An Open Letter

An Open Letter to the Neighbor that has Decided to Take Up Carpentry at Eight in the Morning

Dear Neighbor,

Why? Why are you doing this to me? Why do you think it is appropriate to power up your buzzsaw or jackhammer or vibrating hammer or whatever it is that makes that sound at the crack of dawn? Well, I suppose to some eight in the morning isn’t exactly the crack of dawn, but to me and the plethora of other college kids in the neighborhood it might as well be! And to me, at such an early time such as 8am, the sound of your power tools sounds like hell’s gates screeching open, it sounds like cast iron claws slicing down a rusty chalkboard with a touch of Janice’s laughter on “Friends.” In short, it sounds really, really annoying.

What are you even doing up there? And why can’t it wait until 10, maybe even 9am? In polite society, one always waits until at least 9am to call an acquaintance and this rule should go double for loud, piercing noises. And I know for a fact that you do not need all day to accomplish your task. You do not need to start at 8am so that you may finish by a respectable time at night. And how do I know this? Because you finished by 9:30! All buzzing and screeching ceased in an hour and a half, which is not so long you need all day, but not so short that I am actually able to fall back asleep. Are you happy about that? Huh, buddy? I could have figured out the cure for Ebola that day, but my mind was too sleep addled and unfocused for the entire rest of the morning and afternoon and it is your fault. People are dying because of you. You monster.

Listen, I can take solo dubstep parties at 3 in the morning that shake the ceiling of my room, because I am up anyway watching bad anime. I can take the nightly feng shui/you moving around all of your furniture, also at 3 in the morning, because, again, I am up watching anime. I can even take the smell of weed that periodically wafts in from upstairs down through my bedroom window. What I will not tolerate though, is being woken up from my deep slumber, and being pulled out of my pleasant dream of Michael Fassbender serving me an ice cream sundae in nothing but denim shorts. I will never get that dream back and I was just getting to the good part too! I hadn’t even seen the back of him in those denim dream shorts! I love Michael Fassbender and you are a dick for tearing us apart.

What are you even building up there? An ark? A complete replica of the Trojan Horse? Whatever it is, you better share it with me. Because you and me? We’re in this together now. I am a part of your construction project whether you like it or not, pal. I mean, at this point, I basically feel like I built the damn thing myself! Whatever it is you’re building. I feel that by waking up at such a ridiculous time, I have put the most effort into creating this mystery thing. So whatever it is, I want it. Even if it’s a rack for all of your dudebro hats, or a crate to store murdered bodies in. Give it to me. It’s mine now.




Sincerly,


Your Hot Neighbor that Lives Downstairs

Pet Peeves

Everyone has an unofficial list of pet peeves/things I hate, so I thought I’d give you guys a sampling of mine. So now none of you will have any excuse to annoy me.




1. Fitted mattress sheets. So you know when you’re sleeping, and in the middle of the night one of the corners of your fitted sheet pops over the corner of the mattress and sidles under your leg or torso like an unwanted lover? I. Hate. That. You’re just sleeping on your nice Target sheets and suddenly you feel the caress of your scratchy, dirty, naked mattress. You try to inch away from it and position your body in such a way that no skin touches the wretched mattress but to no avail. It’s disgusting and I hate it. And for those of you thinking, Well there’s an easy solution to that Emma, why don’t you just put it back over the mattress? Problem Solved. Well, what’s it like being perfect, hypothetical reader!? Hmmm!? Listen here know-it-all, at three in the morning, I do not the possess the mental capacity or physical stamina for putting the last corner of a fitted sheet over the mattress. I barely possess those qualities in the light of day. And this is why I buy sheets that are three sizes too large for my bed.




2. When your internet is slow and you’ve been loading an episode of your favorite show all day, and then you press Ctrl-T to open a new tab but your finger accidentally pressed the “R” instead and it refreshes the whole page. And then you just have watch as your internet churns to rip away all of your hard work and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.




3. When I’m buying a ticket at the movie theatre and the ticket person is like, “Enjoy your movie!” And I automatically go, “You too!” GODDAMMIT. DON’T SAY THAT TO ME, TICKET PERSON. We both know what is going to happen when you say that, you sick fuck. How dare you make me look the fool.




