The Way Things Are






A Letter to All My Imaginary Friends
2005-12-21, 2:56 p.m.

A Letter to All My Imaginary Friends in the Computer:

Are you bothered by the Black Eyed Peas song “My Hump”? Do you wonder things like, How can this song exist? or Who writes this rubbish? or What the hell is the matter with the kids these days?

I’d like to set your minds all at ease. The Black Eyed Peas are not long for this world. Oh, sure, the individual members may live long, happy lives, but as a group, they are doomed.

I know this, because I have a copy of their latest CD in my car, and you know what it does to a pop group for a 41-year-old with absolutely no punk rock or Elvis in her to own their music. That’s right. DOOM. They are DOOMED.


So don’t worry. The song will go away soon, and the group will fade into obscurity, and that weird Fergie person will eventually wash her face and put on some clean panties. I absolutely ADORE referring to her as that weird Fergie person, by the way.

I do want to ask you this, though: Watcha gonna do wid all dem breasts? All dem breasts inside dat shirt?

And I also want to ask a more practical question: are they the Black EyeD Peas, or just the Black Eye Peas? I have no idea.

Anyway, they’ll be gone soon, you mark my words. Anybody else you want me to eradicate from the airwaves and gossip pages, just ask.

I have a confession: I hate Christmas music, unless it is sung by Muppets or dogs. We had our office Christmas party today, consisting of smartassery over Subway sandwiches, and some thoughtful person brought in a boombox with what I fear is a Mariah Carey Christmas CD on a continuous loop to serenade us through our barbeque wavy Lays and Subway Clubs. It’s still going on, right down the hall from me in the conference room, even though the party is long over.

All I can hear is this high-pitched warble, right at the top of the range of noise that can be heard by humans or hobbits, over and over and over and over again, and it’s driving me nuts. I’m about to start howling like Mrs. Beans when she hears the ambulance – a demented yodel. I’m sorry to be such a Grinch, but I hate high-pitched warbling female balladeers, and I hate forced sappy sentimentality. Blech.

Let’s see…what else do I hate? I hate Christmas sweaters and especially Christmas sweater vests, and Secret Santa gift exchanges, and people who monopolize conversations with their own self-absorbed nonsense, and high maintenance princesses, and folks who delight in sharing snippets of their myriad of inside jokes above, around, and over your head, but never letting you in on the joke.

Most of all, I hate Christmas parties that don’t have any alcohol in ‘em. But I suppose it is just RIGHT somehow that the office Christmas party left me cranky.

Shaking my fist at The Man, in my season-appropriate red sweater. This one’s for you, Mary.

But what do I love? I love 5-day weekends, and season-appropriate red sweaters, and homemade tamales crafted by real live Mexicans, and family visiting, and a clean house, and a day spent baking, and demented dogs who are determined that the stuffed Frosty the Snowman MUST DIE NOW, and Honey Brown Ale, all of which await me at home, except the sweater, which I am wearing now, and which has ZERO appliqués of snowmen or holly berries or bells or bears with Santa hats, and the tamales, which my brother is bringing with him on Saturday.

I’ve got two more things to buy this evening (for Don and for my niece), and then I’ll be done with the dreaded soul-sapping shopping, and the rest of my days until the 27th will be spent cleaning, baking, cooking, eating, hanging out, and drinking sensibly yet heartily.

Until we meet again, won’t you be my season-appropriate mofo?

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