Open Letters: Wisconsin Edition

Dear Wisconsin,

You are really, really cold.
OMG.
Why are you so cold?

I am wearing ugly mukluks INSIDE. Faux fur-lined mukluks. That is how cold it is here. It’s like the whole state needs an electric blanket and a warm mug of cocoa. Brrr.

I never thought I’d say this, but I can’t wait for balmy Missouri.

Icy hugs and frostbite kisses,
Artsy

Dear Bella (my sister’s dog),

You know what? You can stop barking now.

I’ve been home since Christmas Day evening. It is now mid-afternoon on the 30th. You can probably stop. I hear you. I notice you. I promise that you’re a very scary dog.

You know what else? I’m not going to feed you my food.

You can follow me to the kitchen and back to my seat all you like. You can hover around my feet whining and looking at me with big, watery eyes. It will not work. I really like my cake, and I don’t like you very much. Do the math. I’m eating it all. I, unlike your “mommy” and “grandma,” have seen multiple episodes of The Dog Whisperer and know not to reward bad, horrifically annoying behavior with food. I’m just going to stare at you harshly until I finish.

You know what else? Stop eating poop that you find in the cat box.

Oh my God, you are so gross. We know what you did. I can tell by the kitty litter on your wet little nose.

Oh, and I can also tell by the fact that YOUR BREATH SMELLS LIKE SHIT. Cat shit, to be specific.

Stop it.

You are hyperactive and annoying and need constant attention.

Well, so do I, and there’s room for only one of us here. Plus I don’t eat shit, so I win.

Go away.

Xoxo,Artsy and the cats

Dear giant Norwegian-Wisconsonians,

Hey. Way to be tall and blond and huge. Congrats.Let’s talk, though.

My parents haven’t lived here for very long, so I haven’t had the opportunity to experience you yet.

I have some questions.

1. Are you serious about those Packers jackets? And hats? And full-on regalia? I’ve never seen that much stuff except on like, superfans, but everyone seems to wear it here. I went shopping today during the Packers game, and no one was out. NO ONE. And if they were it was the wives. I saw no dudes except for the ones in regalia sitting in the car listening to the game, complete with a bunch of snacks. That is intense.

2. Are you serious about those accents? HOW CAN THAT BE SERIOUS!!?!

3. Are you serious about the portions you are serving me? That is enough food for 3 people. No, I don’t need more than 6 biscuits. Also putting soy sauce on iceberg lettuce does not make it an asian chicken salad. God.

4. Back to the accent. Are you serious? If it’s a hilarious joke you are doing for my benefit, I love it, but I’d love to be in the know. You think about telling me. Because really, HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY BE SERIOUS?!?!?!

Love the cheese,
Artsy

Christmas (briefly).

Thanks for the good words, Madeline L’Engle. You say what’s in my heart better than I ever could.

“The Risk of Birth, Christmas 1973″

This is no time for a child to be born,
With the earth betrayed by war & hate
And a comet slashing the sky to warn
That time runs out & the sun burns late.
That was no time for a child to be born,
In a land in the crushing grip of Rome;
Honour & truth were trampled by scorn-
Yet here did the Savior make his home.
When is the time for love to be born?
The inn is full on the planet earth,
And by a comet the sky is torn-
Yet Love still takes the risk of birth.

Merry Christmas if that’s your deal, boys and girls. Much love. My next blog will be from sunny (?) Wisconsin.

Times I wish I had a camera OR (alternate title) What is wrong with America?

I ran a lot of errands today.

I was driving down Broadway to the downtown library when I noticed one of those giant neon gun show/automotive show/boat show/etc bilboards. I normally don’t take the time to read them, but I did today.

And I am glad I did.

Here’s what it said:

“JAN 4-6!!!!!

BIKE SHOW!!!!!

ENTER A DRAWING TO WIN A FREE BREAST AUGMENTATION!!!!!!!”

I’m sorry, what?

Did I just hallucinate? Can you even say “breast” on a public billboard? Aren’t we in the Bible Belt?

