Just as good as a rape whistle.

Dear Semi-Denty black pick up truck:

I know there's probably not a lot you can do about your occupants, and for that, I'm sorry. But could you pass along a short message for me? Basically:

1. If they want to pick up chicks, the Walmart parking lot isn't the place to do it.

2. If they really want my phone number, they should do it in a way that doesn't involve cutting me off on purpose, waving their arms, and thinking its cute.

3. The fact that I'm on my way to a gas station and its 20 degrees outside doesn't really help their case either.

Come to think of it, Semi-Denty Black Pick Up Truck, haven't I seen you before? In fact...weren't you the truck that one guy was in who tried to ask for my number at an intersection in the gritty part of Independence? Yes, I'm certain that was you. I never forget a bumper/grill combo. And come to think of it, I think you were the truck that guy was driving through the Steak N Shake Drive thru. You know, the 27-year-old who called my work an hour later and asked me for a date...when I was sixteen?

That's it truck, I'm on to you. Not only are you a cradle robbing pedophile, but you are also a creepy stalker. I know I'm quite the catch, but subtly following me through my various walks of life is really not the way to get my attention. Maybe had you come earlier and approached me like a gentleman then we could have had a decent relationship, but this is just ridiculous. You can't really blame me for being slightly creeped out by your queer random appearances that always manage to happen in the most ambiguous places that seem like they came be right out of a vintage Hitchcock movie. Or maybe from the Sequel of the Ring. Either way, I don't like the way this is playing out. If you don't leave me alone, I'm going to have to request the use of my Dad's box truck. Or my roommate's tractor. Or my friend Jonathan's family truck. You know, the one that took out a freaking bear in Montana. I don't know what your intentions are, black pick up truck, but due to your strange behavior I'm not afraid to pull out the big guns. I don't have to take this, and if you don't lay off I will be more than happy to use my proverbial vehicle rape whistle.

We'll consider this you're warning, black pick up truck. Grow up, acquire some social skills and stop treating girls like the characters in your star trek fan fiction that you keep in your mother's basement.

Kthxbye.

--Melinda

An Employer's Ultimatum.

Dear Kenmore Dryer-

Ok. I know it's been hard for you. I get that. Not only are you kind of getting on in years, but you have to put up with my roommate never cleaning out the lint basket and an electrical partner that throws an all out self-destructive temper tantrum every time it goes on a spin cycle. I know it isn't easy; its clear by the way you shake anytime you have to work exceptionally hard. Gosh, sending you this letter makes me feel like i'm putting my dog to sleep. But this has to be addressed.

Five hour and a half cycles is LONG ENOUGH. I NEED dry clothes. Not kind of dry clothes, not sopping wet clothes, not almost dry clothes, DRY. CLOTHES. And I need them now. Not tomorrow morning. Not after CSI. Not during the intermission of the Harry Potter marathon. Now. Its not so much that you can't do this, Kenmore dryer, its just that I suspect you are an even worse procrastinator than I am. And considering I recently put off contacts and showering for a week, that's saying something. I know you need breaks, but think about it. Once or twice a week is really not asking that much. Frankly I'm starting to become suspicious of all these "breaks" you've been taking anyway. Have you been smoking, Kenmore dryer? I feel like I've been smelling something lately. And anyway, I can't have a slacker on my watch. I'm not paying you to stand around, dawdle, or do anything that doesn't involve drying my clothes. If you want to get caught up in World of Warcraft or Dungeons and Dragons or Call of Duty or Farmville or something, you're going to have to do it on your own time.

I'm afraid I have no choice but to offer an ultimatum. I don't like it either, and I've tried to be nice. But I don't know what else to do. Either you start effing drying my clothes, or I'm firing your butt and putting you out on the street where you belong with all those other deadbeat appliances. That's right, exactly like in The Brave Little Toaster.

Sincerely,

Melinda.

A communication of mixed feelings.

Dear Amy's cold;

It's really difficult to address this letter to you, considering the fact that I have such mixed emotions about you.

