open letter to the sun

Dear sister,

You know, I'm a careful person. I pay my bills on time each month. I always wear my seat belt when I'm in a car. I don't sleep with my hand touching the wall so that a spider can't be crawling up the wall and accidentally use my arm as a bridge to my face. Normal stuff like that.

And I wear sunscreen. SPF-55, in fact, which is about SPF-30 of an overkill for people with our skin type. Mom bought it "by accident" (not sure what she meant by that - it fell into her cart and she didn't realize until she got it home, maybe) and so I've been using it. Very carefully. Every day when I'm in the gardens between the hours of 12pm and 5pm. I even wear a hat to protect my face and give a little extra shading to my shoulders.

You know what happened today? Here, I'll tell you.

Dear Sun,

That. Was. Not. Very. Nice. I'm only human, after all. I've been so appreciative of your presence, loving the warmth you provide, never once complaining about the sweat you cause me to produce nor the hour I spend each morning watering the garden because your persistent appearance quickly dries out the morning's dew. I am not one of the ones who hides inside the kitchen with its dark, cool floor and air conditioner and endless glasses of ice water. No, no. I'm out there every day in you, weeding and mowing and sweating and sweating and sweating and every so often, pausing to enjoy your summery, sunny presence.

So it was NOT very nice to go and give me a bright, painful sunburn on the one place I forgot to put sunscreen. That tiny two inch sliver of my back that peeks out between where my skirt ends and my shirt begins? The one that only shows up when I bend over to weed the garden? The one I sleep on, hit against the back of the chair when I sit down, and can't avoid putting directly under the stream of the shower's water pressure? Seriously. You could have left it alone.

But thanks for making the flowers grow so nicely, I guess.

Love,
me

So, yeah. I think we should add "remembers to put sunscreen on our back" to the list of qualities our future boyfriends need to possess.

Love,
your slightly-pained, definitely-red-but-only-in-one-awkward-stripe-oh-well-no-one-will-see-it-at-least sister

open letter to the earwig in my bed

Dear sister,

I like to dry my laundry on the line. It's not because I actually believe that the energy savings could somehow make a difference on the overall global effect (but sh, don't tell Grandma about that). I just like it. It makes me feel crisp and clean. And I like the way it looks when I have several pairs of bloomers hanging in a row. (Hehe.)

The one thing I don't like is when I accidentally bring bugs in with my laundry, and then they are in my clothes. Or worse - my bed. Now, the truth is, I spend a good enough portion of my day out in the fields so, in all reality, most of the bugs (and spiders) (and beetles) (and everything else) in my cabin are coming in on my clothing. (I shower a lot these days.) So it's much more likely that any bug in my bed got there via me, and not because I hung my sheets on the line several days ago.

It's not enough to make me stop hanging my laundry out to dry, but it is enough to make me consider writing a strongly worded letter. And so, another open letter is born.

Dear the earwig,

I know it looks spacious, but this bed is just not big enough for the two of us. I'm sorry. It's not you, it's just ... no, yeah, it's you.

Love,
the giant fleshy creature who selfishly wants the bed (and its clean sheets) all to herself

As a side note, in case you were wondering, though I'm sure you weren't, I dry my towels and my underwear in the dryer. The former because I like fluffy towels and the latter because, well, I live at a monastery.

Love,
your sister

open letters

Dear sister,

There was a vlogbrothers video, a while ago, in which one of the brothers read aloud a series of open letters he had written to various people, and things, in his life. It made me laugh.

Lately I've been thinking of the open letters that I would like to write. Today, while weeding, I wrote a few in my head, and then I laughed at them, and then I thought ... hey, Ella would probably laugh at these too. So, here you go.

Open letter to the 12 million and ten (approx) alfalfa plants I pulled out of the strawberry patch today:

Dear Alfalfa plants,

It's not that I don't like the way you grow up so straight and tall, or the way you roll in gentle waves as the wind passes over you. I don't even mind the seed pods you've grown ever so carefully, and abundantly, and which you so freely share with the world whenever anything wanders, or blows, your way. And I'm sure that I would greatly appreciate the satisfying crunch of your grains in my mouth, if I were a horse.

