Enemies of the Anatomy.

Dear Ovaries,

Thanks to you, I have officially joined the "retarded ovaries club" at school. No, really. We have one. It's unofficial and maybe a little bit fictional, but I think "retarded ovary syndrome" runs in the tap water at HLG. Just one more way the institution is severely trying to screw me over.

So, in essence, my college probably made you retarded. But I digress.

I really can't deal with retarded ovaries right now, ok? I just can't. I'm under enormous pressure and increasing fear that I'm not going to make it, that I've forgotten something, that I didn't babysit the registrar enough, and they are sitting there waiting with a lit match dangerously close to my diploma. My back muscles are rigid enough, I really just can't handle you making them feel like they are going to rip in half every 6-8 months. That's right. If you keep going all psycho retarded ovaries on me, I might just snap. And then my friends will have to be coaxing me down from the roof of Nun Cook, prying the cold, dead, cabbage patch doll from my hands (that just happens to be on fire) and making sure that I don't eat my hair. And it will be all your fault.

Ok. That's not fair. You can't really help being retarded, what with the probable cysts that are initiating an all out invasion--and being quite rude about it, to boot. You were just doing your job when these uneducated cysts (who probably only got the job because they slept with the office manager) started moving in on your cubicle space. Probably. We're still not sure yet.

And I know you're trying. I know. I'm sorry. But I was always really scared that I would become the old boring cat lady with a mustache. Seriously. The extra eyebrows and slightly darker random upper lip is severely freaking me out, and my readers are probably cringing due to all the excess information. can we try to do something about this? Please?

Thanks.

--Melinda

What is better than this?

Dear Zebra Print Duct Tape:

Holy crap. You are so freaking amazing. Ellen agrees. If I could have a crush on an inanimate object, it would be you. Believe me. I stood in walmart staring for a good 45 seconds.

That is all.

--Melinda

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