From the Archives: An Open Letter to Tuesday

You suck.

Did that cut too deep? Did I go too far, too fast, too soon? Well too bad, you’re going to have to deal with it. Don’t you walk away from me! Sit right back down there because I’ve tried to be polite long enough. The time has come for you to just face the simple fact that you are without a doubt the worst day of the week.

Oh, I know what you’re going to say so let me save you the trouble. Monday is redeemable because sometimes we get it off. President’s Day, Memorial Day, always Mondays. And I dare you to give me one example of when a three day weekend wasn’t welcome, great, or awesome. You can’t do it, can you? And guess what happens when we do have a three day weekend? You become the new Monday. Thanks a lot for that.

Wednesday. Hump day. The middle. T-minus two days until we get the weekend. From its vantage point in the middle of the week, we can look back at the first two days and say “man, the week is just flying by” or look ahead to the weekend and say “well at least the worst is over.” Wednesday’s are good for the soul because be you optimist or pessimist you can find something about Wednesday that works.

Thursday is the day before Friday. That alone gives it points beyond you Tuesday. In fact, the same reasons you suck happen to be the reason’s Thursday’s are pretty great. Let’s say we have Friday off. Well then guess who gets to be the new Friday? Not you, that’s for sure. Thursday’s give you something to look forward to, something to work towards. From this point in the week there is hope for what will be coming soon; Friday, and do I even need to get into why Friday is better then you? I don’t think so.

Name something good that happened on a Tuesday. Go ahead, I’m waiting. You can’t, can you? You want some bad things that have happened on a Tuesday? How about the fall of Constantinople to Ottoman Empire in 1453? Or how’s about the Spanish adage En Martes, ni te cases nit e embarques which roughly translates to “On Tuesday, neither get married or begin a journey?” You’re astrologically tied with Pluto, named for the god of the underworld for goodness sake!

For the love of all that’s holy, stop with the blubbering! I’m not trying to make you cry. This is tough love Tuesday. Well, not really. It’s more like an explosion of disgust because let’s face it, you blow. I’m not blaming you I guess, Lord knows you aren’t responsible for your placement in the week. At least I hope you aren’t because what kind of lame-o chooses the second day? No, if I were you I would want to have a nice long talking to with Pope Gregory XIII, the man ultimately responsible for your existence. I’d wish you luck but what’s it matter? You’re screwed no matter how you slice it.

Post Script

They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I'm not sure if I agree. This morning I had a bowl of oatmeal (not a wonderful, soft, and subtle English Muffin) and it did nothing for me. NOTHING. Within minutes of eating my blueberry oat paste I was hungry again. And I'm talking really hungry. So I did the only thing a normal person would do; I gorged on whatever I could find as soon as I got to work pretty much right up until lunch.

Now who cares right? I suppose I don't in the grand scheme. But right now, at quarter to three in the afternoon I'm ready to pass out. I blame that friggin oatmeal. Had it just done it's job I wouldn't be in this mess. Thanks oatmeal, you're on my list.

An Open Letter to My English Muffin

Sometimes things just work out. Sometimes, just when the dark starts pushing in and you don't feel like you will ever see the light again, a bright line cuts through the clouds and reminds you that, yes, everything is going to be alright. Sometimes it's not a light at all, sometimes it's an English Muffin - like this one right here - that gives you the strength to carry on.

Allow me to say this my friend: You. Are. Awesome.

The perfect sponginess as I pulled you from the bag eloquently transferred to perfect golden toasting after a minute-forty-five in the toaster oven. A few sweeps of honey-butter and a light glaze of raspberry (seedless) jam later and suddenly the morning wasn't so bad. Suddenly the world seemed less cold. A few bites into this glorious roll and I realized that no amount of temp related, intern-idot fueled, hypercaffeinated panic could toss a wrench in my gears. Oh, no today is for me, and damn it, it's because of you English Muffin.

You are a credit to your race, and I salute you.

An Open Letter to Blogger

Hi Blogger, we’ve met a few times in the past, but it was under a different name. I’ve tried the blog thing before and as predicted I just didn’t have the stones for it. But I got a kick out of our time together Blogger, and I figure if you’ll have me, I’d like to give it a shot again.

A lot has changed around here since we last spoke. First of all, congratulations on the Google thing. I was just commenting to a friend of mind that the one thing I needed in life was another email address. He had said, yeah, but the only way I’d ever get one is if someone forced me. We laughed at the idea of a company making it necessary to get a new email address in order to use a free service. Well I suppose the last laugh is on me now. I’d have to say that looking around the place things are bit more streamlined, which is always good. Unless of course you enjoy the baroque sensibilities of blind links and surveys, miscoded pictures and strange directions for hosting video. I did, but I’m strange.

It's always strange when you start fresh in someplace new. School, work, a new apartment, it doesn't matter. It's hard to get used to a new place while all you can think about is the old place. The old place might be an apartment with paper thin walls with neighbors who fight constantly in languages you can't even identify, with carpet like cardboard, and a smell that is maddeningly indescribable. And this is not a normal smell, this is a smell that forces you to invent creative multi-hyphenate descriptions in order to explain it to outsiders you are warning as they enter the apartment for the first time. Things like rotten egg-foot sweat, or old beef-used diaper. Earthy.

The point is, you might not like the old place, but you can’t help but get sentimental because despite the problems you may have had once, for a time that place was yours.

But that is the past now, and it’s time to look forward. I hope that in working together we can make something special. In the absence of something special, I would be happy to make something with passable grammar. In the absence of passable grammar I guess I would settle for okay grammar and help with my crippling homonym problem. That doesn’t seem impossible does it? I don’t think so, but I can’t wait to find out.