Five Rant Friday 1.31.14

The internet is full of people ripping off other people's ideas; I'm actually pretty sure that's why Al Gore invented it in the first place. If you've spent five minutes in the insanity that is "the lifestyle blog world," then you've probably heard of Five Things Friday, which is when bloggers take the opportunity to write about five completely random things that strike their fancy, which is different from what they write about every other day because guys, these are NUMBERED! In the words of my favorite curmudgeon, "computers make it easier to do a lot of things, but most of the things they make it easier to do don't need to be done." -- Andy Rooney.

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Not one to miss out on a bandwagon (GO BRONCOS!), I have decided to channel Mr. Rooney and put my own little spin on this trend. Enter: Five Rant Friday. I'll probably still do Friday Confessional when I actually come up with something more interesting than, "I think Zac Efron is hot and that makes me feel like a perv," but in the meantime, here are five of the grievances I have with the world this week: 

Five Rant Friday

 

1.) Maybe I missed the memo, but when did it become a novelty for exiting riders to thank their public transit operator? I've ALWAYS made it a point to say a quick, "good morning!" or, "hi!" to my bus/T/taxi driver as I enter his or her vehicle, and a well-timed, "thank you!" as I depart. It takes, like, half a second of my day and costs nothing but two vibrations of my vocal cords, but lately I've noticed that by the drivers' reactions, you'd think these poor people had hit the freakin' appreciation lottery. Seriously, twice this week alone, I've been given the most enthusiastic, "Thank YOU and have a great night, dear!"s of my entire life from T drivers. I started observing other people as they entered and exited the train, and maybe -- MAYBE -- two out of every 15 passengers acknowledged the driver at all. I understand that we're all living in a 24/7 world, but are we really so disconnected that a simple, "hello" or "thank you" is viewed as a major coup by the recipient?

2.) I've been hearing murmurs (ok, more like enraged shouts, which is much more appropriate) that The Mindy Project is on the chopping block for Fox. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, TV PEOPLE IN CHARGE?! The part I really don't understand is how at least once or twice a week someone says, "omg do you watch Mindy? I just started and OMG LOLZ4DAYZ!" 1) DUH, of COURSE I watch Mindy; if I had a patronus it would be in her form and 2) I will bet any amount of money that if you are into dudes, you've spent time on The Googley looking up those magnificent photos of Sir Castellano and trying to figure out how you can scam one for your own home. ::crickets:: soo... just just me then? In the event that Ms. Kaling herself has stumbled upon this blog (perhaps because I incessantly tweet at her in a rabid attempt to become bffs), you're free to take that idea and run with it for merchandizing purposes. You can repay me by providing me with the original cowboy hat portrait, please and thanks. Coffee soon?

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3.) Speaking of coffee, I've been having this total first-world problem lately, wherein I can't seem to find the right amount of coffee to satisfy my morning caffeine needs without making me look like a hoot owl at 11pm. What's that saying? One isn't enough; two is too many and three isn't enough? Yeah, I'm pretty sure that relates to alcohol (or wives?) but I'm going to appropriate it for my little coffee crisis. Did I really just ramble about coffee? God, my life is so hard and complicated. I should get a gold star for existing in this horrid, horrid world. 

4.) "{verb} all of the {noun}" (see: "Feel all of the feels!" "Eat all of the foods!" "Do all of the things!") This has been cropping up all over the place and I cringe every single time I see it (including the few occasions on which I've used it because it's becoming the vernacular and hey, I'm only human). People seem to think it's cute or twee or something, but the cold, hard truth is that it's simply a lazy mode of expression. Maybe Danny grabbing Mindy and threatening to join the Mile High Club evoked an emotional response so complex that you're having trouble putting it into words -- and that's fine -- but SAY that. Going with, "DANNY MINDY OMG ALL OF THE FEELS!" is just a half-assed way of saying you don't care enough about it to try to sum it up. If you're sixteen or a software engineer or something, fine; if you're attempting to call yourself a legitimate writer, just park your ass in a chair, grab a thesaurus and stop this nonsense right now.