But the thing is, I'm not. We don't actually have one, either, and, try as I might, the dog is not interested in eating your seeds. (He prefers dandylions.) And the other thing is, you're growing in the strawberry patch. And you're scattering your seeds all over the place. So, it's nothing personal, but you had to go.

I bet you're sorry about this, but trust me - not as sorry as I am.

Best wishes,
she-who-weeded-you-all-out-by-hand-this-morning

Open letter to my back:

Dear my back,

I'm so sorry about today. Let's get a good night's sleep and talk about this again in the morning. Ok?

Love,
me

I've got some more coming, but don't hold your breath too eagerly, because, well, my back hurts and I'm going to lie down.

Love,
your I-weed-like-it's-my-job-oh-wait-it-is-right-now sister

Out with old...

Dear Sister,

Your recounting of How (Not) to Have A Conversation got me thinking about the conversations in my life lately, and how they've changed. It seems that after six years of on and off waitressing, I may have lost some of my patience.

Me: Hi folks, how are you doing? My name is Ella, I'll be your server.
Guest (we aren't supposed to call them customers): **No acknowledgment of my existence**
Old Me: **Stands awkwardly** Do you folks need a moment? I don't want to interrupt...
New Me: Okay, I'll be back in a couple minutes then. Amazingly, I don't have time to stand here while you ignore me. Have you been to a restaurant before? I can't serve you if you don't order.

Me: Can I get you guys something to drink?
Guest: Oh, no, no. Just a water.
Old Me: Absolutely.
New Me: Yeah, I'll be back with that in a minute. Because it's still a drink that I get for you. Unless you were planning on showering in it, but again, I still have to go get it for you.

Me: Are you folks all set to order?
Guest: Oh, we haven't even looked!
Old Me: No problem, take your time.
New Me: I'll be back in a few minutes. Again, have you been to a restaurant before? What have you been doing for the past five minutes? I was under the impression you were here to order food, my bad.

Me: Are you folks all set to order?
Guest: Yes, I think so. Are you?
Guest 2: Um, I can be. Are you?
Guest 3: Yeah, you go first though.
Guest 1: Oh, okay, um...where was it...well...
Old Me: **Stands patiently, smiling**
New Me: Why don't I give you another minute. **Walks away.**

Guest: Which is better, the Tuna or the burger?
Old Me: Well, the tuna is a little lighter, etc. The burger is heftier, but really good, etc, etc.
New Me: Well, do you like fish or burgers? The tuna is fishier, the burger is cow-y-er.

Guest: Is the Cape Codder good?
Old Me: It is, its sort of like Fish N Chips but a sandwich, it comes with fries, people really like it.
New Me: No, it's terrible, that's why its on our menu. People really like it, as long as you like fried fish.

Guest: What's your favorite thing?
Old Me: I always used to get the Cobb Sandwich, now I eat here all the time so I usually just get plain things.
New Me: Nothing, it's all gross, I've eaten it all 800 times. The Citrus Tuna is what a lot of servers get. I don't, because I don't trust our kitchen not to give me food poisoning.

I could go on, but I think you get the point. Clearly, the italics are things I think, don't say at the table, wander off and mutter to my friends. But, by far, the thing that annoys me the most is this interaction:

Me: Hey, guys, do you want to order/want another drink/are you all set?
Guests: **TOTAL BLANK STARES**
New Me: What, am I supposed to read your mind? Are you telepathically trying to tell me what you want?

And finally, I leave you with an actual conversation. Now, I can't say how I would have responded five years ago, but I think its safe to say I would have been slightly more reserved in my response than this:

Me: If you're sitting at my table, please just order your drinks from me.
Guest: Why?
Me: Why? WHY? BECAUSE THIS IS MY JOB, I'm not here for fun, I'm here so I can pay my student loans. Because this is my job, this is how I pay my bills.
Guest: Oh, is that like, the rule?
Me: Yup, in pretty much every restaurant.
Guest: Oh. Really?
Me: Yes, really. That's how it works. These are my tables, this is my section, if you order from the bar and sit here, I don't get paid and no one else can sit here and pay me.


