Friday, October 20, 2006

Dear Cupcake...

Dear Bitter Amanda,
Well, unless you live under a rock or something, you know what Saturday is.
Yes. It is "Bitter-Sweetest Day."
Since I wrote you earlier, my boyfriend broke up with me, so I am now destined to spend "Bitter-Sweetest Day" alone again, naturally. To make matters worse, with my birthday coming up on November 1st, I just got my personalized license plate with "LUVJEFF" on it. I know, I know, stupid move, right? So, now I'm stuck with that for a while. I don't know what I was thinking! I guess I figured we'd be together and get married like we planned to do. I feel so stupid, I don't know what to do?
I came up with this idea though, and want to see what you think, OK?
I made reservations for two on Saturday night at the Ritz, but only I will show up all decked out in my new really short red dress and all. Some people think that a redhead like me can't get away with wearing red, but I'm here to prove them wrong, sister! I already ordered "Bitter-sweetest Day" flowers for myself, to be delivered Saturday morning, since I ALWAYS get flowers on the real you-know-what day. At the Ritz, I'll pretend to be waiting for my boyfriend to show up, occasionaly flashing furtive glances at my watch, and acting all huffy and upset and stuff. But of course no one ever will show up. So, I'll be left there, all alone, all dressed up, nearly in tears. With any luck, I can get a good looking waiter or maitre d' to notice my predicament and maybe get enough sympathy points to get a free meal or dessert, or maybe ... even a date! What do you think?
How are you celebrating "Bittersweetest Day", Amanda. (I won't even try to call you "you-know-what" - I bet you're glad, huh?)
Anyhoo, give me your thoughts, or maybe we could meet up and be bitter together?
Happy Bittersweetest Day,
Cindy Lynn

Dear Cupcake,
Ah yes. Sweetest Day. The most truly loathsome holiday there is. Yes, even worse than Valentine's Day. At least Valentine's Day has some historic roots. Sweetest Day was fabricated entirely by the candy industry, and serves no real purpose. It's just stupid. Apparently, giving couples one day to flaunt their happiness in the faces of others just wasn't enough! (It is at this point that I suspect anyone in a relationship is telling me a couple things. One, that Valentine's Day isn't just for couples! It's for love! Yeah, shut up. That's a lie and we alllllll know it. Two, that just last month, it was National Singles Week! You got a whole week! So what's wrong with two little days? I didn't ASK for a week, you know. I didn't want it. I suspect that week was created to placate the singles; something to bring up around Sweetest Day and Valentine's Day. I see through that, you know.)
Wow, Cupcake, bad luck with the license plate. To fix might have to, I don't know, develop a celebrity obsession. Off the top of my head, you could get into Jeff Goldblum, Jeff Foxworthy, or Jeffrey from Project Runway. (Yeah, pickings are slim, but we have to work with what you've got.) I figure any way you can get the attention off your stupid ex is a good way to go.
Against my better judgement, I'm going to go ahead and give you the green light on your dinner date. Try to ruin as many other dates with your loud crying as possible! I think you might be onto something with your free dessert plan.
Since you asked, I will be ignoring Sweetest Day to the best of my considerable abilities.
Solitarily yours,
Bitter Amanda

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Dear Van Morrison...