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5.) For the past month, half of my Facebook feed has consisted of people's FitBit statistics. Do you know what I care about even less than your calorie intake or how many steps you took today? HOW MANY TIMES YOU ROLLED OVER LAST NIGHT. Granted, I don't have one, and I'm guilty of posting gratuitous humble-brag shots of my Polar calorie burn on Instagram after a particularly good workout, but there's something really disturbing about posting the minutiae of your daily habits, via a set of colorful graphics and numbers, for the world to see (bitching about posting daily stuff no one cares about on facebook via a personal blog: irony done right). A corollary to this rant: people whose Instagram account is linked to Facebook. If I wanted to see all your artsy, filtered skies, your kid's snot rocket or comparison graphics of your weight before and after you ate breakfast, I would follow you on Instagram, BECAUSE THAT IS WHY IT EXISTS. Ugh.

TL;DR -- Say thank you to your bus drivers; watch the Mindy Project; I'm a spoiled, privileged brat with a caffeine addiction; people who post their Fitbit stats on Facebook are creepy and Instagram isn't much better, and FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY, grab a damned thesaurus and stop verbing all of the nouns!

This concludes this week's edition of Five Rant Friday. I'm Caitlin Rooney, and tune in next week for more of my wrath.

Letters From a Late-20s Blogger to the Universe at Large: Part the Third

No confessional today because, though I could probably go into hypnotherapy with my shame spiral in general, I'm having one of those unusual mornings where everything is rainbows and sunshine and I maybe-ok-definitely shouted, "GOOOD MORNING!!!" at a coworker randomly on the street. So, rather than dig through my past for your entertainment, I will instead leave you with some little letters that I began drafting yesterday, when my mood was a bit more, shall we say, sourpuss. Here we go!

WTF?! Letters of the Day:

Dear Young, Perky, Judgmental Coed Across the Bar,
Wipe that stupid smirk off your face. One day, in the not-so-distant future, you will find yourself at a much-needed happy hour, blowing off steam with one of your biffs. I assure you that you, too, will be a acting a little bit tipsy, laughing a little bit too loud and being a little bit too Billy Joel in general. You, too, will find it hilarious when the 19-year old bartender cards you and you will giggle at his attempts to flatter you into a bigger tip. So retire the stinkeye already, because those two ladies you're gawking at? Consider them your crystal ball.
WTF?!
Welcome to your future,
C

Dear Fluorescent, Only-the-Super-Can-Replace-You Kitchen Light,
Your current state of blinking, flashing and outright mocking me needs to stop. While I do appreciate a good disco now and then, I also live in fear of negligence lawsuits. Seeing as I'm worried you could give someone a seizure, it's time to get your act together.
WTF?
Shape up before I blow a fuse,
C

Dear Federal Government,
WHY YOU NO STANDARDIZE SUBMISSION PLATFORMS ACROSS THE INTERWEBS?! I am a willingly taxed citizen of the US (no, seriously -- I live in MA, where we voted against decreasing the income tax a few years ago), so I only ask for one thing: can one of your highly-paid, steadily employed "people" come up with a standard system for submission? It's bad enough that securing government funding is like pulling teeth; does the submission process really need to make me prefer a root canal, too?
WTF?!
Get with these economic times,
C

Dear Closet,
Sorry you're so mad at me for keeping you full of last season's wares, but I am of the small faction of human beings who admits to getting a tiny rush from paying my bills in full, on time (or early!). So when Momma sees a little extra in the bank account, she does not wanna blow it on shoes. Call it residual Stockholm Syndrome from back when student loans kept me in a bunker of solitude, but you're going to have to get used to sharing the wealth.
WTF?
We'll see who's laughing when I'm bathing in cash like Scrooge McDuck,
C

Dear "Fashion Community."
Overalls. Enough said.
WT-EVER-LOVIN'-F?!
Really, though?!
C

And a Love Letter:

Dear Katiebelle,
Thank you for being my friend and assuring me that one day, our parody novel will be a bestseller. Also, give me a glass of your finest, cheapest chardonnay.
Four for you, Glenn Coco!
You go, Glenn Coco!
C


And none for Gretchen Wieners.

