Who pimped my ride??

To the %*&@$ it may concern:

The dime sized chunk you took out of my bumper has made me furious, and I must share my frustration. My very first brand spankin’ new car and some near sighted dill weed nudges up to my poor, innocent bumper until their license plate screw viciously digs into the smooth, dare I say perfect, back side.

Your failure to respect the junk in my trunk has been eating away at me for days, so I must tell you the level of disappointment and lack of trust I have in you – you mystery bumper nudging butt head. I took special care to avoid the prime parking spot near the station wagon at target knowing the 8 year old inside was bound to test the hinge in his mother’s car door… likely dimpling the smooth complexion of my passenger side. I have even been taking corners a little slower to avoid that curb I usually take out.

Yes, I’ve been taking special care to show this new car a little love in hopes that on that -25 wind chill day it will greet me with a smile and say “Hey, buddy! I know you don’t want to walk home in the cold, dark, up to your femur-snow drifts. Let me start right up and get toasty and warm for you.” I tried to protect it from the harsh world, but you – mystery bus rider – have tainted my wheels.

Thanks for getting that first ding out of the way for me. I was really dreading the day I had to come to terms with the fact that I put the first scratch on the surface. You really did me a big favor…. So thanks for that. I hope one day you come forward so I can show my deep appreciation in your bumper. Until then, keep on truckin’.

Idle Idols

The shock! The horror! How could he? What was she thinking? Better yet…. why on Earth are you so personally affected when a celebrity does something stupid? Are you BFF’s? Does Tiger Woods have the other half of your heart shaped friendship bracelet? Can you please tell me why his domestic issues have made people say that this "proves that nobody’s perfect"?

Tiger Woods may have been cheating on his wife with a baker’s dozen of yesterday’s pastries. Brittney Spears may be getting married to another trailer park prince. Angelina Jolie may be placing an order for the 2010 model of 3rd World orphans. Why do you care so much? Don’t model your life after them; buy perfume, clothes or makeup just so you can be like them. In case you didn’t know, Sara Jessica Parker doesn’t use Garnier Hair color – she spends $500 a month to get their roots touched up in some posh boutique by a guy named Zeek.

I’m not really sure why people seem to consider celebrities as the definition of "perfect" and get so upset when they let you down. Am I the only one that remembers the days of Angelina’s tongue taking residence down Billy Bob’s throat? Billy Bob.... If that’s perfection just call me Mother Theresa.

If you’re too lazy to pave your own path in life and need to look up to someone that you only know because you read headlines while standing in line at Cub Foods… I suggest you model yourself after a dead person. Living beings are too volatile. Their reputations may not be flawless, but they are set in stone. Rest assured that next month Einstein won’t be on the cover of US Weekly sneaking into a Motel 8 with Jessica Simpson’s dad, and Marie Curie won’t suddenly develop a breast augmentation and rhinoplasty obsession.

Aristotle defined perfection as "the ultimate completion of that which cannot be any better." So… unless you’re dead, you don’t qualify as perfect. I think there was a story about a carpenter that had the same moral….

Playing Cutsies

Hey, Jerk. Back in kindergarten I learned about this thing called a "line". It was also referred to as "waiting your turn." I don’t expect you to follow the ladies first rule, but it would be super if you weren’t so pushy. You seem to be under the assumption that your time is more valuable than mine. You also seem to be under the impression that by pushing me out of the isle you will get to your final destination faster. For this reason, I make it a point to park closer to the exit than you do, and take great pleasure in cutting you off at the stop sign every evening. When you start playing nice, I will too.

Must you push my buttons?

You may notice – the elevator button is illuminated. That’s because I pushed it. Actually, you watched me push it. And since there is only one button, and you witnessed the selection, I’m not sure why you felt the need to push it again. Did I not push it correctly? Do you have a magic index finger that will summon the elevator more quickly? If so, is there a reason that magic finger pushed two buttons when you boarded the elevator? “Oops!” You say, as if you really didn’t realize you work on the 26th floor and not the 15th. That’s okay… I look forward to spending more time with you and your intersting mix of Hugo Boss, LeAnn Chin, and cigarette smoke as a result of your compulsive button pushing magic finger.

I have a magic finger, too. But I’m too much of a lady to use it.

When Boots Go Rouge

Pardon me, Miss. While I am not claiming to be a fashion expert, I must beg that this boot trend must stop. I know that tucking your jeans into fur-lined boots is all the rage this winter, but the cuteness factor is lost on everyone over the age of 10. Which, clearly you are.

Maybe I critique out of jealousy. You see - I can't seem to stroll through Target so confidently while two miniature abominable snow monsters cling to my ankles. I fell like I have just caught the tail end of a mating ritual gone rouge - right as the UGG devours the boot-leg Levis.

On the other hand, maybe I criticize because it seems as though you've brainwashed your husband into following this awful trend. While I know absolutely nobody will believe my tail of two boot-crossed lovers, you've left me with no choice but to take drastic measures. Yes... that snickering you hear is me, hiding behind the Moxi Chocolate as I try to snap a picture to prove that I saw a real life Ken and Barbie Ski Cabin Weekend collector set.

I suggest you take a walk down isle P5, and get a good look at your look. If your still convinced your pant eating Maltese feet look good - by all means continue to rock your (not-so-original) style. But please, I beg of you.... stop dressing your husband up like Ski Cabin Ken. I have shopping to do, and it's difficult to focus when I'm so concerned that your husband's boots are going to eat what's left of his manhood.

*Yes... that's the photo. The figure in the white sweater is the husband. Believe me now??

Slippery When Wet

Attention Minnesota drivers. You live in Minnesota. Why are you so confused when the flurries start to fly? I’ve seen more powder on Whitney Huston’s nostril, yet you’ve turned into brake happy Betty to adapt to the conditions.

Yes…the roads may be a tad bit slippery, but there is no need for you drive 20 in a 60, or tap your breaks to the beat of “We Are the World”. In about 3 weeks I know you are going to be the crazy lady zipping through the snow packed mall parking lot at 70 so you can get that last make-shift parking spot next to the Sears entrance. You don’t fool me. Please find a happy medium so I don’t have to wake up a half hour early to compensate for crappy drivers.

Sometimes Gene Simmons' Tongue Would Make More Sense

Yes - you do seem like a hip fun loving grandma. I can tell by your crazy pink spiked hair, Kiss t-shirt, and Rockstar energy drink you so adamantly slurp between statements that you're not the average AARP granny. You didn't even wimp out and go for the sugar free kind. Impressive, G-Ma.

While I applaud your fun loving and artificially enhanced energy for life, I would like to shove a wool sock in your cake hole to stifle your political propaganda for just a moment. Much like a corporate executive responding to emails, you have focused on the single most insignificant point and have formed weak, (at best), arguments against things that have little to no importance to the big picture. I'm a big picture kinda' gal, and I'm not sure what your painting for me. I don't even care what the picture is, as long as it's a nice big, clean, well put together picture.

After your 45 minute "presentation," I am left with five pieces of a giant wooden Sesame Street puzzle, six pieces of a 3D King Tut puzzle, and a domino. Yep. Doesn't fit together too well does it? Maybe something was lost in translation. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Grab yourself another Rockstar, and Google yourself some facts G-Ma. When you have the pieces organized, I'm happy to listen.

Democrat or Republican, I'll quietly listen as you calmly share your well formed opinions and paint a clear picture of Big Bird, Sniffy, or Gene Simmons' creepy tongue. As long as you don't insult my shoes, I'll keep my opinions to myself.