4. When I ask someone if they need help like, washing the dishes or cleaning up, setting the table etc. and they say “yes.” No, no this was not meant to happen. I was just saying that to be nice. You aren’t actually supposed to accept my help. I don’t want to get off the couch, I was just being polite. Please don’t make me do things.




5. Cats. I’m not a fan.




6. I’m not a fan of birds either.




7. When I’m trying to watch a show on a questionable website and on every side of the page are ads for hot singles in my areas or Russian mail order brides. Listen, internet, when I want to meet a hot milf in my area, I will search for such, but in the mean time, the gyrating hips of the the double D Ukranian are nice, but very distracting.




8. My hypochondria. I am an avid hypochondriac and I literally think every little blemish or out of place ache/pain is some sort of life-threatening illness or infection. For example, if I have a small rash on my face, I’ll WebMd my symptoms and it will tell me I either have a common case of heat rash, or some sort of terminal disease that is only prevalent in men who visited China during the 1920s. And I will be certain that I have the terminal disease, every time no matter the circumstance. It is extremely exhausting for me and my doctor who has to tell me over the phone time and time again, “No, Emma, it’s just not possible for you to have prostate cancer.”




9. When I smile at a classmate or an acquaintance on the street and they don’t smile back. Like, excuse you, I’m not just smiling all willy nilly here, I am doing you a service. I am doing this for you. Smile back, assholes!


10. The fact that I can’t think of a tenth pet peeve or thing I hate.

The Smoky Gentleman's Bar

When you start living in your very own apartment with your very own rent to pay, you quickly come to the startling realization that the internet, gas, electricity and other living necessities are not in fact free. I’m not sure why I never realized this, but it probably has something to do with the fact that I am a spoiled brat. The very worst part about these new responsibilities is the fact that each one of them must be mailed. With an envelope and stamp and everything. There was a time when mailing things were fun. Writing to pen pals and licking the weird sticky stuff closed. But now it is just another reason why I have to get out of my bed and leave the house. Which I hate.




In my household, I was in charge of paying the bill for our internet. And in true Emma fashion I waited until I got a two weeks notice telling me that if I didn’t pay the bill within the next two weeks, my internet would be shut off. It was at this point that I began to become somewhat concerned. Not concerned enough to mail it right away, but concerned enough that I would maybe at least think about mailing it if the opportunity arises. The opportunity did not arise and I promptly forgot about the crumpled up bill stuck to the bottom of my purse.




Of course it all came flooding back to me after class on the last day of the two week notice warning. The time for fooling around had come to an end and I scurried around campus trying to find a mailbox. Which I could not find, despite the fact that in my Senior year I have now spotted not one but three mailboxes in the school’s immediate vicinity. My only answer as to why I couldn’t find one then is because I must have been blind with panic or I’m just an idiot. It is most likely the latter.



So I ran up to a friend in the cafeteria minding her own business and frantically asked for the closest post office location which was luckily just down the street from my school. Now, I walked down this street that the aforementioned post office was apparently located and could not find a single sign that any post office had ever been there. I looked everywhere! There was one building I kept passing by that I then assumed, in my desperation, must be the post office. It was a squat, run down brick building with dusty, boarded up windows and a large sign that was just a bunch of numbers. But far be it from me to judge a post office on its outer appearance. So I approached the large, thick rusty green doors and found them to be locked shut. Which made no sense seeing as all post offices should have been open at the time. It was then that I noticed a small black box off to the side of the door with a button that I then pressed, assuming that I had to be buzzed in to get through. It was at this point I probably should have realized that there are no post offices in America that you need to be buzzed into. But as I mentioned before, I am an idiot.




About a minute later the rusted box unleashed a demon-like screech, signifying that I could now go in, which I did, because did I mention that I am an idiot? Upon opening the creaky doors, there are a set of stairs with moldy-green carpeting, which I suspect did not start out green. The further I crept down the stairs, crumpled bill in hand, the air around me got smokier and more stagnant and I still suspected that nothing was wrong. I just thought that this was a very unconventional post office. I was like, way to go post office, breaking the social norms, good for you.




