An open letter to my d-bag neighbor.

Dear Owner of the muffler-less, black, souped up coupe that once again, woke my baby up from a rare episode of peaceful slumber:

I'm going to murder you in your sleep.

Kidding.

Sort of.

Look dude, I get it, you live in a townhouse subdivision of the burbs, you're winding your way through community college while playing bass in a way below average Death Cab for Cutie cover band & meeting your townie friends for Presidente Margaritas at the local Chilis. Long story short, life isn't quite as kick ass as you thought it would be when you were 16. I also totally understand the transformative powers of seeing "The Fast & The Furious" about 900 times. But seriously? If you insist on gunning your shitty little engine every time you hop in the car and tearing down the street with your not-quite-street-legal absentee muffler waking the dead, you will leave me with no choice but to slather you in Carne Asada and let this little fella have his way with you:



In case you don't know, that is what I affectionately refer to as a "Shartweilerbull". Translation? That is a Shar Pei/Rottweiler/Pit Bull mix named Jakers. Up until this point I've tried to quell Jake's urge to eat human flesh but you might just make me change my mind.

So unless you are actually Paul Walker, and are using this suburban douchebag persona as a cover for your infiltration of an elaborate drug smuggling/gun running/human trafficking ring I ask you one final time to shut the f*** up. Otherwise, you have a date with destiny, and destiny's name is Jake.

OK OK, so I may not actually let Jake eat your face off, but I probably will let him pee on your car.

Oh, and by the way? That car makes me think you have a tiny penis. Just some constructive criticism.

XOXO,

Next stop? Cirque du Soleil!

Apparently I've reached the point in pregnancy where people just stop and stare at me like I'm a circus act. I'll admit, my pregnancy weight has for the most part remained right in my belly, so I'm rockin' a sweet Tweedle Dee/Tweedle Dum look right now. That said, it's a little weird to have people stare at your stomach while they talk to you. They could at least do me a solid and stare at my boobs once in a while.

XOXO,

Friday Free Association.

Because I am woefully low on inspiration these days, here's a roundup of things currently swirling around in my head:

1.REALITY BITES

If you care more about this relationship than your own, you need to back away from the scripted "reality" show and go get a life:



If you just asked yourself, "Who are these people?" good for you. You get a gold star and the pride of knowing that your brain is not in imminent danger of being turned to Spam. Apparently these two idiots are the latest couple to (gasp) split up after meeting on that usually reliable matchmaking tool known as "The Bachelor" (or as I like to call it, "A Case for Forced Sterilization").

It is not news that these people are breaking up. News is the 2 wars we are still endlessly engaged in. News is the oil that continues to gush into our Gulf Coast thanks to BP and the delusional "Drill Baby Drill" crowd. News is the fact that I am having an amazing hair day. What is NOT news is that 2 people who apparently are so fatally flawed that no one in real life wanted to date them had to go on television and act out some bizarre new age mating ritual where 6 weeks and a Malibu beach house apparently lead you to your "soul mate". These people suck. TV sucks. And if you are scouring the interwebz for info on what led to the dissolution of their union, then I think you suck too.

2. ENOUGH WITH THE VAMPIRES.

If it's not True Blood, I just don't care. Case in point:

Hot Swedish Vampire whose name includes too many consonants to type? EXCELLENT:

I would definitely let this man bite my neck. (And I'm not normally into that sort of thing.)

Pale, moody, teeny bop Vampire with codependency issues and bad hair? NOT EXCELLENT:

This guy looks like he needs a bitch slap. And a sandwich. I do not appreciate a man with nicer cheekbones than me.

3. THERE ARE INDEED STUPID QUESTIONS

One of the more bizarre things about being pregnant is the total lack of boundaries that once polite people will exhibit upon finding you in "the family way." Here are some of the wildly inappropriate questions I've been asked by seemingly normal people, and the unique responses I've formulated for them:

"Was your pregnancy planned?"
No, but thank God we're married so she won't be a bastard!

"I didn't know you were trying!"
Oh shoot, you must not have been on the e-mail distribution list for the "Valentine Sex Schedule" that I sent out to everyone. We'll get you next time.

"Did Mr. Val want a boy?"
Yes, we're very concerned about who will assume his throne now.

"Did I tell you about my [insert horrible labor, delivery, breastfeeding, recuperation story here]?"
I do not want to know about your episiotomy. I do not want to know that your placenta had to be delivered out your anus. I do not want to know that your baby's poop looked like beans for the first month. Whatever lies ahead for me and my cervix, stomach, brain & sense of smell I will find out on my own, thankyouverymuch.

"Can I rub your belly?"
Only if I can rub yours first.

XOXO,

An ogre and a gentleman.

I have a theory. If you want to know exactly who a person is on the inside, ride public transportation. My interaction with the masses on the Metra every morning gives me more insight into their collective psyche than if I were to direct a Ken Burns documentary about them.

You really see the best or worst when you are among the crush of humanity that is downtown Chicago at rush hour. Take this morning for example. For some presently unexplained reason, the Metra has been running 15-20 minutes late this week. (The Chicago RTA doesn't seem to concerned, so apparently, neither should I.) This has created a bottle neck on all trains and therefore a lack of seats.

As I went to get on the train, a middle aged man literally tried to push me out of the way to get on the train first. I, being my politely passive agressive self swung my giant purse towards him (maybe it hit him, I'm not really sure) and created a fashionable moat of sorts to keep him at bay. I heard him huff and puff and say something under his breath to which I cheerfully chirped, "I'm sorry, what was that?" He just stared at me and shuffled to the next car. Problem solved.

I interupt my discourse to encourage you ladies to use this story to illustrate the importance of accessories the next time your husband questions your need for another purse. A well placed purse can be the difference b/t a happy fetus and cankles. Just sayin'.

I successfully navigated my way on the train only to find that there were no seats. You learn quickly in a big city that being with child/elderly/infirm does not apparently engender the type of chilvary one would hope. I resigned myself to my fate and moved towards the front of the car where I could at least hang on to a bar for dear life as the train hurtled toward the Loop. All of the sudden someone tapped my shoulder and a young man, about 20, told me to take his seat.

And just like that, my faith in humanity restored. It's good to know that there are still people in the world who don't suck. I hope the universe sends some kindness your way dude because you seriously made my morning.

XOXO,

no judge. no jury. straight to execution.

Remember the Friends episode where someone steals Ross' leftover Thanksgiving turkey sandwich? The one with "the moistmaker" technology invented by Monica? That happened to me today at work, only with a specific beverage that I had been saving. I went to the fridge to find said beverage STOLEN.

Oh the humanity.

I realize that in the grand scheme of things this isn't a big deal, but when you really want something and someone TAKES it from you it leads to a less than pleasant afternoon. Which is why I spent the rest of the day wandering around the office trying to catch someone drinking it so that I could pull their toenails out with pliers one by one.

I can only hope that their Karmic balance is now tragically out of wack. If not I'm stealing a Hot Pocket out of the fridge tomorrow, just to right the scales.

Oh, and from now on I am leaving notes on my food/drink with the following note: "The owner of these foodstuffs has a raging case of Herpes and a compulsion to lick EVERYTHING."

XOXO,