Even so, at the bike show you can win a free boob job.

I feel like this pretty much sums up Missouri as a whole. Welcome to my personal hell, everybody.

Worthless.

Here’s what I was going to do today:
1. Go to the gym
2. Finish my applications
3. Practice.
4. Get an oil change
5. Return my vastly overdue books to the library
6. Teach (gross)

Here is what I did today:
1. Talked on the internet
2. Went back to bed until 12:47 PM
3. Practiced (hooray!)
4. Watched 6.8 billion videos of cats being adorable on youtube
5. Teach (gross, but unavoidable)

And I wonder how I’m always a strange mixture of stressed out and super bored. I never do anything.

Netflix reviews: Shallow Grave

A brief precursor: I love movies. A lot. So of course I am obsessed with Netflix. It has enriched my life. I love it morning, noon and night because I get to see all the movies they never have at the crappy Blockbuster by my house. Since you guys might have the luxury of Netflix, I feel like I should share the kickass movies and the ultra bad movies with y’all.

Ok.

Sometimes I just rent a movie because it has a certain person in it that I like.

I rented Shallow Grave because of Ewan McGregor. I heart him. He’s a fantastic actor and ridiculously sexy.

Fortunately for me, I won at life when Shallow Grave came in the mail. It fucking RULES.

It’s from 1994 with Ewan and a bunch of british people I’ve never heard of. Here’s the plot: three roommates get a fourth roommate. The fourth roommate dies. They find a big suitcase full of money. So they decide to chop up the body and keep the money. Hilarity ensues.

And really, it is kind of hilarious. It’s a black comedy. Sort of.

It’s also really freaking scary. It’s not gory, but you certainly hear them sawing the body parts off (among other things), which will make you feel like hurling.

The acting is great; a super tight cast. Seriously, there isn’t a bad, phony acting moment in the whole damn thing, and I feel good about that. Real good.

The plot twist(s) literally made me scream “what the fuck!?! WHAT THE FUCK?!?! AWESOME!” at the screen. The last 10 minutes left me with my mouth hanging open like a moron. I squealed with schadenfreude delight in the end.

Also it’s one of the most beautifully shot movies I’ve seen in a while. There are colors and light patterns everywhere. The angles are interesting. It’s gorgeous.

90 minute mind fuck. Netflix it, but only if you like quirky indies and don’t mind dark movies. Luckily, I love both.

Open letters: the gym edition.

Dear girl on your cell phone running on the treadmill next to me

Oh my good Lord, are you freaking serious?

It can’t wait?!?! Really? Really?!?! You’ve got to complain about work to your friend right at this very second?

Oh, how was I able to remember your conversation? Let me tell you.

IT WAS BECAUSE YOU WERE SCREAMING IT INTO YOUR RED KRZR 18 INCHES AWAY FROM ME FOR 20 MINUTES.

Look, I hate working out too. I hate it with the fire of 1,000 suns. I wish I had a buddy there too.

Just get off the damned phone. There is, after all, a giant fucking sign with a phone in the middle of a big red X. This symbol is universal for “DO NOT TALK ON YOUR CELL PHONE IN THE GYM YOU DUMB WHORE.”

You can’t just plug your headphones in and watch reruns of I Love New York:Part 2 like everyone else?

Try it. New York is very good at making you mad enough to run extra fast. You guys might even like her. You have a lot in common, most prominately the fact that you’re both inconsiderate whores.

Can you believe she picked Taylor Made?,
Artsy

Dear work out fiends exchanging hill sprints on the treadmill on the other side of me,

Hey guys. You like to work out, huh? A lot?

It’s ok that you do. I admire your work ethic.

However. Do you really thing that cranking up the treadmill and then sprinting up it for 30 seconds then exchanging places with your buddy and then screaming encouraging phrases is not going to annoy everyone around you?

Because if you did, you’re wrong.

DEAD WRONG.

This is not boot camp. This is not an aerobics class. You are not alone in this gym.