After walking down about six flights of stairs, I ended up in some sort of bar that was inhabited by a bunch of very overweight, very old white men, smoking cigars and drinking whiskey. It was at this point that I became slightly wary about my certainty that this was a post office. But still, I was not completely convinced. Maybe this was some sort of post office with a bar or something. And if so, it was about damn time, amiright? As I peered into the room where lofty business ideas and good father/son relationships go to die, the bartender came up to me and asked in a very thick Boston accent, “What do ya need, sweethaht?” Then, in a very confused, very pathetic voice I asked, “Is this the post office?” To which he replied, “Yeah, what do ya need mailed?” Now, this answer confused me because at this point the ratio of surety about this not being the post office had definitely shifted towards the “this is probably not the post office” side. So I was all like, “really?” And then he looked at me like he was confused and slightly impressed that I was even able to make it down the stairs without killing myself because I am obviously that stupid. Apparently he was being sarcastic, which was totally unfair because I was vulnerable and very gullible and hasn’t anyone ever told him that you shouldn’t lie to innocent girls about the state of their bar/post office situation? Then he gave me a very firm, “No.” Then I left.




I never did find the post office that day. My bill was eventually mailed thanks to me going to my parent’s house for the weekend and “accidentally” leaving it there so they had no choice but to mail it for me.




Apparently the post office I was looking for was located inside of an apartment complex, which I found out about two weeks later. And the post office sign was being hidden by a giant, stupid tree, which is why I couldn’t find it. You win again, Mother Nature, you vindictive bitch.






(UPDATE: My roommates have corrected me on the fact that I was not in a “Smoky Gentleman’s Bar” as there is no such thing and also we do not live in a Fred Astaire movie, but rather I was in a “Veteran’s Bar.” A what? Are they saying that veterans get their own bars? Are people that didn’t fight in wars not allowed in? Are the bars war specific? Like, there’s one bar for the Vietnam war veterans and one probably less crowded bar across the street for WW2 veterans? I mean sure, they’re heroes or whatever but why do they get their own bar? Why don’t I, a privileged middle class white girl, get her own bar? I have to deal with periods on a monthly basis, shouldn’t I at least get like, a corner of a bar or something? Maybe a VIP booth at Chuckee Cheese? I mean, I highly doubt that even one of those men in that “Veteran’s Bar” had ever menstruated in their entire life. Totally unfair.)

Death of a Sales Squirrel

When I was in 3rd grade, for father’s day one year my mom decided to buy my father a hamster as a gift. Now, I don’t know what my father every did to my mother to deserve this sort of betrayal but, there are some things worth not knowing. Buying a domesticated rodent and putting it in our house is literally the worst gift anyone can give my dad. Give my dad a wild skunk freezing to death in the snow out in our backyard and he’ll spend 6 hours and ruin one of our good hair dryers trying to save it, but buy him a hamster from PetCo? No way. There is no way in this universe or any alternate universe or timeline where buying my father a hamster would be an appropriate gift.


So after careful consideration, and an appropriate amount of whining from yours truly, the hamster was passed down to me. I was not going to waste this opportunity. I was going to bestow upon this animal the most bitchin’ name ever. You ready for this name? Doorknob. It was perfect. Because he loved burrowing in his little wooden house! And how do you get into a house? With a doorknob. I thought I was so freaking clever. No child on this earth, past, present or future, has ever come up with such a truly unique name such as ‘Doorknob.’ I thought that I had just really outdone myself.


Anyway, I got bored of the thing or forgot about it because we put its cage behind the tv and at that point it was just out of sight out of mind for me. So of course my dad ended up taking care of it. It then died of some weird hamster disease like, three weeks later. Probably because its cage was behind the tv. Yeah, so I didn’t really care, probably because I’m a psychopath or something, but my mom had moved on to bigger, better things. I guess in her mind it was like, yeah that hamster was fun and everything but overall pretty boring. You know what wouldn’t be boring? A hamster. That can fly. And that’s how our family purchased our second pet, a flying squirrel.