Letters From A Late 20s Blogger To the Universe At Large: Volume II

Do you ever have those days where an entire series of events goes so wrong -- so utterly, terribly, no-good, very badly wrong -- that there is literally nothing to do but sit there and laugh? I'm not talking tiny little smirks or giggles; I mean the kind of uproarious guffaws that leave you breathless with tears streaming down your cheeks, the origin of which you're unsure of because really, it's a toss-up between total desperation and outright hysteria. THAT kind of laughter. 

Today is one of those days.

I remembered how satisfying it was to compose little letters of hatred to the universe, so today I am bringing you another installment of:

WTF?! Letters of the Day:

Dear Excess Pounds,
I don't know what your ::bleep::in' deal is lately, but it's time for you to realize it's over and time to move on with your bad selves. I've spent YEARS getting to a place where I am actually interested in losing some of you for health benefits, rather than vanity. It has recently come to my attention that, despite my best efforts to get rid of you, you would prefer to maintain firmly ensconced around my hips. GO TO HELL ALREADY. Momma don't spend hours in the gym, meticulously counting calories and pounding enough water to make a pachyderm proud, to lose one measly pound in a month.
WTF?!
Nobody likes a stage V clinger,
C

Dear Face,
I have spent the past 28 years being nothing but kind to you. I wash you, tone you, moisturize and make you up with only the finest, hypoallergenic products. And how do you repay me? By pulling a Brutus, you little bastard. Maybe you didn't absorb this from the lastest issue of US Weekly, but swollen, scaly, itchy red under-eye bags are out this year. I've switched my Clinique and Clarins to Aquaphor and Aveeno; time to do your share of the work. Shape up or ship out, mofos.
SERIOUSLY, WTF?!
The Volturi look is so 2012,
C

Dear "Concerned" Colleagues and Frenemies,
While I greatly appreciate your misplaced concern re: the state of my face, I am neither "sick" nor "tired" -- although I do admit that mustering up the enormous sigh required to respond to your invasive inquiries is a bit exhausting. I am aware that I look, "just awful lately" -- that isn't the flu, plague or norovirus speaking; it's just my face, sans makeup and contact lenses. So thanks for that ego boost.
Again...WTF?!
At least my face will improve; yours will always look like that,
C

Dear People Bitching About the Weather,
It's January. For the majority of the US, this means it's cold. And guess what? It's going to STAY cold! Through February, and maybe even March! Unless you live in the Deep South and are experiencing the kind of weather when I typically break out the flip flops (in which case, I have an entirely other bone to pick with you), SUCK. IT. UP.  
But, but...WTF?!
Buy some damn gloves and shut up already,
C

Dear MBTA,
You employ thousands of people, some of whom I bet are engineers. Somehow, though, you manage to overlook the simple fact that your infrastructure, the one that you are constantly touting as, "The oldest in America", has failed to keep up with the passage of time. I, the people, demand that you utilize my tax dollars in a productive way -- ie., revamp the system so that it stops shutting down whenever the temp drops below 20. Perhaps your constituents' asses wouldn't be so chapped if you didn't consistently strand thousands of us in the bitter cold.
FOR REAL, THOUGH....WTF?!
It's been three hours and I still can't feel my toes,
C

 And none for Gretchen Wieners. 

The Summer I Stopped Caring

You know it's going to be a good day when one of your best friends at work sends you this totally not offensive gchat immediately upon laying eyes on you:

Kristin:  You have a vampire vibe going on, it's both hot and intimidating. The Russian gymnasts all wore red eye makep one night last week.

And then, while ranting about how one of the Glamazons you work with stole your favorite pen, the same friend responds with this:

Kristin:  Just look at her blank faced with your vampire eyes and say "give me my pen."

Here's a pictorial of what prompted this outburst:

I promise it looked way worse in person.

Yeah, that would be another example of my immune system’s constant war against itself. Or, in this case, against my mascara.

In general, I'm the type of woman who puts just-enough effort into her everyday appearance. I shower regularly, try to tame my very wavy hair in some kind of passable style, wear basic makeup to work every day, avoid mixing black and navy and make sure that I have heels sticking out of my bag so that my fellow commuters know I am not completely fashion inept.