In fact, you guys are pretty close to people. Namely, me. About 18 inches away. You’re close enough for me to get hit with little sweat flecks (it’s ok). I can hear you loud and clear. And so can everyone in China.

I really want to like you. You seem nice and you both are super duper attractive.

But it’s going to be impossible if you keep yelling “Three more! Yeah! Do it! Three more!!!”

As I told the girl on her cell phone, I Love New York: Part 2 is very important.

Way to motivate,
Artsy

Dear really super fit post-menopausal lady sweating all over the place,

Oh my God, you sweat so much.

How do you sweat that much?!?! I want to sweat that much!

I’m trying to figure out what you are doing to leave gallons of sweat all over the ground, and I can’t figure it out. We’re on the same machine. We’ve been running about the same amount of time. I think we’re both running at 6.0.

So how are you so sweaty and badass!?! I must know!

You’ve also got huge arm muscles. You are my mom’s age. You are AWESOME!

Teach me the way. I want huge arm muscles and to have sweat running down them. Rad!!!!

You go girl!,
Artsy

Dear adorable post-meopausal ladies who should go to Curves instead,

You are so cute. I don’t get annoyed like everyone else when you take 150 years to share the shoulder press machine.

I love watching you. I love your coordinated sweatsuit attire. I love it when you ride the stationary bike for 12 minutes and then get off, complaining to each other about how long that took. You’re adorable. Keep doing your thing, cause you look great.

Love and kisses,
Artsy

Dear the hottest guy I have ever seen,

I think I love you. You are very, very pretty.

You always hold the door for me, even when I am still in the parking lot. I like you, sir. You don’t say anything when I say thank you, but that’s ok. You can be the strong silent type.

You’re really tall. Like 6′5″. Normally I’m not attracted to really tall guys, but I sure do think you’re gorgeous.

We should go out, even though I am pretty sure you’re probably really, really, really, PAINFULLY stupid or an asshole. Yes, I’m aware that you’re about 6.7 million times more attractive than I am, but I’m pretty cute when I do things like “shower” and “wear makeup” and am not “covered in sweat.”

Take a chance. I’m really good in the sack.

Love,
Artsy

Dear Thugs,

Why are you at the gym?

Are you working out? Because I have never seen you lift a weight or step foot on a cardio machine.

Mostly you just walk around with the hood on your sweatshirt up lookin’ all tough and scary.

Did 24-hour Fitness hire you to intimidate people into being fit? I’m so curious!

Because if it’s your job to walk around being scary, you are AMAZING at it.

Please don’t stab me,
Artsy

Open letters: Special Airport/New York Edition

Obviously you know I got back from New York like, a week ago, but I’ve been saving these open letters for a rainy day (or, more applicably, a snowy day).

Dear Guy on the Plane with Sunglasses On,

Wow, buddy. It must be pretty bright on this early evening flight, because you’re wearing some pretty sweet Ray Bans.

There are only 4 reasons for this:
1. You are allergic to sunlight.
2. You have the hangover of the century.
3. You’re a voyeur and want to stare at people undetected. Sexy!
4. You’re a massive tool.

Sir, I’m thinking that you are a tool. In fact, you’re a whole box of tools. No. Wait. You’re a whole shed of tools.

Seriously, the only person on earth cool enough to wear sunglasses inside is Bono. And you, sir, are no Bono.

Puff Daddy (P. Diddy?) can’t pull it off, and neither can you. Especially not in the damned Atlanta airport, for fuck’s sake.

While we’re at it, girl jeans, skinny-cut girl jeans specifically, do not look good on dudes. I understand that you want to show off your perfect size 4 body, you skinny little bitch, but all it does is give you a man-style camel toe.

I realize that I’m not a fashionista. All my clothes are from Target and I have more flat shoes and black turtlenecks than you can shake a stick at.

But I at least resemble a normal human, not some fashion week knockoff. Just wear sweatpants like everybody else.

Just trying to help,
Artsy

Dear crazies who insist on pooping in front of me,

Really, guys? Is that necessary?

One person pooping in front of me is enough. But both of you?