Don't get me wrong, the last thing I would ever want for Amy is to put her through sniffy coughy sinusy heckandgone. But there has been this whole senior, double major, exhausty thing going on as well. I really don't like you, Amy's cold, but I have to give credit where credit's due--out of all of us, you were the only one who could get her to stay in bed and force her to relax. I'm very confused on my opinions of you. You're a sly one, Amy's cold.

But just because the end only kind of justifies the means doesn't excuse your rude behavior. Amy's got it bad enough, what with her schedule that could be compared to a homicidal calender slicing up free time with its "from da' hood" busyness switch blade (ya like that analogy, head cold? do ya? do ya?). Not to mention that her computer screen's gone all angsty eyeliner-y adolescent on us and won't work because it thinks nobody understands it (which is partly true. I'm not a I.T. expert, after all). But you have to pour it on thick what with all the annoying necessity for kleenexes, chugging of fuzzy headed medicine, and extended desire to Twitter (not that that's a bad thing, persay). As cool as it is to have your mommy tuck you in and make you soup when you're in college and make you feel all snuggly inside, we can't be sitting here making our parents worry all the time and have them at risk for possible cardiovascular problematics. Clearly you didn't think this through, Amy's head cold.

Luckily for you I have an endless amount of green tea and Neti Pot packets, and the best sick blanket on this entire planet. Plus, Amy has really cool roommates who help her make marshmallow weddings. You have not won, sir.

As cordially as I can allow myself,

Melinda

An official notice of surrender

Dear Dad's "Worried Voice";

(Not to be confused with his normal voice, which is kind of awesome, mostly due to the fact that it can change a couple of octaves at a second's notice. Also not to be confused with the actual personality or being of Dad, in all its 6 foot 4 inch 210 pound glory).

Alright. We've done this tango before and I always lose without you realizing it. What am I supposed to do? You never let me accomplish my goal which is not surprising because you're a Dad voice that loves me and all that crap. It starts with a phone call, where you try to appear cheery and not tired and I try to avoid telling you how much the school situation sucks right now without actually...you know...lying or anything like that. But then you accost me with peppered questions here and there trying to determine the state of my education and graduation and paperwork and of course that silly nonsense called self preservation where I attempt to keep a tight hold on my sanity. I mean you have to give me credit: I do try as hard as possible because I hate when you show up--it's just that you are far too good at what you do, trying to look out for my well being and all.

We've both grown up in a family of shameless phlegmatics who do all kinds of things to try to protect each other. However we always tend to end up in this messy dance of trying to make life a little easier on each other that my mind becomes twisted quite easily. "Did you have a good day?" It sucked: I was slusheed at lunch, I bombed my Algebra test and I earned a detention when I punched this girl in the face for attempting to pants my brother. But I'm not going to tell you any of this because I don't want you to become anxious. "It was pretty good. yours?" It's not exactly a dishonest lifestyle. Just a weird one. Every family has they're quirks, after all, and its not like this happens every day the exact same way. Here, let me give you another example.

Friday= I receive really crappy news from the education department, slip up, and call mom crying.

Friday evening= You call in you're voice and tell me I should get coffee or ice cream or something, on dad.

Later Friday evening= I got get ice cream for the sole purpose of being able to tell you I got ice cream in order to feel better so you can feel better about me feeling better.

Yes. We are THAT family.

But it's not without justification. After all, I never sleep, and my dad, who comes from a long family line of heart problems and stress malfunctions, works 10 hours a day, doesn't like going on vacation and probably hasn't had a nap in the last ten years. Either way, fine. I'm waving the white flag, Worried Dad Voice. You win this time. But don't get used to it. I was totally serious about marrying a doctor and buying you a lake house. Don't think I won't.

Loooooooooove.