The “Exotic Pet Store” lived on the outskirts of our Westchester suburb and was a decrepit business that was most likely a front for selling illegal, expensive fish to the mafia or possible evil villains from 90’s anime shows.


Here is an example of what their business model entails. I vividly remember being there once so my friend’s dad could buy live crickets for his lizard. Ew. Anyway, I stalked past the parrots and chinchillas to the back of the store to admire the hamsters, which were more my speed. The store owned about 20 to 30 hamsters, all of which were in one, very small fish tank. Which was sad but, I can assure you all of these hamsters are dead by now. If that helps. I noticed one hamster off to the side, recreating the melted nazi’s scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark. In layman's terms, it was most definitely dead. So I called over an employee, a pizza-face teenager who looked like a stereotypical pizza delivery boy who wandered in and just decided to stay, and told him the hamster was dead in a condescending tone only a ten year old could maintain. He then peered into the cage with glassy eyes and announced, “Nah, he’s just sleeping.”

To which I answered, “Don’t hamsters usually breathe when they sleep?” With the smug superiority of some sort of animal expert, as if I were Jane Goodall herself. He then looked at the cage closer, past his pot-induced haze and finally agreed with me. He then, took the sickly hamster out of its cage, with his bare hands and threw it in the open trash can next to the cage. I just stood there as he walked away to probably (not) wash his hands, repulsed and slightly shocked. This fine establishment is where we purchased our very own Sugar glider.

This is not a picture of our actual sugar glider. We do not own a picture

of our sugar glider, because we were not one of those families of annoying

pet owners that take zillions of pictures of their animals in costumes

and whatever. We are those annoying pet owners that inadvertently kill

their own pets.

I don’t remember the exact day our sugar glider was brought home, probably because I was so excited that I entered some sort of hyperactive, glee filled fog. Her name was Cloudy and the entire family fell head over heels in love with her. Except for my dad of course. He was probably still bitter about that whole, hamster thing. And the fact that no one told him beforehand about the sugar glider purchase.


The next few months were a blur of feeding Cloudy carrots and attacking my frightened friends with her flying powers. It was a good few months. Until we eventually got tired of taking care of her. Having a sugar glider is hard work, though! Or at least, I assume it is, I’ve never actually taken care of one. My job was to pet her occasionally and brag about her to my friends. So really, I cannot be blamed for this whole fiasco.


There comes a time in every child’s life when they must face, head-on, the inevitability of death. Doorknob did not count because I did not really care about Doorknob because, c’mon, its name was Doorknob. How could you love a hamster named Doorknob? Cloudy was beloved though. She made funny chittering noises and she possessed the capability of flight. Cloudy was awesome, right up until the day that she died.


I would like to say that Cloudy died an admirable death, but that would be a dirty, dirty lie. It was a normal evening in our household. I was working on the next great American novel, which for me was a book solely illustrated with dogs and no words. My sister was upstairs looking for Cloudy, as she had not been seen in a few hours. At this point in Cloudy’s stay at our house, we got tired of looking after her as we let her fly around, so we just let her soar on her own, curtain to curtain, lampshade to lampshade, never predicting that something terrible could come of this. I was downstairs on page two of my dog book, when I heard my eight year old sister’s blood curdling scream. My mother and I raced upstairs to see what had happened, but we both knew, in our hearts, that something had happened to Cloudy. We rushed into the bathroom, where my sister stood shell-shocked, and saw Cloudy, eyes lifeless, legs splayed, floating face first in the toilet.


The next few minutes was filled with frantic hands all trying to fish Cloudy of the toilet, while my dad stood unhelpfully to the side telling us that we should have taken “better care of her,” and that he, “knew this would happen.” Oh really, dad? You knew that our flying squirrel was going to one day fly into and subsequently drown in our upstairs bathroom toilet? You just called that one, huh? Good for you.


After Cloudy’s death, my family (sans my father) mourned her death. After fishing her out in toilet, she was buried in our backyard, in a shoebox. A nice shoebox though, like an Aldo’s or something, not a Payless shoe box, because we loved her and Payless sucks. We didn’t have a tombstone and we were too lazy to make her one, so my sister and I used a broken periwinkle colored pencil that we found on the floor as her grave marker. She was indeed a cherished pet. Goodbye Cloudy. Rest in Pieces.