I wish I was into scheisse porn, so at least I could write a Penthouse-style letter about your public defecation.

But alas, no.

So please quit it, dudes. I hate poop.

Sweet-smelling kisses,
Artsy

Dear Teeny-tiny Old Ladies shuffling down the streets of New York,

Oh my God, HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE!?!?!

You move with the pace of a crippled sloth. You are 4′9″. You weigh maybe 87 lbs soaking wet. You look like you have no idea what’s happening around you.

Yet, you are everywhere! I saw about 7 of you a day, every day, and never any of you twice.

Are you the keepers of the Holy Grail? You look like a much frailer female version of the immortal knight in Indiana Jones. There must be some sort of immortality secret you’re keeping from the rest of the world, because if I was going to mug and slaughter someone, you’d be the easiest target on the planet.

And still, you survive and are (seemingly) flourishing. You go on with your bad, ancient selves.

Girl Power!,
Artsy

Dear Horrible Parents,

I hate you. You made my uterus shrivel up and die.

Shut your kids up.

Shut.

Them.

Up.

I don’t mean little kid babble, because that’s funny. I mean screaming ridiculousness that you seemingly ignore. Next to me. In a small enclosed space.

A muzzle would work wonders,
Artsy

That’s it for right now. More later.

GROSS.

It’s snowing a whole bunch in KC today, which means I am housebound tonight because I am terrified of scary roads. As a result, I am watching crap TV and overeating, a lethal combination.

So I’m eating a kind of good/kind of horrible Lean Cuisine pizza thing and watching a best of Saturday Night Live Christmas special.

And you know what was just on there?

Mother-humping Luciano Pavarotti singing Adeste Fideles with freakin’ Vanessa Williams.

It was God-awful. Maybe God-awful enough to be offensive.

Vanessa Williams sucks at singing. She sucks so hard. She is only good at being pretty and being naked. Not singing.

I had forgotten about Pavarotti and Friends. Remember that shiz? *shudder* It wrecked my day.

Luckily the best of Chris Farley is on next, so I still win at life.

Snobby people guilt

I have a confession to make.

It’s 10:41. I’ve been up for like, an hour.

I’m watching the cinematic masterpiece that is Jawanna Mann.

Here’s the icky part: I am kind of liking it.

If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.

It’s on Comedy Central, and I thought it’d be something good to have on and be background noise while I finished filling out some last minute YAP applications (it never ends!), but I’m not finishing applications. I’m actively watching. And laughing. I’ve guffawwed about 3 times in the last 44 minutes.

My brain must have liquified and started to drain out my ear. That can be the only reason.

Either that or I’m not as smart as I think I am. Either way I’m screwed. Thanks alot, Jawanna Mann.

Being tired + something pretty I saw

I was talking to K today about this.

Do you ever feel like everything in the world is exhausting? That’s how I feel, how I’ve felt for the past 2 or 3 months. Big things, like thinking about moving away from godforsaken Kansas City, are shattering, but even small things, like running errands or taking a damned shower, seem so tiring.

I’m pretty sure that this makes me the laziest person that has ever existed since the beginning of time. Also it makes me a little smidgen worried.

Or maybe it’s an indication that now that audition season is (pretty much) over, I need to get a real job and take control of my life so I don’t feel overwhelmed and exhausted all the time.

************
I wanted to tell you guys about something awesome I saw today.

So whenever I go to the gym I take these cute little back streets that have a lot of big trees and little cookie-cutter houses. The horrific ice storm that covered most of the midwest earlier this week is melting, making everything look like the end of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe when the White Witch gets defeated and spring comes to Narnia. I hate ice storms, but I do like the little tiny icicles that hang down from the branches of the trees.

Now that everything is melting, the icicles are falling off the trees and shattering on the ground. I didn’t see much of this in my neighborhood (lack of trees), but when I was driving down the back streets there were about a zillion frozen droplets all over the road, and it was one of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen.

It looked like diamonds were scattered everywhere, or maybe like a whole constellation of stars had fallen from the sky.

Awesome.