-Melinda

A Simple Request

Dear cute black twirly skirt,

Let's get two things straight:

1. I know November days aren't your favorite.

2. No matter how much you think so, I am not Marilyn Monroe.

I'm quite fond of you, twirly black skirt. And that's saying a lot, because I have a genuine hatred for all skirts in general. No offense, but I'm pretty sure a skirt was an invention concocted by colonial European men trying to figure out how to make their women more submissive. I mean, not to be crass or anything, but how does something as pleasantly breezy as you cause so much awkward buttsweat and chafing? It's a conspiracy. I'm convinced.

Either way, when I'm attempting to cross campus and get to class in a timely manner, that is definitely not the time for you to dance with the wind. seriously. It just makes it really weird for all the rest of us. I know you like being all twirly and everything, but think about my feelings for just a second. I am more than blushing as I clamp your loose ends around my legs and resort to a strange waddle-like sprint to the classroom in order to keep you in the correct arrangement. This predicament cannot be explained to a male professor on the day my presentation is due, especially not if I'm to retain any shred of professionalism I once had.

I'm not asking much. Once we get inside the safe confines of my car or apartment, you can act up all you want. But when I'm amongst normal people who don't want to have to pretend they didn't see any awkward skirt flair ups, I just ask you to behave yourself. And don't try to tell me I can wear shorts underneath you. The only way your delicate material can manage that is if I wear sports shorts--and then everyone is on to me once they hear the slight "swishswish" and can't determine its origin. You gotta work with me, here. Think you can manage staying ladylike for that small amount of time?

KThxbye.

--Melinda

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Dear Chipotle Barbacoa Burrito:

I'm experiencing a sense of longing many mortals on this planet know all too well. All I want to sink my teeth into is tasty, mouth watering, beautiful, MEAT. There's nothing quite like your spicy, tender beef to satisfy a strangely carnivorous craving such as this. I mean, look at you. That giant tortilla with just the right texture. Perfect Latin American cooked rice. Thick, creamy black beans. Just the right amount of spices to make you drool. And not dainty drool, like when you're listening to your specialty "sounds of bacon" soundtrack. I'm talking about the torrential waterfall that comes from falling asleep at your desk and discovering an unpleasant lake pooling around your chin, causing you to subsequently lose traction and accidentally thud your head against the fake-wooden surface. That's the kind of effect you inspire. All wrapped together in a lovely concoction the size of a large, irregularly-shaped fetus. I love you, Chipotle Barbacoa Burrito, and I don't care who knows it.

Our last parting ended in complete heartache and promises of letters that never came. Fall break came and went, homework was painstakingly completed, dinner rushes commenced and faded. Where did the time take us, Chipotle Barbacoa Burrito? We were once so close, so in love...what happened? *sigh* I know. Don't remind me. I had to move to this dreadful island where there isn't a Chipotle or Barnes and Noble in a 90 mile radius. My heart is shattered, Chipotle Barbacoa Burrito. My senses long for you. I will wait for you, Chipotle Barbacoa Burrito. This I solemnly promise, with all of my heartslashstomach.

There's a gaping hole in my gastrointestinal track that only you can fulfill, my love. And no, it isn't an ulcer. That's reserved for when my research papers finally force me to kick the bucket.

Until we meet again...

-Melinda

An invitation of sorts.

Dear Casye's Nose Sore,

We cordially invite you...to leave. seriously. Nobody wants you here. Its not that we're trying to be unkind. it's just that...well...let's start from the beginning.

Casye is stressed enough as it is. She hardly sleeps, she sometimes fights three week chest colds, and she has to put up with a psychopath director that is some wicked cross between a 8th grade mean girl and a pterodactyl 24/7. This particular weekend she was out having a grand but exhausting time attempting to entertain 7-12 grade kids while surviving on junk food and simultaneously caring for their spiritual welfare while under the watchful supervision of a vicious man-eating dinosaur-ish sociopath. Not only that, but she ended the weekend by having to read endless run-on sentences in a blog that shall not be named (but might have something to do with writing letters to cold sores). She didn't even get to sleep on the way home. The last thing she needed was some manic cold sore showing up on the most annoying section of the nose imaginable. Why you gotta be so rude, nose sore? I mean, really.