Trash Queen

When moving back in with your parents, one expects there to be a certain amount of luxury involved with the new living situation. One would expect free food, free internet, free laundry and magically clean bathrooms. What one would not foresee however, is a tiny trash can the size of my head that is the sole trash can of the household. This trash can was ridiculous. It needed to be taken out at least 3056720 times a day and every time I bent down to throw something away I would bang my head on the above cabinet, then get blamed for said bumping of the head because I was not “careful enough.” It was tearing our family apart.


Being the talented, special, amazing and responsible adult I am, I decided to venture out on my own and buy my family a trash can. I would say though that 80% of this reasoning was due to the fact that I thought it would win points with my parents and therefore letting me take four hour naps whenever I wanted to without being yelled at. I do not appreciate being yelled at during my precious nap time. So, armed with my money that I earned at my job I ventured out into the cold, uncaring world and walked 10 minutes into town to begin my trash can adventure.



The first stop was at CVS where I found no trash can, but rather a Brita filter that we so desperately needed, for I was tired of opening the fridge to about eight half-filled water bottles that people have obviously been slobbering all over. Point one to Emma for taking the initiative to buy her family their very own Brita filter with her very own money without being asked to do so a million times. I wasn’t even asked once. Your welcome, family. And so, feeling good about myself and my Brita filter I ventured off to find the perfect trash can.






Fast forward three hours and four stores later and I was still trashcan-less. Tensions were running high as I scoured every shelf of every story I could think of that might possibly have a trash can. The desperation began to leak into the very core of my being. I began eyeing the public trash cans scattered around the block, just sitting there, begging to sit in my kitchen. My dream was quickly dashed however when I realized they were chained to the sidewalk. Why on earth would they do this? Who would steal a giant disgusting public trash can and lug it home? Where was the trust? So this plan was out of the question. Besides, I would have felt bad stealing what was most likely a homeless person’s and/or the grouch’s home.



One last stop and I was desperate. The Dollar Store. Where your dreams go to either thrive...or die.


I stalked to the back of the store, past the tired looking cashier, probably exhausted from a night of murdering people and stuffing them in dumpsters, as Dollar Store employees are wont to do. Then, hallelujah! All of my hard work and suffering has paid off! On the top of the highest shelf, in the deepest depths of the store, like a princess from a fairy tale, was an adequate sized trash can. I had never, in my life, been happier to see a container for holding garbage. It was a momentous occasion in what I am now realizing is a very sad life.


I jumped and flailed, shimmying the trash can off its perch while refusing help from anyone who dared to ask. This was my journey, a quest that I must finish alone. As I finally got the container down, I peered inside and noticed that the lid for the can was not the correct one for the item. I then promptly decided, “whatever” and lugged it to the front of the store. Who needs proper working lids anyway?


At the cash register, I triumphantly put my prize on the counter and waited for the cashier to ring me up. However, instead of a nice, quiet transaction, I got this. 

“Are you single?” Asked the middle aged, balding, (probable) serial killer. Tell him no, I thought, tell him you have a boyfriend, tell him you’re gay, tell him you are a robot incapable of love and human relationships. Saying those things out loud are for sane people though so I answered, “Yeah, I’m single.” I then waited for the typical answer, “Can I get your number?” or even a casual, “Oh yeah? What’s up?” But instead, I got….silence. That was the end of his line of questioning. I just stood there, baffled and actually slightly put out, because, oh what? Am I not good enough for you, Dollar Store cashier man? Did you suddenly change your mind in the middle of my honest answer? Are honest, single girls a turn off for you? What did I do wrong? As he rung me up though, I started to cool off, think about things rationally. Maybe, in his culture, women do not go out on their own to buy trash cans. Maybe he was confused about a lonely woman buying a garbage can, and simply wanted to clear things up for his own piece of mind. Perhaps he was so stunned that I was indeed a single woman buying a trash can for what was now no doubt in his mind, bought for some sort of sinful, orgy sex dungeon. Yes, this was clearly the answer.


