Dear So and So: The Crabby Edition

Somehow this week I ran across Dear So and So, and it fits for today.

Dear So and So...

Dear Mother Nature: If you insist on 60 degree temps and rain in July, then you’d damned well better pony up some 60 degree temps and sun in February.

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Dear Denver Post: I canceled my daily subscription several days ago and yet there is still a paper on my lawn every morning. Wanna know why newspapers are a dying breed? Because you are giving me something I don’t want and am not paying for.

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Dear Yellow Pages: Ever hear of that newfangled thing, the Internets? It’s awesome…I can get addresses and phone numbers on it. Ads, too. Stop delivering a new phone book every couple of months, I don’t need it, I don’t want it, and I’ve requested several times that you stop.

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Dear uterus: I know you wield great power; I was there when those squalling sons of mine came tearing out of the vajayjay, courtesy of your strength. But with great power comes great responsibility. If you don’t knock off the god-damned display of strength and power every month, I’m going to rip you out with my bare hands and feed you to the neighborhood coyotes.

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Dear stiff neck: Really? Are you in cahoots with the uterus? Knock it the hell off.

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Dear Verizon Wireless, you have six weeks to offer the Apple iPhone 3Gs before I jump ship. No, the Blackberry Storm isn’t the same; I know it isn’t, you know it isn’t, market share knows it isn’t. September 12th I get my iPhone. You offer it before then, I’ll stay with you. Otherwise, sayonara.

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Dear medical profession, part one: For the love of all things holy, figure out WTF is wrong with my son’s digestive system. Don’t keep shuttling us from one doctor to another. It’s been eight years and he’s still stopped up like a bad sewer. Roto Rooter refuses to work on kids, I’ve called.  Homeopathy is working to a point, but then you order an x-ray and we see that it’s not working enough. Don’t then freak me the hell out, ordering us to yet another specialist, with instructions to effin’ finally get him evaluated for Hirschprung’s. And while you’re at it, can we figure out the whole ADHD thing? Oh, and when I call today to get the results of Tuesday’s blood test, have a freaking answer for me. Kindly do NOT freak me the hell out again and direct us to yet another specialist. His medical records have already killed a small forest, and our insurance company is going to notice us soon. I do not want us “noticed.”

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Dear medical profession, part two: Hi. Remember me? The one who keeps calling to find out why she’s so exhausted, keeps gaining weight (the clothes I bought at the beginning of the summer are getting too small), is depressed/cranky/anxious, and is convinced her thyroid is borked despite her numbers being “normal?” Care to return my effing calls? Should my son and I look into getting a 2 for 1 at the Mayo Clinic? Don’t make me go all postal. And I’m so nice, I’d go postal not on you, but on me, and frankly, my liver just can’t handle that level of tequila.

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Dear medical profession, part three: Thank you for catching Tom’s case of shingles on Monday, before he was contagious. My immune system is pissed at me and I had chicken pox so badly as a child that shingles would take me downdowndown. He’s doing much better now.

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Dear skin: I am not 13. I am not 45. Please knock off the blemishes and wrinkles. You’re not funny. Give me a couple of years of decent skin. I ask not much.

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Dear Gifted Development Center: The best thing I could hear this afternoon at A’s post-testing conference is you’re not crazy…he’s definitely twice-exceptional…visual-spatial learner for sure…we can help you. If I hear anything less, I may cry right there in the meeting, and I really don’t want to do that.
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Dear universe: Throw me a rope here. I have one foot in the crazy hole and one on a banana peel. Stop throwing crap at me. I have so much crap on me right now I look like a Jackson Pollock painting. I keep thinking if I drop this and I drop that, then I’ll be able to cope better. And then I realized that you’re not playing nice. I don’t need to drop everything to cope, you need to quit throwing miscellaneous shit at me for giggles.
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Love and kisses,
Jen
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