And so, the moral of the story is, I need a new job. Spread the word. I'll do anything, honestly. Well, anything except take people's orders, bring them food, and rely on them for my income.

love,
your so-excited-to-see-you sister

How to Effectively (Not) Have a Conversation: A Play in Three Acts

Dear sister,

One thing I will take away from this experience is the ability to end conversations without (seemingly) meaning to. Observe:

Act I, scene 1. Interior.
person: Did you hear, another one of those big shots - a news anchor or something - has come out and said that he's gay?
me: I know, isn't it ridiculous? As though I should somehow care about his sexuality, like it made some kind of difference to what kind of news reporter he is or something.
person: (no response)

Act II, scene 1. Interior.
person: Oh man, school today was SO GAY.
me: That's kind of weird, cuz I thought your (private conservative Christian) school would, like, discourage homosexuality, not encourage it.
person: (blank stare)

Act III, scene 1. Interior.
person: And all these blacks came over from Africa, and now they're all 'woe is me' about everything.
me: I don't think very many blacks "came" over. (pause) There were a lot who were brought over, though.

So yeah, apparently I'm now a conversation killer. Mea culpa. (And I swear, all three of those conversations actually happened like that - and all within one weekend, too.)

Much love,
your am-I-home-yet?-sister

SPF-11

Dear sister,

Um ... I'm still alive. Sorry. A little stressed out with job searching and health insurance and all the other fun things that come with being adults. Remember when we thought being an adult meant eating ice cream for dinner and playing with Barbie dolls whenever we wanted?

But I thought I should share with you one of the things that has at least made me feel like I have a tiny, minute, wee bit of control over the chaos of my life. With no further ado, allow me to introduce you to ... the Strategic Plan for Happiness, 2011 (spf-11, for short).

The SPF-11 is split into categories, each with its own sub-headings of long-term goals. Long-term goals are then split into monthly short-term steps, with a column that should read "met...met...met...met...met" by the end of the month. So far, I have about a 40-60% success rate on this column.

Sometimes goals from one month end up getting met in another month; sometimes goals simply get moved on into the next month with no progress whatsoever. And sometimes short-term goals get met and I get to add another step to be completed in the next month! (That's always an exciting moment.)

The real point, though, is to sit down at the end of the month not only to take stock of what I did/didn't accomplish on my list of goals, but also to realize just how much I'm trying to get done. And how much else I did do, that wasn't on my list. To push myself further in some areas (that have consistently blank "met?" columns) and to ease up on myself in others. And to relax, in general, about the need to fixeverythingrightnowohmygoshnothingisworkingoutitallmustbesolvedimmediately.

One category at a time. One month at a time. One step here, one step there ... and eventually it all adds up.

Love,
your list-loving-i'll-send-you-the-document-if-you-want-to-adapt-it-for-yourself-since-i-know-how-much-you-love-lists-too sister

Things I've learned

Dear Sister,

I've been sitting at the hospital all day, waiting for StrongDad, and I finally got the wireless to work (woohoo!) so I thought I'd blog you a post of the things I've been thinking about.

1. 9 to 5s really aren't that bad, especially when you have a cubicle with a window.

2. 9 to 5s really aren't that bad, especially when you have a computer that works at an efficient speed.

3. 9 to 5s really aren't that bad when you are getting paid for them.

4. Do not put a wad of cash in your back pocket, because $60 will fall out between your apartment and the bank. And it will suck. A lot.

5. Do put wads of cash in a container in your room, or the bank, because the disappear a lot slower that way.

Okay, so, clearly, the first three and the last two are in reference to different episodes from my recent life. The first three I realized last week when I was filling in for a producer at LOE, and the latter I realized after, well, it's pretty self explanatory.

Some other things I've learned (relatively) recently? Well, for one thing, "kill 'em with kindness" really is the best approach. I mean, you can (and should) still stick up for yourself, but people have one of two responses when you're just respond with super niceness: they either can't be mad at you, or it makes them super mad. And I consider either of those a win. (This piece of wisdom has gotten me through 6 years of waitressing.)

Also, a sense of humor makes all the difference. Think PecanMama and her health humor, the Gparents not buying green bananas and finally, the most recent example:

(this was found attached to his health proxy form, which appoints BeachMom as his health proxy).

I'll run the possible new names by him later (my vote is for DarthDad).

love,

your sister