Disclaimer: The people that are the imaginary recipients of this letter, which I will place only into an imaginary mailbox, are not any of you. These people are here to drive me to drinking.You people are here to make sure there’s plenty of ice.

Dear, um people:

This is an open letter to all of you. Because try as I might, I just don’t get you anymore. I just don’t get what makes you think you can do the things you do.

For example, the, uh, very masculine woman in the hair salon the other day. Honey, I have no problem — zero, zilch, nada — with your sexual proclivities. I have no problem with your sexual status. But I do have a problem with you sitting there, in a family-oriented salon, discussing your conquests like other people discuss the rising gasoline prices. My eleven-year-old daughter was sitting right there with me while you bragged on, well, never mind. Then, when the smock came off, and I saw your tee-shirt, complete with a smiley face with a cat’s tail hanging out of its mouth, and the accompanying caption, I was mortified. My daughter said nothing. Indeed, she didn’t even get it. Thankfully. But something tells me I’m going to have to answer a lot of questions a lot sooner than I thought I would. And it’s not because of who you are. It’s because of your lack of consideration and judgment.

I don’t get you people that think that everything about you is worthy of discussion. Everything. Yet you never once ask anyone else how they are doing. What’s going on in their lives. How their kids are doing. I hate to tell you, but you don’t have a monopoly on parenting (eek! a verbnoun!), on homeowning, or any of the minutiae of daily living. We’re all there, too, honey, and we don’t talk about it (a) because it’s just not all that interesting to other people and (b) because you don’t ask. We are all quite capable of getting up in the morning, picking out something to wear, and being comfortable with it (or not, whatever the case may be). We don’t need your fifteen-minute dissertation on what you went through to look this good. Or your comments about how you would never wear this or that. Particularly when someone nearby is wearing it.

I don’t get you people that have been married for thirty years and somehow think it’s okay to hook up with a coworker at the office Christmas party. First, we’re not impressed. Second, you’re even sluttier than we thought. Third, we know. Morons.

The Rest of Us

IF I were one of the above people, I’d think that I’m the only one that encounters this stupidity on a daily basis. I’m not.

However, I do think that I may just be a wee bit more annoyed than most.