Plus, you've ruined things for her in the future, what with you showing up in zoom lense photographs that will not deteriorate for another 50 years, if that. Besides, she's got yet another weekend like the one mentioned above and the last thing she needs is a perpetual stigma to kind of need to sneeze, but not really. You've made yourself unforgettable--but not in a good way. fail, nose sore. fail.

We've tried to be kind, nose sore. I can't believe you missed all the subtle hints. obviously the occasional scratch wasn't going to do anything. so we moved to the next step: medication. But obviously the outrageously priced miniscule tube was not enough to get you to notice. You know what you are, nose sore? You're that guy who always wants to order desert at a restaurant when everyone else is full and wants to go home.

And this isn't one of those RomCom weird plots where we ask you to go but actually want you to stay and have coded it in this message somewhere hoping you would be genius and abstract enough to read between the lines. Casye really just doesn't like you. And her life would have a lot better quality if you would be emotionally (well, and physically) attached to someone else.

So really, Nose Sore. This is the last time we're asking politely. Let's not make a scene. The door's where you came in.

Sincerely,

Melinda and Casye

P.S. Kelley has voted you off the island as well.

A Formal Declaration of War.

Dear Skin,

alright skin. enough is enough. This is war.

I know you are genuinely upset that its been cold outside, then hot outside, then cold again. But this is Missouri, sweetie. If you haven't gotten used to bipolar weather after 22 years, there's something wrong with you. as a part of the human anatomy aren't you supposed to be down with all this adapting and evolving stuff? I mean seriously.

But you don't have to throw this all out temper tantrum about it. I know the weather and humidity is less than ideal, but just because I want to shave my legs doesn't mean you get to be all like, "you know what would be really fun? Acting like we're on effing FIRE." Which causes me to have to down an ungodly amount of benadryl and have to sleep it off the rest of the day. Think about who you're affecting here.

I've tried to be nice about it, but apparently its been all for naught. I'm sick of you blaming me for things I can't control, and I'm even sicker of you're excuses. Yea yea, so you have this weird combinational heritage of German and Dutch where all their dainty little wives probably stayed away from the sun or sat in church all day while growing nasty man hair on their legs. Well guess what, skin? this is the 21st century, and I'm not about to act dainty or prudish--so you can kiss that ambition goodbye. You're a Stephens--you need to freaking man up!

So, skin, this is how its going to end. I'm pulling out all the stops. I will continue to launch an all out non scented moisturizer assault on you. There will be Aveeno, non-scented soap, new loofahs and shavers, specialty shaving cream, the works. And you're totally going to be attacked with green tea/tea tree infused lotion, and you are going to LIKE it. You're not going to be able to think only of yourself forever.

You've made me miss church for the last time, ma'am.

INCREDIBLY sincerely,

Melinda

A tribute to meatballs.

Dear really nasty Applebees meatball pasta;

You, sir, are my hero. I sincerely think you've single handedly saved my life. So, I thought a thank-you card was in order.

I hate to air all my dirty laundry here, nasty meatball pasta, but it's necessary to understand why you have been to detrimental to my natural self-life sustaining capabilities. I've had a long, on-going, seriously committed relationship to carbs. Me and carbs went everywhere together. I was convinced that carbs loved me. After all, carbs was always making me feel good, especially when I was down. Carbs always made sure that I was never alone, and ensured that I had enough family time (especially celebrating at Olive Garden or V's). Carbs even paid constant compliments on my sweater choices. But what I didn't know about carbs was that carbs turned out to be a blood-sucking parasite. Oh, sure, carbs knew all the right words to say. Carbs even promised to buy me nice things. But really, carbs just wanted a place to crash at night so that carbs wouldn't have to get a job like every other individual on the planet. Carbs used me, preying on my arteries and lack of gym membership. There was a problem, though.In spite of all this, I was still in love with carbs. I couldn't let him go. I know carbs wasn't doing well now but carbs would get back on his feet eventually, just give him some time! Besides,I just went through a really painful break-up with Taco Bell, I don't think I can take any more heartache like that right now. Oh carbs, please never leave me!

