The One With a Letter to Cosmo

Dear Cosmopolitan Magazine,

I got an e-mail from you today informing me that my subscription to your fine magazine (Also known as "you") only has "a few issues left." I'm guessing this means 5 to 6, since I haven't been a subscriber for THAT long.

I should note here that I did not pay for my Cosmo subscription. No, since I drink ungodly amounts of Diet Coke, I had amassed many Coke Rewards points, and I used 200 of them to subscribe. I'd been purchasing issues of your magazine for a while (the "on-again" part of my on-again, off-again relationship with Cosmo), and thought that the $5,093.94* I'd paid in Diet Coke might be about equal to a subscription.

I thought (even though I KNOW better) I'd be getting a magazine that has been around for decades, and which has helped countless** women through the trials and tribulations of life, sex, and everything else that comes with it. Being that it's been fewer than 3 years since I began on my journey of sexing, I thought that maybe, just maybe, Cosmo could help me catch up with my wiser, more sexually satisfied peers.***

The only thing that I've gathered from reading the "tips" Cosmo puts forth each month is that guys like girls who are into some weird stuff. You also say, every 3 issues or so, that jiggling a man's balls back and forth, as if shaking a pair of dice, is the quickest way to bring him to orgasmic bliss.

"Not so!" say several men I've inquired about this to and also a few articles and blog posts scattered about. It seems that treating your man's boys like you were employed by a Vegas casino is actually quite a BAD idea. Shame on you, Cosmo. Millions (?) of women are looking to you for advice, and you, in turn, are attempting to render their men infertile.

Your "Confessions" section? It's the same story, told over and over and over again! The men will always cheat on their significant other (rarely caught) and the women all either perform some kind of auditory bodily function, get their period, trip, or say the wrong thing in front of their "crush." Either that, or they're caught by their roommate/parents/boyfriend/girlfriend/etc. whilst in the throes. I feel like most of these "confessions" are made up. Yeah, sure you're "Lacy, 25, Columbia, SC." You're probably more like Edgar, 43, Columbia, SC.

The (next to) last thing I have to say involves the utter (apparent) laziness of your staff when it comes to cover stories. During 2009, there were two issues, approximately 5 months apart, that had the EXACT SAME "catchy" headline on them! I don't remember the specifics, but I know it had something to do with Foods That Will Make You Live Forever. Exact same wording. Even the cover art was similar! I can't remember the colors, but it was the same ones, just reversed! If the March issue was blue with orange letters, the August issue was orange with blue lettering. Do you not employ people to NOTICE things like this?****

But worse than all this, Cosmo, worse than the fake confessions and the terrible sex tips and the lazy editing, is one of your cover stories this month.

UNTAMED VA-JAY-JAYS

you proclaim.

Untamed va-jay-jays.

First of all, Cosmo, just because Oprah says something, that does not make it acceptable to USE, much less put on the cover of a national magazine.

Underneath the "catchy" title, it says "Guess Which Sexy Style Is Back."

I'm not. . .really sure. Because (and Cosmo, I hope I'm not stepping on your toes by assuming you took basic high school Biology), a "va-jay-jay" (or, you know, a VAGINA!) is INSIDE a woman's body. So I'm not entirely sure what you mean by an "untamed" vagina, unless you're referring to the campy horror movie, "Teeth," which portrays a girl whose vagina has teeth ("vagina dentata") and which bites off a man's ManBits whenever she has The Sex with them. Pretty good flick.

I'm guessing this isn't what you mean, though, and again, SHAME ON YOU for confusing people who, let's face it, are, by a high majority, not that intelligent anyway, by insinuating that a vagina is something that can somehow be. . .well, groomed (or not) much less tamed (or, you know, not.)

All of this, Cosmo, is why I will not be paying for your services anymore. I'd say you'd changed since the days I used to sneak into my mom's room and read her copy of Cosmo, even though she said it was far too old for me***** but actually, you have not. You're exactly the same. And that's where the problem is.

