Miss Guided

Dear Person Who Stole My Mail:

I would like to remind you that tampering with someone else’s mail is a federal offense. There’s jail time and shit. Also, you hurt my feelings. There’s no jail time for that, but there should be because hurt feelings are the worst. THE WORST. Hurt feelings cause me to make bad snack choices and strange purchases, okay? 

Getting good mail is one of life’s greatest pleasures, even if you have to order it for yourself and pay $4 for shipping. But somehow having to track down that thing you ordered for yourself seems really sad, you know?

So I came THIS close to tracking you down and slipping peanuts and wheat into your coffee on the off chance you’re allergic to peanuts or gluten. I wanted my bases covered because I was SO MAD. (I’m sorry if you’re allergic to peanuts or gluten, and especially if you’re allergic to both because, wow, that’s got to suck. You can’t eat a peanut butter sandwich, dude. That’s another of life’s greatest pleasures because it’s simple and delicious. And if you’re also lactose intolerant I’m just glad you haven’t killed yourself already. I know would if I were you.)

Anyway, I wasn’t actually going to try to kill you via food allergy, but I wanted a compelling way to communicate the severity of the situation so you learn for next time. 

Now that my mail is in my hands, I want to say thanks for giving in to those gut-wrenching feelings of guilt and anonymously dropping my mail off with someone else. Or for trying to be nice by picking up all the third-floor mail and accidentally dropping it off with someone you thought was me. Whatever, same thing.

I hope you’ve learned your lesson.

Sincerely, 

Girl Who Reacts Inappropriately to Everything.

I had a dream last night that I peed all over myself and then got attacked by a bear. What does that mean? I didn’t even pee myself because the bear was attacking me. I just, like, peed myself for no reason. And then the bear ate my nose, which is just stupid because I barely have a nose. He really would have had to twist his head all in there to get it, like when you’re bobbing for apples and trying to get hold of that stupid half-broken stem. I don’t get it.

When your dog has accidentally been overmedicated by your loving and well-meaning mom, and you have to watch him for signs that he might be dying or something, you WILL have dreams about disgusting things coming out of him that are way grosser than anything that could ever actually come out of him. I just thought you guys would like to know that. Cowboy seems fine, by the way. The medication has not affected his incredible good looks at all. 

You guys, Toby’s mother just called! His own mother! She demanded to know who I was when I said this was not Toby’s number, so I gave her the same spiel I gave the Greyhound lady about not knowing who the hell Toby is, and she said this was the number he gave her. (So I guess the Greyhound package was probably from her and not Toby’s grandma after all).

Then she told me she was Toby’s mother and she got all embarrassed and felt the need to point out that, yes, she had spoken to Toby within the last year and a half, in case I was wondering. You know, to confirm to me, this total stranger, that she’s not a bad mother to Toby. So now I think Toby didn’t win the lottery at all. He’s running away! Maybe he’s in the Witness Protection Program and he now goes by Marcus and he’s not even living in Mexico. Maybe he’s in the apartment right across the hall from me, or in Delaware or something. This just got a whole lot more intriguing.

Toby, give your mother your phone number. What are you, an animal? C’mon, man. Be nice to your mom. She sounds really sweet.  And British.

My boyfriend just sent me an email about tomorrow’s cold(ish) forecast.

What it actually said:  ”Not great weather for golf. I’d rather cook than have to wear a sweater”

What I read: “I’d rather cook for you while you sit in front of a fireplace wearing a sweater.” 

I’m not even exaggerating. I actually read that, and thought, “Oooooh!!!!! I would love that!” I think I was meant to live in a cabin in the mountains somewhere where it’s a mild winter every day. But I would definitely vacation somewhere where the hot sun beats down on the beach every day. Is that too much to ask?

Dear Toby:

You’re overdue for an eye exam, several headhunters are interested in employing you for a lot of money (I’m basing this solely on their persistence and the fact that I’m pretty sure one lady put on a fake British accent to sound more posh), your credit card company has an exciting new opportunity for you, and now you have a package at Greyhound. 

The last (and only) time we spoke, you were sunning yourself on a beach in Mexico, where you said you’d decided on a whim to live forever, and I had just received the 118th call about a house you were selling online. “Whoops,” you said. “I must have put my old phone number in the ad. I’m really sorry about that.”

Your summer-sunshine tone made me feel rude for being so annoyed that I was getting your phone calls, so I said it was no biggie. Mistakes happen, right? Now It’s just occurred to me that you probably (definitely) won the lottery. That’s why you were so happy, and why it didn’t matter one bit to you that potential home buyers had no way to actually reach you. It also explains why your credit card company is so eager to offer you an extraordinary opportunity to spend with them, while my credit card company refuses to raise my limit. 

So two things, Tobes: 1) Do you want to give me a small cut of that lottery money for acting as your secretary for the last year and a half? And 2) Just because dolla dolla bills are falling from your swim trunk pockets does not mean it’s okay to neglect your eye health or miss a birthday package from your Grandma. Know that.

Sincerely,

Jodi (aka, the girl who got your old phone number after you won the lottery).