Despite these precautions, the Summer of 2012 will go down as, "The Summer I Stopped Caring."

Let's examine, shall we?

My faithful friend the Chi died back in April. Obviously, I took to Amazon in hopes of finding a new one for under $100. When this didn't happen, I assessed the situation objectively and realized, "My hair stays flat for two nanoseconds in the summer anyway," and therefore decided to hold off until the fall. Save for one blast of the roots after a mid-day spin class last week, nary a whisp of ionized heat has touched this mane in almost four months. You’d think this would be a good thing, but it’s not. Sure, my hair is shinier and softer and stuff, but I also spend half my time sporting a Bride of Frankenstein-meets-Hermione Granger vibe.

That's hot.

Moving on, allow me to discuss a predicament currently marring my existence: water weight gain. I know this is a problem for many women, and that I have a slight propensity for hyperbole, but I don't think I'm overstepping my bounds when I say that I bloat worse than anyone else I've ever met. We're talking "gained 10lbs in two days after eating a normal-sized portion of Easter ham" -style damage. If one more of my friends whines about how her pants feel moderately tight after chowing on a teryaki SmartOne the day before her period, I am going to flip my shit. For some perspective, the elasticized jeggings I shimmied my ass into this morning are a full two sizes larger than the Express jeans I wore to work on Friday -- and they are currently cutting me in half. If water weight gain were an Olympic sport, I could give Michael Phelps a run for his money. My solution to this problem has been an abundance of billowy skirts with elastic waists, leggings and an unfortunate amount of Andrew's clothing re-purposed to suit my feminine needs. Basically, I look like I clothe myself at the corner of Homeless Bum Drive and Destitute Vagrant Boulevard.

Don't even get me started on the state of my feet. Cute summer pedicures serve no purpose when your toes are perma-cased in an elastic sock that looks like you stole it from grandma's closet and grimy, four-year-old gym sneakers. The only reason I even took the time to slap a half-hearted coat of bright blue polish on my toes is because my physical therapist is forced to get all up close and personal with my metatarsals on a regular basis, and I know if I spent my entire day with other people's feet in my face, I'd prefer not to analyze the state of their fungus.(For the record, I do not have foot fungus, but I assume someone at PT does. And now I am more thankful than ever that I watch the interns Windex every bed when someone leaves).

All of this would be enough to send my self-esteem down the gutter, but now the ol' Vain Girl Gods have gone and taken my makeup from me. I managed to convince a doctor to prescribe me a steroid cream for my case of Flagrant Volturi Eyetis, which (thankfully) made the red dragon eyes go away. I then proceeded to ring up a smal fortune at Sephora replacing all of my hip, air-brush perfect eye makeup with the same safe, hypoallergenic brand I've been using since I was a teenager, and I had no problems using that over the weekend when I was only seen by people who have to love me anyway. Of course, after coming back in to work on Tuesday, fresh-faced as a Clinique commercial, my eyes started to water and burn after two hours at my desk. FOR THE LOVE OF MASCARA, CAN'T A GIRL CATCH A BREAK?!

All of this leads me to my current state, a true culmination of The Summer I Stopped Caring. Ridiculous topknot hair? Check. Unadorned face? Check. The kind of skinny jeans that makes passerby on the bus shake their heads and murmur, "oh, honey, no"? Check. Heinous footwear? Check.

Everyone and their mother seems to have taken off for vacation in August, so thankfully, no one has been around town to comment on my lack of grooming. I figure I have another month or so before someone bombards Stacy and Clinton with secret footage of me. In the meantime, I'll just be over here, continuing my quest to eradicate over-priced yoga pants one pair of Target crops at a time.

The Best Part of Waking Up

I have friends who actually wake up before the birds. On purpose. They like to call themselves "morning people"; I like to call them sadists. Either way, lately I have found myself being dragged, kicking and screaming, into their ranks. I don't like it.

