going to personally pray that you go to a special Purgatory where you have to hold a screaming, inconsolable child for several millenia while people judge and ridicule you.

I realize that because of the judgements that were going on in my head during mass, I will probably be sentenced to equal about of time in purgatory listening to your incessant oxygen machine beep every 23 seconds, but I really don't care. It's worth it.

Love,
Your not so friendly pew partner

P.S. I'm curious as to how you had time to complain about the baby when you should have been concentrating on training your mind to say "and with your Spirit," as you have yet to get a single one right.

Blood Loss

Dear Mom and Dad,

I bet you never thought teaching me to be polite just might be the death of me.

Love,

If looks could kill you'd have a felon for a daughter

I know most of you celebrated the feast day of Sts. Cyril and Methodius but for all my secular readers out there, it was Valentine's Day. In celebration of this I decided to get my haircut. Imagine my shock when the hairdresser asked if I had a boyfriend (no shock at all, since hairdressers somehow think that since they hold the power to make you wear a hat for the next 6 weeks they can ask you as many personal questions as they want).

Anyway, when I politely responded that no I didn't. She apologized. For what? For delving into my personal life uninvited? No. She was sorry I didn't have someone to keep me from eating a lb. of chocolate and watching when Harry Met Sally all alone tonight.

What the H does this have to do with me bleeding to death? Well as the conversation continued, I had to bite my tongue so many times it started bleeding!* Some people I swear.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Do band-aids for your tongue exist? Because if so, would you mind swinging by Wal-mart and picking some up? I'm feeling a little faint from loss of blood.

Love,

Your daughter who isn't nearly as polite as you hoped I would be


I can neither confirm or deny if this is an exaggeration but my tongue is sore several hours later

Restaurant Bacon

Growing up my mom would make us pretty much anything we wanted for breakfast. I describe her as a short order cook. The only difference between breakfast at home or at a restaurant was the bacon. At home we ate Turkey Bacon

When I was about 7 I finally picked up on this 'difference' and whenever we would go out to eat I would be sure to ask the waitress, "Do you have restaurant bacon?" This went on for about a year until I was at a friends house. They served me eggs and 'restaurant' bacon. I was so shocked I ran home and told my mom, "Mom! Miss Kitty knows how to make restaurant bacon!"

Dear Mom,

Thanks for saving me from potential heart disease by serving me turkey bacon for most of my life (even if I did feel a little deceived at first). Also, thank you for giving my a great story to tell on a first date that went so poorly I had to break out the 'turkey bacon' childhood story.

LOL (lots of love),

Your 'now basically a vegetarian' daughter

Hygiene?

Dear Mom and Dad,

I can't believe we never had body wash in the house while I was growing up. Do you realize how weird this has made me? How much therapy/blog posting will I have to do before I get over this?


Love,
Spoiled child #3

Letter explained:

I grew up in a home where we didn't use body wash. So sue me.* Instead I used whatever shampoo was lying around the house.

Not only did we not use body wash but I also missed the memo where you're supposed to use a washcloth. During my teenage years whenever I had a sleepover with "hygienic" friends I would grab them a towel and point the way to the shower. Not soon after this, they would ask in a tone of voice that said to me, "you must've just forgotten, but can I have a washcloth?" Even though I was perplexed by this I would indeed hunt one down for them.

What made it worse was when I would visit their house. They would just hand me a washcloth. Instead of admitting I didn't use one, I would fake it. Leaving it wet as if I had used it to my heart's content.

Can you believe this went on for years?

Do you even care? Don't answer that.

The newly embraced weird self now says:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I calculated it out and over the course of my life you have saved me $396.00 by not introducing me to the concept of body wash. Who knows how much you'll save me in the future.

Muchos Gracias,

Dirty child #3



*Actually sue my parents because they are to blame for all my problems remember?

Product of my Parents

I am weird. I blame my parents for this. As is the fashion of today's society to blame anyone but yourself for your problems. But mostly, I thank my parents for this, because let's be honest. If I was too normal, I would blame that on them as well.