Happy with my purchase, and after having traumatized a Dollar Store cashier, I hauled the awkwardly large trash can/Brita filter combo home in the hot sun. What kept me going was the thought of my parent’s appreciation and awe for what an amazing daughter they had produced. What an incredible, prodigious daughter we have raised, my mother will say. Much better than our other kids, my father will agree. I will indeed be honored first place in the ongoing race of “the Golden Child” with my two sisters. Where I justly belong. Things were finally looking up for humble ol’ Emma.


My parents were not home when I dropped off the trash can and Brita filter. They mostly likely sensed with their maternal intuition what I tremendous deed I had done for them and went out to buy me a car or cookie dough or something. So I decided it was time for one of my patented four hour naps™. By the time I woke from my well deserved nap, my parents were still not home, so I got tired of waiting and went back to my apartment where I took another nap, because the 45 minute commute was extremely draining. It had been a long day.


I waited days for my parents to call and congratulate me on my “Golden Child” award, but I heard nothing. Not a peep. Maybe they were just too excited using their new trash can and Brita filter to remember to contact me. So I decided to call my mother up to remind her of who had provided such entertainment. After 15 minutes of small talk, and no mention of the trash can, I decided enough was enough and brought it up.


“So, do you guys like the new trash can?” I asked innocently.

“Oh yeah, we got a new trash can.” Answered my mother. A duh. I know that. I bought it.

“And do you know where it came from?” I pushed.

“Uh yeah, your dad said he bought it.”


UM? EXCUSE ME??? NO. No. No, no, no. I quickly started shrieking into the phone that it was I who bought the trash can. All me. Me. No dad. ME. Mom did not seem to care about this new development. Instead, she had the unmitigated gall to complain about the trash can. Something about how the lid didn’t work or fit or whatever, I was too enraged to really get what she was talking about. I hung up infuriated, vowing to never help my family out with anything ever again. I bet Mother Teresa never had to put up with this shit.

Walk of Shame

I have been having a tough week. Not for any real reason, like my dog died or my family was murdered by clowns, it was mostly just because I’m PMSing and my roommate ate the last brownie that I was looking forward to. Also I had to go to my parents house this week. Blegh.


So, yesterday, my dad thought he’d try to cheer me up by pointing out what a miserable, failure I was. Needless to say, it didn’t really work. He had taken me out on a walk, sort of like a dog, but like, some sort of weird dog that doesn’t like walks, so I guess more like, a cat or a fish...or one of those pet rocks that were really popular in the eighties. And as he berated me, obviously I started to cry because I had already been sobbing on and off for the last few days and one of my sporadic crying sessions just happened to fall in place with one of my dad’s lectures. My dad was somehow confused as to why I was crying, possibly because he had forgotten about the million other times I had burst out in tears in his presence and maybe he doesn’t understand why someone pointing out all of your most tragic flaws might not be a great pick-me up. I actually kind of feel bad for him, because he probably thinks my random emotional outbursts are somehow correlated with him, which they aren’t really, he just happens to be rolling his eyes at a very precarious time in wavering my emotional states. Anyway, while blubbering at his side he starts asking me why I’m miserable.


“Is it because you’re insecure about the way you look?” He asks. I just keep sniffling.

“Is it because you don’t have a boyfriend?” Still, I am silent in my suffering.

“Is it because you don’t like your school?” I refused to answer him, which was probably weird because I love complaining and I talk a lot.


Now, I’m going to let you in on a secret. The real reason why I was crying, and why I didn’t answer my father, was not because of some sort of complex, artistic torment swirling around in my brain. It was because to go on this “father/daughter adventure/sadness walk” my father had to wake me up from my nap. I was very upset when I was woken up and I hate going outside so I started crying and did not stop until the walk was over. Now, let that sink in. I am a 21 year old, mildly self-sufficient college student, who cried for 2 hours because her dad had woken her up from a nap. See, this is why I’m never having kids. Because you raise them, and you think you maybe did a good job but then one of them starts crying because she wanted to nap for four hours instead of three but she won’t tell you that and you go on thinking your kid is some depressed mystery with no direction in life. Which is only half true. Sorry dad. Maybe the other kids will turn out better. Or the dog. You’ve always liked her.