Normally, I am not the type to spring out of bed when the alarm goes off, ready and willing to let the day take me wherever it goes. In fact, more often than not, my AM routine goes a little something like this:

6:00 - Andrew's alarm goes off
6:15 - "Today shall be the day I change a lifetime of rituals and actually drag my ass out of bed to workout!" alarm goes off.
7:00 - "Do I really need to shower?" alarm goes off.
7:25 -"Thank God for that collection of cute headbands, for I am a scrub" alarm goes off.
7:30 - "Leggings. Definitely leggings" alarm goes off.
7:35 - "Get your ass up or you are going to be late" alarm goes off.
7:40 - "NOIREALLYMEANITGETYOURASSOUTOFBEDNOW!!" alarm goes off.
7:41 - Grab cell phone. Peer at Facebook news feed through single bleary eye.
7:42 - Feel relief. No pressing social information passed the interwebz in sleep.
7:43 - Navigate to Boston.com. Eyes gradually un-squint.
7:44 - Read article about how science has not determined what impact use of technology by children will have.
7:46 - Rant about how technology will be downfall of society. Ask for weather.com forecast for local area.
7:47 - Think of Folger's commercial. Handsome man always looks so satisfied as he reads paper next to steaming mug of coffee and wife enjoys toast.
7:48 - Realize that daily ritual of reading free newspaper online in bed might be contributing to lack of fulfillment in life.Vow to do better.
7:49 - Check NextBus app to determine potential lateness-factor.
7:49:30 - Yikes.
7:52 - Put contacts on eyeballs, plug in hair straightener and wonder how much Southwest would charge for under-eye baggage while Sonicare does its thing.
7:55 - Put on outfit #1. Question when thighs became size of Easter hams.
8:01 - Scrutinize outfit #4. Wail that nothing fits; vow to lose 40 lbs by next week. Consider chopping off leg.
8:02 - Shimmy back into outfit #1.
8:07 - Finish straightening hair. Shiny!
8:09 - Poke eye with mascara wand. Determine no injury; decide Taylor Momson is perfectly good inspiration for makeup.
8:12 - Cram oatmeal down gullet while foraging for lunch options. Curse self for not pre-planning noontime meal.
8:15 - Toss three string cheeses, cup of grapefruit, raw sweet potato and peanut butter into trendy shoe store bag/lunchbox. Will make do.
8:21 - Stand outside door fumbling for keys. WHERE ARE ALL THE KEYS?!
8:22 - Find keys under umbrella/stapler/year's supply of vitamins in purse.
8:23 - Where is cell phone?
8:25 - Exit building. See T idling across road; sprint to make it. Curse at rude drivers who laugh.
8:26 - Settle into seat and mentally prepare for workday.

Yes, that about sums up my morning routine.

Which is why, you can imagine, the past few early Monday morning wake-up calls have been giving me fits and starts. Last week, I had to be up at 3:20 AM. Oh yes, you read that correctly; THREE. TWENTY. A. M. I had a work event in NYC at 10 am, and since it would have been $800 to fly, I ended up being booked into a 5:10 train out of South Station (recap of my insane NYC day forthcoming, promise!). Unfortunately, I never managed to get back on track, either rest-wise or food-wise, so last week became a sort of emotionally-charged no-man's land. A nervous breakdown yesterday and a good night's sleep later, and I got to do it all over again this morning with a 5:20 alarm for a 7am meeting.



I think I scared the baristo*at Starbucks when I stumbled into line, mumbling something about, "the beans. Just give me the beans. Chomp chomp chomp!". And by "think", I mean, "obviously," as he not only gave me the side-eye but frantically scrawled my name across the cup and thrust it to the coffee-man, shouting "AMERICANO! NEXT!!" and sweating profusely.
*(What *is* the masculine form of barista, anyway?) 

Don't get me wrong -- I love my job and realize how fortunate I am to have all the opportunities it affords me. It's just the early mornings that I hate. The truth is, I'd really like to become one of those morning sadists; it would be nice to be able to get my workouts in, or read that morning paper over a steaming cup of coffee, or perhaps even avoid looking like Godzilla as I tramp into work four out of five mornings a week. The problem is, I can't seem to ever get into the groove of waking up early without wanting to snap the heads off of the first fifty people with whom I come into contact. I've exhausted Google and tried all the old tricks, including gradually re-setting my internal clock, going to bed earlier and consistently waking up at the same time, regardless of how much sleep I've gotten.

