Tuesday, October 9, 2012

The me the spam sees

Be honest. Have you ever actually looked at your spam emails, before hitting select all/delete? I really hadn't. Until today. And I was appalled by the opinion some seem to have of me, so I really couldn't resist the urge to set the record straight.

To the spammers who think they know me so well:

I have no plans to go back to school. I do not want a degree in criminal law, elementary education, preschool education, special education or child welfare. I do not need more stamina in the bedroom or while I’m running, and I’m not worried about my penis getting larger. I don’t know any rich uncle in Nigeria who may have died and left me vast sums of money. I did not order a power wheelchair. I don’t believe that there are that many child predators living near me. I’m not depressed or a compulsive shopper. I am not Hispanic and my digestive health is not in trouble. I could use a little laser hair removal, but not to the degree you seem to think is required. If you can’t spell "terminated" then I don’t believe you have access to my checking account, or the power to "terminalate" it. I do not need to battle substance abuse unless it’s saying no to a glass of wine after I read through all these ridiculous emails. I am not on Medicare. My dog doesn’t have fleas. My credit score didn’t change. I’m not incontinent or looking for a hot married man who wants to fool around. I do not have any undiagnosed skin disorders or sensory malfunctions. Plantars warts do not plague me, I do not poop by mistake when I run or wet my pants when I laugh and I do not feel personally responsible for the plight of the sea turtles or the problems with the ozone.

Spammers, send me the emails about free burritos. Send me the sales, the free shipping, and let that email telling me I’m the snack mom for the soccer game sneak on through.

But unless you sent the email that breathily announced, "207 local bitches wanna f**k" because you know I’m thinking about getting a puppy, you're really just not hitting your target audience.

Monday, October 1, 2012

ISO a sister wife

Sometimes every decisive bone in my body leaves me and I can’t make up my mind about things. Not big things, but little things. Like what to have for dinner. Or if I should go for a run. Or what to wear. On those occasions, I need a judge. Someone who will say, decisively, "Chicken. Yes. Black pants."

Such an indecisive moment came last Thursday night, when I was getting dressed to go out to dinner for a friend’s birthday. I stood, wrapped in a towel, surveying my closet for a full ten minutes before giving up and pulling on the old standby, a "safe" dress that’s really comfortable.

Me to Whit: So? How do I look?

Whit, barely glancing up from his iPhone: Fine.

I sigh and start taking off the dress.

Whit: What’s wrong with the dress?

Me: It’s "fine."

Whit rolls his eyes. This is an old argument, and he knows better than to defend the use of the f-word.

I look through my closet again.

Me: Hmmm...dress, or jeans and a sequined top?

Whit: Jeans.

Me: Boots?

Whit: Sure. Boots.

Me: Brown or black? Inside the jeans or outside?

Whit: Geez, I don’t know. Outside?

Me: The dark dark dark jeans or the dark dark ones?

Whit: I’m not even answering that.

Me, clattering down the stairs, out the front door, and barging into my neighbor’s kitchen: Does this (indicate my entire body) work?

Neighbor: No. Hold on. Did you shave your armpits?

She runs upstairs and gets an adorable sleeveless shirt. I whip off the sequined top and put on her shirt.

Her dog starts barking.

Whit is standing at her front door, threatening to go to the restaurant without me.

"Oh, for God’s sake. I’m COMING."

I run outside.

Whit: Nope.

Me: Damnit!

I text the birthday girl. “Dress I always wear, or jeans and a cute top?”

She texts back “dress.”

I run up the stairs taking off the borrowed shirt.

Whit shakes his head at me, pours a glass of wine and turns on the TV.

I come down the stairs in the dress I started with 30 minutes ago.

"Which earrings?"

"Black and white or silver?"

"Whit? Can you hear me??"

He turns up the volume on the TV and doesn’t answer me.

"Boots or heels? Last question. I promise."

He plugs his ears and starts humming.

I move toward the door, as if I’m walking back over to the neighbor’s house.

"Okay, okay!" he cries. "Dress. Boots. Black and white earrings. You look beautiful. You’ve never looked prettier. Can we please go now?"

Me, finally placated: Yes. And you could have said that 30 minutes ago and saved us all this drama.

Whit: I will never understand women.

Me: This is exactly why I need a sister wife.

Whit: What the hell are you talking about?

I’m moving to Utah.

And bringing my closet with me.