Love, kisses, and untamed va-jay-jays,

Sarah

*Estimated amount

**You COULD count them, but that would be a giant waste of time. Just estimate.

***They WERE more satisfied. I'm doing just fine, thankyouverymuch.

****Um, I'm a former editor looking for a job. CALL ME!

*****Sorry, Mom.

The One Where the Next Generation is Effed

I read this article on CNN.com today called "Parents, do you know what these texts mean?" and it had the following examples of 'text speak':

"N2 2CB. WBU?" which means "I'm into hallucinogenics. What about you?" (Obviously, someone ON hallucinogenics came up with this.)

"WTG 4 a \%/" which means "Want to go for a drink?" (I actually figured this one out on my own. It was literally the only one for which I was able to do that.)

"%*@:-(" which means "Hung-over and got a headache." (To me, this one says, "Marge Simpson is having an especially bad hair day.")

"ctn pos. tdtm l8r k? :** :"" apparently means "Can't talk now. Parent over shoulder. Talk dirty to me later, OK? Returning the kiss." (WHAT? I'd heard of POS before [which, to me, will ALWAYS stand for Piece of Shit], and l8r I understand. But. . .I don't even know. I think this actually means "Sorry, my cat is currently walking across my keyboard.")

"No 420? Wiyp?" means "No weed? What is your problem?" (I got the 420 reference. But I don't understand the Wiyp? part of it. We KNOW what the problem is. No weed. [Excuse me. No 420.])

"LM4a~~#ZZZZZZ>" means "Let's meet for a joint." (I honestly don't get this one AT ALL. Can someone explain it to me?)

OK, OK. I get that teenagers (and. . .pre-teens) all use this nonsense and call it communication. What killed me was this part of the article:

Once you get the hang of the language, you can try your hand at translating a real message found by Susan Shankle and Barbara Melton, co-authors of the book "What in the World Are Your Kids Doing Online?"

The message reads:

"1 w45 50 j4ck3d up |457 n16h7. 1 5c0r3d 50m3 cr4ck 47 7h3 p4r7y 50 1'd h4v3 17 f0r 70n16h7 4nd 70m0rr0w, 4nd 7h3n J1mmy 700k 0ff w17h 17, 7h3 455h0|3! 1 4m 4|| j1773ry 4nd n33d 70 m337 up w17h y0u 70n16h7 4f73r my p4r3n75 7h1nk 1 4m 45|33p. c4n y0u m337 m3 47 b0j4n6|3'5 47 m1dn16h7 ju57 f0r 4 f3w m1nu735? 1 ju57 n33d 4 |177|3 4nd 1 c4n p4y y0u b4ck 0n m0nd4y, 1 pr0m153."

Oh my God. OH MY GOD, my EFFING BRAIN just EFFING EXPLODED.

Admittedly, when I was first reading through this, I actually got the basic gist of the message. Once you read it for long enough, you get the basic way it goes. But still.

For those of you who don't speak idiot 'text speak,' the message says this:

"I was so jacked up last night. I scored some crack at the party so I'd have it for tonight and tomorrow, and then Jimmy took off with it, the asshole! I am all jittery and need to meet up with you tonight after my parents think I am asleep. Can you meet me at Bojangle's at midnight just for a few minutes? I just need a little and I can pay you back on Monday, I promise."

My first question, I guess, is this: is it all the stoners who are into this kind of thing? Because the article focused on an awful lot of drug references.

Secondly. . .WHAT is HAPPENING to writing? And reading? And speaking? As a former English major (That's another question. . .once you graduate, are you still whatever your major was? Would I be an English major, or would I be a former English major?), I love words. I love writing them (properly) and reading them (properly). And the fact that all the technology and really, really dumb teenagers we have now is rendering all that useless? Is so, so sad to me. It's also vaguely "A Clockwork Orange."

I'm worried for the day, 50 years from now, when my grandkids are writing me thank you texts notes (please, dear God, please let people continue to write thank you notes.) and they something like:

y0, 6r4ndm4, 7h4nk5 f0r 7h3 5w3473r. 17 r0ck5!!! -71mmy

(Also, if I DO end up giving my grandchildren sweaters, they will be BADASS SWEATERS! With skulls and hookers on them.)

I really am just sad about the state of things nowadays. Even when I was in high school and editing my (then) boyfriend's papers, I was like, "Why can't people WRITE?" And now we're using numbers instead of letters and pictures of Marge Simpson after a night out on the town.