Sadly, none of it seems to work. No matter what I do, or how many days in a row I rise with the dawn, I can't seem to drag my dead, defeated carcass about my day without contemplating exactly how gauche it would be to take a quick catnap under the conference table. Which I might or might not have done. Once. Ok, twice.

If any of my fellow alarm-clock curmudgeons have any tips on how they managed to morph themselves into those people we all love to hate, please, share the wealth! Or, you know, just commiserate on how unfair it is that there are people who actually wake up at the crack of dawn on purpose.

Now please excuse me while I go find my third cup of coffee.

Tips For Holiday Shopping: Part the First

First off, I want to wish each and every single one of the brave men and women who have and who continue to fight for our freedom here in the US a Happy Veteran's Day --- thank you so much for all that you do. My grandfather, an 88-year old World War II vet, is one of the most determined, inspiring and wise men I have ever known, and to him, I wish a particularly Happy Veteran's Day and heartfelt thank you for all that he has given to his country. We love you!

....There is no appropriate segue into the next topic, so on that note, let's just dive in.

So, as I was showering the other day and singing "Dominick the Donkey" (long story short: a homeless man had serenaded the entire green line train with it the night before... and now that you've remembered it exists, YOU try getting it out of your head), I realized that the holiday season is, crazily, almost upon us. The upsetting part here isn't that we are barely ten days into November and I am already pontificating on the true meaning of Christmas (and all other holiday seasons), but that this season inevitably brings about a minor panic attack, triggered entirely by my memories of holiday shopping hell.

You see, I worked in a major national department store from the age of 16 until I was 20. As anyone who has ever worked in retail can tell you, those four years basically qualified me for "Lifer" status -- a true honor, I assure you. I met some of my best friends and made some of my best memories at that job. In fact, I even chose it as the inspiration for my final work for my Creative Fiction class in college, aptly titled Retail Therapy. While serving my time as a credit-application shilling underling, I worked in every department but mens' suits, window dressing and catalog, including, but not limited to: shoes, stock, visual, lingerie, women's, kid's, petites, juniors, fine jewelry, fragrance, accessories and dresses. Fun fact about your author: I am qualified to fit you for both shoes and jewelry, and am also a certified bra fit specialist.

I know what you're thinking, and yes, I am a real blast at parties.

Aside from giving me the opportunity to hone these talents, my stint in retail taught me a lot about people in general. I know the prevailing thought is that nothing can teach you more about people than food service, but given my experience, I'd venture a guess that retail is a very close second... particularly around the holidays. Which is why I have taken it upon myself to offer up some tips for the upcoming holiday shopping season, from the perspective of a former retail slave employee:

- Don't bitch to the dude at the register about the Christmas music that started playing the day after Halloween. I'd be willing to wager any amount of money that the employees hate it even MORE than you do. Look, you're in the store for what, an hour, tops? Those poor saps are stuck there between four and a half and nine hours at a time, making $7/hr. Know how long that soundtrack lasts? Two hours. It's six years later and I can still sing "Frosty, the Snowman" in four different styles, including calypso. Don't even get me started on "Santa Baby." And remember: it's not Christmas music. It's Winter Holiday Sounds. 

- Trust me, I get as annoyed as you do when an item rings up at a higher price than the sign said it should, but that does not give you a license to take it out on the clerk. As a consumer, this is one of the most frustrating aspects of shopping. You get all excited over a seemingly too-good-to-be-true purchase, get to the register, and BAM! The item rings up at twice the price you expected. Quel horreur! Just remember: it isn't the sixteen year old behind the register's fault; the store has an entire stock/pricing/visual team in charge of these things. Homegirl is just trying to scrape enough pennies together to afford a really fancy date with her boyfriend. At Chili's.

- Don't assume that the creepy man selling you your shoes has a secret life as a pervert. He might just be really socially awkward, and his colleagues might be in the midst of a plot to set him up with the crotchedy old cat lady from the lingerie department (true story).