Hi Bitter Amanda.
I've been reading your blog for a couple of weeks and finally decided to chime in.
I watched American Pie III (the one where Band Camp Girl marries "Petey") the other day with a friend of mine and it all hit me when they struck up "Into the Mystic" for the wedding dance. Not only is it one of my favorite songs, it is also on the Moondance album (along with the song of the same name, of course) which is what actually rustled up the memories. Being the Full Harvest Moon of October, as in the song Moondance, I again was made painfully aware that another f-ing year had come and gone without a Moondance - some silly romantic notion of mine that has yet again been dashed mercilessly against the rocky coastline of my earthly existence. Then, that Olive's "Moonlight Chess" deal pushed me over the edge. And I thought I was whacky. Yowzers!
Back to the point. So I'm a guy who always dreamed of a Moondance 'neath the cover of October skies with that special someone. Sounds like a simple enough desire that shouldn't be too GD difficult to fulfill. It is niether weird, nor demented, I believe. Perhaps a bit sappy, but I can live with that.
A few years ago, my computer password was actually "moondance." I had this for at least two years, probably more. There happened to be a lass that I worked with, lets call her Julie for no particular reason, that needed to log into my computer while I was out of town. I had to give her my password by phone, and did so, not being embarrassed as I would be for what it is today. Whether it was or was not true, she proclaimed, "Moondance! Why that is my favorite song." That incident lit the fuse for a short, yet magical, relationship that saw Julie being the catalyst for me filing for divorce. Truly, without Julie showing me what a good relationship could be like, I probably would not have had the guts to cut the ties as swiftly and surely as I did with the then wife.
Naturally, I romanticized about our October (any month would have done) Moondance, which never came. Turns out, Julie was just kind of looking for someone to keep her company while her boyfriend was out of town on business. Also turns out, she reeked of mothballs and insisted on bedtime stories and sleeping with an assortment of very old stuffed animals. I did manage to convince her that squadrons of moths were not planning Pearl Harbor jobs on her ratty sweaters, but the stuffed animal thing could still be going on, for all I know. I imagined that somehow I had drawn her to me through the repetition of and my emotional connection to Moondance! Far fetched? Try this one on for size. I met my future ex in high school. A year before I ever met her or ever even saw her, all I knew was her name. And I was so enthralled by that name that I found myself repeating it over and over and over, trying to figure out who was the enigma behind that haunting name. The next year, she wound up in my homeroom and we were soon dating. We didn't give it up until Julie, not to mention my ex's boyfriend, showed up, years later.
Watch what you ask for! Behold! The power of prayer!
I'm definitely no stranger to the bitter biz. I've gotten to the point of actually hoping for those glorious Detroit Daze when that cold, thick, dank air, that smells like my first chemistry experiment run amok, slides up my nostrils and takes umbrage there. Then, I can truly bask in my abject bitterness and invite it in for a nice hot cup of tea and a plum-blueberry cobbler. Perhaps listen to Dylan's "Time Out of Mind" just to drive the point home, with a melodical, methodological force - them's good times, let me tell you.
I don't know if I can ever give up my ole pal, Bitterness. Now, I don't know if I want to. Bitterness to me is like one of those clingy, needy, old friends that constantly calls asking, "So, how's your day? What's new? How's it going?" and yet has absolutely NOTHING in common with you nor nothing to say, EVER. But they just hang on and on and on and you don't know how to shake 'em.
Strange maybe, but oh, so true!
I may have finally hit rock bottom: I experience real pangs of jealiosity when I see that my lesbian neighbor's girlfriend had spent the night, as evidenced by her SUV in the driveway. I have an attractive, single woman, my age, living a mere two doors away ... only one small catch ... and there always is.
So, in summary, another year, another Harvest Moon gone by, and yet another unfulfilled Moondance.
Yours truly, in Sheer and Utter Bitterness,
Despondent in Dearborn

P.S. Which is worse:
Sheer & Utter Bitterness or Abject Bitterness.

Dear Van Morrison,
I had to read your letter three times before I was able to confirm my initial suspicions. There was no question. So I guess you just wanted my thoughts on the subject. Lucky for all of us, I have opinions aplenty.
A bit sappy? You think you're being a BIT sappy? Whatever you have to tell yourself to feel good about it, I guess. As long as you can live with sounding like a 14 year old girl on the eve of her first Fall Formal dance with the pubescent boy of her dreams.
So "Julie" (forgive my heavy use of airquotes here) screwed you over. Sucks. On the bright side, it sounds like she's got a serious case of crazy, which I'd say you're better off without.
I'm going to do everyone a favor and skip over the parts of your letter in which you obsess over a name and wish for the disgusting scent of Bitter to reside in your nasal cavities. Because I thought they were weird.
Bottom line, Sparky: grow a pair. Get over the ladies who got over you, be a man, and go find some sappy woman to fulfill your sugary-sweet fairy tale. (Gross much?) Looks like the Wild Rover himself is touring as we speak--that might be your best bet.
Solitarily yours,
Bitter Amanda

Friday, October 06, 2006

Dear Tri-Lam...