I'm aware I'm probably coming across as a cranky old broad, destined to sit on the porch with her cats and shake my cane at those damn kids who WON'T GET THE EFF OFF MY LAWN!, but really? I think you should have to meet a certain standard of writing before graduating high school, or you just won't be allowed to graduate. Same with college. (And I don't mean to leave out the people who don't finish high school, or don't finish college. For y'all, I say before you get any kind of job, you have to pass a test of some kind, and if you're unable to do that, you can be given some kind of class or something.

Everything's going downhill in my brain right now, because it's kind of late, but trust me. It all makes sense. Stop writing like morons. Because every time you illustrate sexual acts with random keyboard symbols and every time you WrYtE LyKe Dis, and every time you use numbers instead of letters, God kills a kitten. And then he blames you.

The One Where The List Makes a Comeback

Hey, y'all. Remember The List? Due to my complete lack of anything interesting to say and/or discuss today, I'm bringing the list back. In no particular order.

Let's see. . .Apparently, Day 28 (What's in Your Handbag or Purse) was already done, inadvertently, so I'm going to go ahead and mark that one off. We'll go with:

Day 25: Your Day, In Great Detail

Since it's about 10:50 a.m., obviously, this is not THIS day in great detail. This is a generic day, since most of them go about the same. Also, you may or may not be sorry for asking for great detail.

6:40: Alarm goes off. I hit snooze, cursing the world.

6:49: Hit snooze.

6:58: Hit snooze.

7:07: Hit snooze.

7:16: Hit snooze. D comes in and politely tells me if I don't get my ass in gear, I'm going to be late.

7:25: Finally get up and get in shower.

7:32: Get out of shower and begin "What to wear" process.

7:33-7:41: Change clothes three times.

7:42-7:50: Panickedly (is that a word?) gather up everything I need for the day, grab bagel and juice D has so nicely gotten together for me, hunt for my badge, hurry out the door.

7:50-8:05-ish: Drive to and get to work.

8:05-ish-12:00: OK, so, the order of all of this varies from day to day, so I'll just give you a list of what could and probably, at some point, will happen during this 4-hour span:

*Mafia Man comes by my desk and scares the crap out of me.

*I say, "I'm good, thanks, how are you?" between five and 15 times. (Yes. I'm aware I should say I'm doing "well," but that doesn't flow as easily.)

*My boss calls between two and 100 times.

*I enter the forms that people have filled out.

*Three people ask me to do things for them, believing me to be their personal assistant.

*Two people call me, asking to be transferred to someone else in the building, because they don't want to look up the person's extension.

*My boss references how much she dislikes at least two people at the company, following it with "But they're a nice person!"

*I drink at least one Diet Coke.

*I answer three phone calls for people who don't work here; At least one of these callers will insist they are correct, and ask me (1) How long I've been here; (2) How long the person they've called for has been gone; (3) Am I sure I'm spelling the name correctly?

*I wave at the jauntily gay mailman when he drops everything off in the lobby.

*Three to five people call or come by, asking if we're accepting applications. I explain to them that they can drop off a resume, but that you don't actually fill out an application unless called for an interview. One will ask me for a fax number. Two will have resumes ready for me. One of these resumes will have so many errors, it makes me want to cry a little.

*Seven people come to the front door and try to open it. It is locked. Two of these people look at me, and I push the button under the desk to unlock the door for them. The rest of the people won't even glance over at me and, after trying to open the door again, harder this time, walk over to the phone on the wall and try to figure out who they need to call. Three of THESE people eventually notice me. The rest linger in the lobby until someone lets them in.

*I office-laugh at approximately eight things people say.

*I go on a massive hunt for at least two people that have appointments waiting in the lobby, only to find that, when I get back to the front, they've already come and retrieved the person.

*Four people call me ma'am.

*I chat with people on gChat, talking about the drags of work.

*Blogs are read/written.

12:00: Lunch! D comes by and picks me up and someone takes over my post for the next hour.

1:00: Back to work. Small talk with whomever has taken my place.

1:10: I'm ready to go home.

1:10-3:00: Finish whatever work still needs to be done, interspersed with the stuff from the 8:05-12:00 block.