- Also, don't assume that the person behind that counter is any less intelligent and/or accomplished than you are. There is this pervasive mentality from before the dot-com bust that retail = college dropouts/teenagers/lower middle-upper lower class. In the event that you haven't read Bitter is the New Black, by my idol, Jen Lancaster (in which case, why are we even friends?), let me enlighten you: Times are tough. A lot of people lost everything when the market crashed and are now doing anything to try to make ends meet. Aside from the facts that it's the holiday season AND there is never a reason to treat anyone like shit, keep in mind that your condescending 'tude could be directed at the former head of a company who is one step away from climbing back to the top... where he could become your boss. Plus, it's just rude.

- Parents, don't threaten your kids with, "the lady is going to get mad at you" unless you want me to tell your kid he just won a free supply of  chocolate bars, then hand him a bag full of the sugary goodness left over from a previous Willy Wonka-style sale. This used to drive. me. NUTS. While adorable little Johnny is spitting in little sister Susie's face, causing her shrieks and snarls to echo throughout the cavernous walls of the store, please don't tell them to behave, "or the lady will yell at you." This rule is multiplied by infinity when it comes to you asking me to "tell him! If he doesn't behave, you're going to send all of his clothes right back to those racks!". I don't have kids for a reason, and I sure as hell am not going to discipline yours. Parent already.

There are plenty more, which I am working on compiling into a second post, but those are five of the more valuable nuggets of wisdom that I have to bestow upon my fellow holiday shoppers. I urge you to keep them in mind over the next seven weeks or so, and to remember to treat others as you would want to be treated. Which is why I am now going to leave you with a little something that someone recently left me.



Hee-haw! Hee-haw!

Letters from a Mid-20s Blogger to the Universe at Large

WTF?! Letters of the Day:

To the World:
WHY didn't anyone tell me that Pretty Little Liars is like Gossip Girl on steroids?! I spent all summer with a severe lack of pretty, entitled teens getting hammered, boning inappropriate people and stabbing each other in the back. Jersey Shore doesn't count because they're too old.
WTF?!
Team Alison,
C

To the Creepy Man on the B Line Giggling to Himself:
WHAT WAS YOUR DEAL?! I don't know what was so funny, but hiding your face in your hands and laughing hysterically at random intervals makes you a prime candidate for "Serial Killer of the Day". I'll keep an eye out for you on next week's installment of To Catch a Predator.
WTF?!
I don't want to end up in your basement,
C

To My Right Contact Lens:
Did the barometric pressure eff around with the pH balance in your little chamber last night? Stabbing me in the eye repeatedly throughout the morning is not the best way to get my attention. Or maybe it is, since I'm writing a note to an inanimate object currently resting on my eyeball.
Still, WTF?!
Only Jen Lancaster and I are allowed to feel stabby,
C

To The Literate Universe:
It's SUPPOSED to, not suppose to; it's USED to, not use to; it's 'TIL not till; it's OF COURSE, not course; it's COULDN'T CARE LESS, not could care less, and for the love of holy oatmeal (yes, I went there), figure out when to use "and I" and "and me".
Again, I ask you: WTF?!
An ED isn't bad when it's tacked on the end of a verb,
C

To Self:
White sweater + White tank - Coat + Torrential downpour =
WTF?!
Transparently Yours,
C

To All the Bloggers Whining About Positivity:
If you all harnessed the energy being devoted to writing about how the h8ers gon' h8, you could probably fuel a wind turbine or some other eco-friendly device. Just sayin'.
WTF?!
It's my blog and I'll bitch if I want to,
C

To the Jorts-Wearing Hipster on the Bus:
No. Just.... no.
For the last time, WTF?!
You'll thank me later,
C

And now some Love Letters:

To Steph:
Thank you so much for the shout-out on your blog yesterday! That was seriously one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about my writing/this blog. I can't wait for pumpkin beer!
No WTF,
C

To All My Readers:
Not be confused with All My Children. Thanks for being awesome. You all rock.
No WTF,
C

And none for Gretchen Wieners.