Dear Bitter Amanda,
Just like all you "hip" girls want to have fun, I'm here to say that all the nerdy guys in Advanced Calculus and the Chess Club just want to have fun 2!
But all we get is abuse. Snubbed like a bottom caste Cashew picker in the Punjab. Ridiculed because of our heavily taped, Coke-bottle glasses, which are truly symbolic of our nerdly, innate ability to peer deeply into the mysteries of the universe. But why don't hot girls find us interesting? What's more interesting than the mysteries of the Universe?
There is plenty of humor in the Advanced Sciences, but no hot girls smart enough to get it. Like, Albert Einstein walks into a bar, bellies up, and what does he say to the bartender? I have NEVER had a cool girl laugh when I tell her the punchline: "Ein stein, bitte!" Meaning, one glass of beer, please – in German. How is that NOT humorous?
Or like, "How do you make a relativistic physicist blush?" Punchline: "Why, run away from him very quickly, of course!" Duh! Doppler Red shift! Get it? I didn't think so. No one does.
But I did manage to have kind of a date with some sort of pagan girl - a porcelain skinned princess with long black hair, and lipstick to match. Quite striking really. We started to hit it off at a local cafe, talking about the stars and planets and, well, the mysteries of the Universe. I was enthralled! At long last, I thought, a female on my own wavelength, resonating with me at a deep, inner place. Then she began speaking of Uranus being in conjunction with the moon and I thought now I'd hit the jackpot! Attractive and intelligent - a pre-med major! Then I realized that she was talking of astrology, while I thought anatomy! Well that ended it for me. Probably just another tufty-pitted pagan anyway, no doubt.
My friend Chad and I thought to crash a Young Republicans meeting, disguised as economists. We figured that we could put our superior mathematical skills to good use, since economics is rather suburban in comparison to our Point Set Topology majors. We began mingling and were given some rather durl and dauer looks when we tried to pass as economists. Evidently, due to our lack of worldliness in the socio-politcal culture of U of M, we failed to realize that here, economist is equivalent to communist! Thus, our white shirts and neckties were a dead giveaway of our disguise. We were advised by a high heeled, and opinionated, business major that, as economists at this venerable University, we should be in fatigues handing out SPARK magazines on the Diag. The communist girls are just as bad as the pagans with the pits and stuff, so there is another whole class of female that is off my list. What's up with this tufty business around here anyway? Get a dang weed-whacker and get it over with already, gosh almighty!
So again, humiliated by the fair sex in yet another failed attempt to fit in with NORMAL, cool girls who do shave their armpits. Recently, my friend Chad and I calculated that the mapping between the imaginary integers and the number of imaginary girlfriends a nerd will have in a four year college career is homeomorphic, both one-to-one and onto, in laymans terms. Meaning simply that we are SOL where the babes are concerned. But that is just more BORING point set topology. I bet you didn't even notice the correlation of this with my email address, did you? I am a complex person with both real and imaginary parts that all need to meet up with a like-mined female and be whisked off to infinity on the asymptote of Love!
So alas, Bitter-A, I write to you as a most embittered nerd: what's a nerd to do to get a cool girl to date him – or at least not ridicule and humiliate him?
In real and imaginary bitterness,

Dear Tri-Lam,
If you don't know what I'm talking about, a) shame on you! And b) google that immediately.
I can see that you've had some bad experiences with women. On behalf of all of us, I'd like to apologize, even though you were a bit of a condescending asshole in your letter. (Don't assume a lady knows nothing of science jokes!)
You told me that your interests were boring--you can't really believe that, can you? Otherwise, you'd find new ones. Stop thinking that you're a loser! People react to the image you project--if you walk around like you're a happening dude, ladies will see that. If you walk around like a hot girl would never lower herself to talk to you, guess what? They won't. Be confident!
Also, you don't have to have the same interests to get along with someone--so what if she's more into astrology than calculus? Maybe she likes that you're a math guy. Maybe she has some cool things to say. Don't write someone off just because you don't share the same major.
There are lots of awesome ladies out there looking for a nice guy--so stop spending your Friday nights mapping out girlfriend equations with Chad and go meet some actual girls!
Best of luck, Einstein.
Solitarily yours,
Bitter Amanda

Dear Mommy...

Dear Bitter Amanda,
I'm writing to you because I know my wife is a big fan of your column. I don't really know how to explain this, but my she keeps putting pictures of STDs EVERYWHERE. Today, I went to use the computer and chlamydia was staring me in the face. More importantly, she keeps pictures of stds in her wallet where the pictures of our kids should be. You know, the pocket sized ones? It's affecting our kids. They can't reach in their lunchboxes without pulling out herpes. The teachers are worried, and so am I. Our little baby said her first words the other day- they were "infectious disease." Worse, it's affecting me. Help me, Bitter Amanda. If she doesn't stop, not only will our kids become bitter, but I'll become bitter too! Now I'm scared of having sex. What if I get genital warts? I'm afraid that if I can never have sex again, I'm headed down a path of dark, cold bitterness. Help. I don't want to trade my red heart for a scary black!
-The other mommy.

Dear Mommy,
Your baby's first words were "infectious disease"?? That's amazing! Quite the little smarty-pants you have there!
I remember your wife's letter to me. (
Check it out here.) That ought to explain the pictures of STDs. But I fear that in her quest to keep your children safe, she may have been a bit overzealous and gone overboard. It happens. You should talk to her about toning it down a little. (Especially that wallet thing. Weird.)
Now about you. Are you having an affair? Sleeping around? Is your wife?
Well then, calm the hell down! Unless your wife has genital warts, having sex with her won't lead to them. You're a grown adult and you should know this stuff! Damn.
Solitarily yours,
Bitter Amanda