3:00: Boss calls me to talk crap about someone.

3:05: Boss comes up to my desk and insists she needs to use my area to make phone calls (usually in Spanish) and/or use my computer. This renders me basically useless.

3:45: Boss finishes using my space.

3:45-4:15: Boss begins to talk about her personal life. This includes her kid, her friends, her gyno appointments, and how long it's been since she's gotten laid. (13 years, if you wonder.)

4:15-4:40: More of the same from the morning. Counting down the minutes.

4:40: Boss calls with something that "needs to be done ASAP."

4:50: Boss calls to tell me it can be done tomorrow.

4:55: This is almost gut-wrenching how slowly time is moving.

5:00: OUT OF HERE!

5:00-5:20: Travel to second job. (Monday and Wednesday) Eat something or other.

5:30: Start library job.

5:30 to 7:30: Work, dealing with people who I've mentioned in previous posts, and wash my hands at least five times.

7:30: Break time! Either talk to D or read or power nap with eyes open.

7:45: Back to work! Do the book drop!

9:00: OUT OF HERE!

9:00-9:20: Drive home from library.

9:20: Eat something.

9:45: Settle in for computer browsing/reading/conversating/TV-watching.

Sometime between 10:30 and 12:30: BED! Get to get up and do it all again in a few hours.

So there you go. My day in EXCRUCIATING detail.

The One With the Enfamil

I may or may not have mentioned (and I'm entirely too lazy to go back and look) the baby magazines I keep getting subscribed to. If not, here's the (abridged) story:

There are some very small, very immature people living back where D and I used to live, and in states beyond. These people hold things against you forever, because they have nothing better to do with their lives. So there are those people.

Then, last time D was there, the liquor store guy said something about how he (D) had run away from that town, leaving his wife, to whom he was still married, and moving in with his pregnant mistress.

False. All of it. D's divorced, thanks, and if I'd been pregnant as long as people have been SAYING I've been pregnant, my fetus would be approximately 18 months old at this point. Like. . .Wonder Fetus. Also, if I've been pregnant for 18+ months, I look AMAZING.

OK. There's the backstory.

A month or so back, I checked a mostly-defunct e-mail address, just because I was bored. Contained within the 845 messages I had, I had a note from "American Baby" magazine, thanking me for my recent subscription.

. . . . . .

Um, what?

Also, the subscription was in the name I will have once I get married. Like, if my name was Sarah Smith, and D's name was D Jones, the subscription was for Sarah Jones. This right here is how I know it's just someone effing with me, and not something I signed up for on my own. I do send away for a lot of free samples and things, but always in my own name.

I called American Baby, explained what happened (sort of) and had the subscription cancelled. Unfortunately, since the order was put in online, there was no way of knowing where the order came from. OK, whatever.

Then, last month, I also got my first issue of another baby magazine, the name of which escapes me at the moment. I've gotten two of those. That is also addressed to Sarah (Jones).

So last week, I have a voicemail from Mom. What it SOUNDS like she says is, "Hey, it's me. Got a package in the mail for you. Let me know what you want me to do with your Enfamil."

The product name sounded vaguely familiar, but I called her back.

"Hey."
"Hey."
"I got your message. . .WHAT did you say the package was?"
"Enfamil."
"I don't even know what that is."
"It's baby formula."

. . . . . . .

She laughed. I laughed. I told her my fetus was about 18 months old.

While I was on the phone, D suggested that I put the can on craigslist. It's a fairly good-sized can, and someone should be able to use it. I decide to do something good for the world, and I did, in fact, put it up. Here was the message:

Free Can of Enfamil
Since my husband's nightmare of an ex-wife thinks it's really funny to send samples of baby magazines and baby supplies to me even though I'm not, nor have I ever been, pregnant, I have a new, unopened can of Enfamil and a few coupons for Enfamil I'd like to give to someone who could use it. I'd keep it for myself but I literally have no use for baby formula.

Send me a message and we'll set up a time and place to make the drop.

Within 5 minutes, I'd gotten a response:

yeah i want it

Really? REALLY?! No greeting, no signature, no please, no thank you. Just "Yeah, I want it."

OK, I'm not asking that people asking for. . .charity, basically, need to jump through hoops for me to give them things. But this?