I know. It's a pathetic sight. I would've done anything to stay in that really crappy relationship. I needed carbs for emotional support, even if carbs was a loser who refused to get a job and camped out on my stomach for the next six months. Which, if left to his devices, could cause some serious problems like heart disease and diabetes--I can already feel some of the affects weighing on my joints now and then. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if carbs, while lying in lazy passivity, was actually plotting homicidal tendencies. Luckily, you came along, really nasty meatball pasta from Applebees.

You probably don't remember our meeting. It was pretty brief. Though I was sure Applebees really tried I was not very impressed with your poor quality and lack of cheesy goodness. I snarfed down what I could due to the fact that I was hungry, but our collision with the fates was far from over. On the drive home and hours on into the night, I still felt your oppressive presence. It was like I had swallowed a bunch of really mushy rocks that refused to be digested, accompanied by awful garlic burps that appeared with a vengeance and left a stale taste in my mouth. It's not that i was nauseas, its just that I couldn't get your overwhelming grossness out of my system fast enough. Basically, I feel like I'd be ok with never eating ever again. That's how awful you are.

You persistence truly is incredible: I didn't know you were trying to tell me something until it was almost too late. But thankfully, your pursued me until I stopped and realized that what you were telling me really was for the best. After copiously digesting you for hours, I realized I'd be ok with never eating pasta again. And the chains fell. You helped me realize my abusive relationship with carbs. Now, finally, with your help, I think I have both the sense and the strength to leave carbs for good (excluding wheat and whole grain, of course). You're like the sassy gay friend of meat.

Thank you. Really. I appreciate your radical intervention more than you know.

Cordially,

Melinda

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Dear Taco Bell,

Let's face it. We both knew this day was coming. Trying to go on would only put even more of a strain on our already climactic relationship. I could try to be more sensitive and skirt more around the real issue, trying to save your feelings, but here's the thing: I believe that you deserve the truth, and avoiding your gaze won't help either of us.

Taco Bell, its over between you and me. I can't see you any longer. I can't tolerate the crack that they obviously put in all your food to make it so wonderfully addicting and self medicating. And everyone knows that you've just been using your tasty burritos to draw me in without me noticing. Well the jig is up, Taco Bell. I know you just want to be with me, and lets be frank: I want to be with you too. But I can't take all this lying and manipulation. And furthermore, my arteries just can't handle any more abuse. They're already severely hurt from my last on-going relationship with pasta (it was really just a bad situation all around).

Not only have you been tastily manipulating me, but you've been affecting my relationship with my friends. I have a severe suspicion that you and Casye have been going on for a long time behind my back. I can't blame her really, you are quite irresistible. But that's besides the point. Anytime we rendezvous together and I want to spend quality time with my friends watching a long movie afterward, you always manage to ruin everything. Methane is deadly in more ways than one, you know.

Before you start making accusations I'm just going to clear the air, here. I've found someone else. His name is Crunchy Delicious Crouton Spinach Salad. He loves me for who I am and treats me like a lady. I mean, what defines a gentlemen more than one who gives you 15% of your daily value of Iron and simultaneously gives you a clean colon? I'm afraid he just fulfills my needs better than you do, Taco Bell.

Therefore, we have no choice but to go our separate ways. Don't be sad, darling. It's me, not you. And really, this is better for everyone. You can now openly pursue your relationship with Casye and shower her with tasty quesadillas. And I can do this thing where I can go jeans shopping and actually find something. I feel we can both become better people from this arrangement.

I'm so sorry it had to end this way. Can we still be friends?

Love always,

Melinda

P.S. Ellen sends her regards.

Here's to Trying New Things.

I have a tendency to write angry letters to things when they are completely ridiculous. So I'm putting them here for yours and my enjoyment, should you choose to enjoy said letters.

That said...well.. Enjoy!