Like three minutes later, I get another response from the same e-mail address:

please give me milk

At least she said please this time. But. . .something about it just hit me entirely the wrong way.

Then I got a message from someone with the handle (and I'm changing the numbers here) LuciousLipz9216. This message said:

do you still have this?i could really use it.i can pick up.please let me know.

OK. Better.

Next message:

Hello,

I would absolutely love to get these if they are still available. I have a 4 month old and could really use it.

Thanks,

G

Yes. YES! This sounded like someone I would feel good about helping out. I decided to e-mail G back, and I got one more e-mail before I took the posting down:

Hi I just wonder if you still have the enfamil coupons. My sister in law could use them to save some money to feed my niece.
Thank you so much
I

OK. Not the best grammar, but a good second contender if G couldn't get them. I won't hold bad grammar against her. Maybe she's not from around here.

I exchanged a couple e-mails with G, and then. . .they abruptly stopped. I e-mailed her again to check to see if she still wanted it, and I got this reply:

Hi Sarah,
Thanks so much, but it probably would be difficult to meet up so you

can give it to someone else. Thanks again.
G

Huh. OK. I e-mailed the second contender to tell her that they were still available, and I got this response:

Hi Sarah I live far but my post office is very close and I can mail you a postage envelope.

Would you mind to hold coupons until you receive my self-address Envelope?

Thank you so much for your kindness, time and patience.

We really appreciate this
I

. . . . . Tell me that doesn't sound sketchy as hell. Sketchy. As. HELL.

Ultimately, I decided to just wait until the holiday season, and then give it to one of the many food drives that are held during that time. Better that than to potentially be hacked up into tiny pieces by some formula-drinking psycho and to be distributed in dumpsters around town.

And actually, now that I think about it, I don't know if I have any readers who have formula-drinking babies, but if you could use this stuff, I can send it to you. Just leave me a comment with your e-mail address, and I'll get it to you. It's a pretty good-sized can, and it comes with some coupons and stuff. Just let me know!

The One Where I'm Feeling My Feelings

Before I get into the whole thing about the concert last night, I'd like to make a comment. I read on another blog (Oh, OK. . .it was Aunt Becky's. . .I'm just feeling like I'm referencing/name-dropping her a LOT as of late. . .) about Being Yourself when you're blogging. She talks about all the people who present their perfect-sounding lives on their blogs. People who refer to their children and significant others as "DD" or "DH," which, as I found out, stands for something like Dear Daughter or Darling Husband. I would like to clarify right now that when I refer to D, I'm not calling him Dear or Darling or anything else that makes me want to throw up like that. It's the first initial of his name, so that's why I call him that. It's because I'm lazy, not because I'm super-sentimental.

I have trouble sometimes with having Too Many Feelings. My Feelings eff up a lot of things. Between My Feelings and my OCD and That Time of the Month, I'm an emotional wreck often. The thing is, though, I don't want to be. I hate that, and I try my damnedest not to let My Feelings spill over onto my blog. At least not too often.

I don't want to bitch and moan and cry about every little detail of my life that's bugging me at any given time. That's what my middle school/high school/college livejournal was for. Also, my old Blogger blog. I don't feel like that's what people read blogs to see. I don't think everything in the 'blogosphere' should be puppies and roses and mommy bloggers who think their Dear Offspring crap Skittles, but neither should it be daggers and skulls and. . .I was trying to think of an antithesis for Offspring Who Crap Skittles, but failed. You know what I mean.

I feel like people read my blog (or any blog) because they want to (a) Be Entertained; (b) Be Informed; (c) Be Stalkers; or (d) Some Combination Thereof. Therefore, when I write, I do it first and foremost because it's what I DO. I like telling stories, and I like people saying, hey, that was funny/sad/off the chain/etc. (I don't think anyone I've ever known has used the expression "off the chain." Maybe they should.)

I'm completely getting off whatever point I'd started out trying to make with this. The point is, I'm not happy with my current lot in life. But at the same time, I feel like I can't complain about ANYTHING, because I have a stack of 8 resumes I've received in 3 days, which tells me, "Hey, Sarah. Quit your bitching, because even if you don't 'feel satisfied' by it, at least you have a job."

Yeah, at least I have a job. A job that's contract, so I have no benefits and no vacation time, so if I want to, I don't know, get married and go on a week's honeymoon, guess what? That just means a week of no pay. No one gives a fuck if I'm getting married. They're not going to pay me so I can have time off to do it.

Or time off to do anything. I feel like I'm over here, drowning in my own self-loathing and self-pity, but I can't take any time off because guess what? I have bills to pay. Bills that aren't going to understand that I just need an em-effing BREAK.

But guess what? I can't complain about it. I can't complain about anything. Because you know what happens then? My friend, The Universe, decides to say, "Oh yeah? Let me REALLY give you something to complain about."

I just want to be doing something that means something right now. This job means nothing to me but a paycheck. I don't even get any benefits, so there's an extra $400 a month in health insurance. Just for me.

I'm going under, and there's not a thing I can do about it. But I can write about it, and risk turning my little Corner of the Interwebz into a Bitch Fest, alienating anyone who might have been otherwise interested and diminishing my chances that someone will happen across my blog and give me a book deal.*

So there it is, people. Take it or leave it.

*Yes, I know this is not a thing that really happens to most people.

The One Where I Win Again

So, y'all remember when I won candles, right? I won them from Say Anything and was all kinds of excited, because I usually don't win things?

I have a new story for you.

I was sitting at work yesterday when my cell phone rang with the local area code. Usually, I don't pick it up if I don't recognize the number, but I decided, for whatever reason, to answer it.

"Hello?" I say, wittily.

"Hi," says a guy. "Is this Sarah?"

(What I should have said, in retrospect, is, "No! THIS is!" and laughed maniacally. Sadly, I didn't think of that until later. Also, he may or may not have hung up if I did that.)

"It is," I say.

"This is Brody from G105. Do you have plans for tomorrow night?"

(This is. . .surreal, to say the least. I don't know what Brody looks like (I linked to the site, but can not see it from this computer because it's in Category: Music.), but I have listened to him for years, and he has the most awesome radio voice. I may or may not have a Voice Crush on the guy. But you know how radio goes. He probably looks like this.)

"Why?" I ask. "Are you asking me out?"

(Um, yes. I actually said this.)

Brody laughs. "No, no," he says, "But do you have plans for tomorrow night?"

It's at this point that a little thought in the back of my mind begins to form, but I'm thinking, surely not.

I DO actually have plans, as I'm supposed to go see my shrink, but I say, "No. No, I don't."

Brody says, "Well, then, you and three friends are going to see the Maroon 5 show, and meeting the band backstage!"

SON. OF. A. BITCH.

I'd entered a contest for these tickets a couple of weeks ago, and I'd said to D. . .Friday, I think? That "oh, yeah, we'll be going to that concert."

And we are.

What makes it. . .kind of awesome is that I was a last-minute entry. The contest ended a day or two after I'd entered.

Also, when I entered, I didn't realize it was also for backstage passes. I thought it was just for tickets. But now, since there ARE backstage passes involved, there will probably be freaking SWEET seats.

So once I picked my jaw up off the floor, I told Brody I loved him* and that he'd just made my life.**

As such, tonight, I will be taking D, Katie, and Katie's college roommate, Katherine, to see Maroon 5. And to meet the band. Who, by the way? I effing love. They are in my Top 3, and their first album, Songs About Jane, was the soundtrack to my college experience, expecially freshman year.

I am a little sad that the venue won't let us being "professional" cameras, as D IS a professional, but whatever. I'm MEETING THE BAND.

It's still a little surreal. Of course, there will be full updates later.

*Not true.

**True.

The One Where Katie's Ready For College

Just a really short entry for now, and later, I'll have my Super, Awesome Exciting News Update.

I had the following e-mail exchange with Mom this morning:

Mom: So.....Katie comes out of her room last night carrying her bag of Crazy Bones and a toiletries bag, wearing a bunch of Mardi Gras beads and a plastic fireman's hat and says, "I'm ready for college."

Me: Tell her she also needs a fire extinguisher and a pair of stillettos and she should be good to go.

Mom: And a blender.

Me: And matches. (Hence, aforementioned fire extinguisher.)

Ah, college.