To My Bathroom Scale: An Airing Of Grievances

Hi, Bathroom Scale!! I don't know what compelled me to purchase you, place you on the floor of one of the only rooms I get naked in, and step on you repeatedly! You're a frickin' BITCH, and I hate you.

First off, let's address your asscrazy tactic of slowly increasing from a weight of zero and flashing escalatingly high numbers until I cry and cut myself. Is this fucking necessary? With every flutter of "97.9 LBS," my heart swells with delight that my diet of Cherry Garcia and Tillamook Extra Sharp has burned the subcutaneous fat from my body--only to be ripped out and defacated on by YOU, Bathroom Scale! Must you illustrate my failure in pounds to the second decimal? You really have to remind me that I weigh .07 pounds more than I did yesterday?! Did your mother never tell you that she loved you, or do you just have no soul?

Secondly, if I shift my weight and/or place my foot .05 inches to the left (see, Bathroom Scale, I can play the decimal game too!), I gain 9 and a half pounds. This is not possible, and you should study the laws of nature.

Sometimes, Bathroom Scale, you feel compelled to leave me with one word. One cold, erroneously capitalized word: "ErrOr." Are you pontificating on my failure as a human being, or simply displeased with the swift nature of my ability to step from Floor to You? Either way, I want to spit on you.

And lastly, Bathroom Scale: Why must you judge me?? That Snickers Ice Cream Bar was not going to eat itself!! It was desperately crying out from the freezer for me to devour it, and I did the only decent, God-fearing thing I could think of--and that was ripping off it's stiffling, oppresive wrapper with my teeth and swallowing it whole in a fit of glee. You check your attitude at the door, you smug son of a bitch.

Okay, Bathroom Scale, I suppose this is a little formal given the fact that I am about to smash your face with my blowdryer and stomp on you until my feet bleed. Have fun at the Gates of Hell, and tell Satan thank you for giving me The Maury Povich Show.

Moist Hands Emergency

I work at the airport.

I realize better than most the ridiculousness of the security regulations (Lighters? Sure! 4 ounce bottle of lotion to soothe Aunt Marge's dry skin? "CODE RED!! GET THIS WOMAN A ZIPLOCK!!"). Each day, I walk past a sign indicating the Security Level--illustrated by the primary (and some secondary!) colors, just to ensure that people who cannot wipe their own ass are well aware of the terrorist threat. It's Orange today?! Did I mention the broad with the 4 ounce lotion? Orange means, "WATCH OUT FOR THAT CRAZY BITCH."

So, my point being, it is someone in the government's job to ensure that traveling through an airport makes you want to lie in the fetal position and urinate in your pants. That guy is doing a hell of a stand-up job. He has taken this debilitating fear and distributed it like a Ronco Flavor Injector into every square inch of Portland International Airport. Even the LADIES' RESTROOMS.

It's a seemingly typical bathroom. Toilets with beads of water (?) all over the seats, motion-detector faucets that only turn on if you emit infrared rays from your body, and the paper-towel dispenser. But not just any paper towel dispenser. This dispenser, my friends, has a special feature.

It has an Emergency Feed. EMERGENCY! Emergency. Paper. Towel. Feed. I'll give you a second to collect your brains off of the floor.

Please observe that this advisement is also posted in FIVE LANGUAGES. GOD IN HEAVEN!! Is there a troupe of desperately over-moistened Swahilis traveling through PDX that I don't know about? Am I unaware of a wetness-induced bloodrage common amongst non-English-speaking Spaniards? Or has the state of widespread terror in this country expanded to include avoiding wet spots on the waistbands of our Dockers (gasp!! Pass me the smelling salts, lest I faint!!)

And, PRAYTELL, where is the Emergency Feed on the toilet paper dispenser, for all of those who lose control of their bowels after seeing "Emergency Paper Towel Feed" written in Sanskrit characters predating Christ?

If anyone can think of a legitimate emergency that could only be circumvented via one-ply paper towel, please find me immediately. I'll be the one cowered in the corner of the E-Gate terminal gargling bleach.

To The Lady Oozing With Overinflated Sense Of Own Hotness: We Need To Talk.

Hi, Lady! I was working, and you walked into my store. Don't worry, no need to get off your cell phone, or lower your voice below jet engine decibel levels! I have an extraordinary tolerance for rude people. Not to mention I was positively fascinated by your take on what Allison should do about the guy with the backhair who left his boxers in her room. I agree, Lady! She should, like, uhdunno, totally burn them. So clever! Clearly, Lady, you had me at "uhdunno." Since I'm quite fond of you, I'll try to put this nicely:

You need to set your wardrobe aflame. By that I mean, put every item of clothing you own in a steel drum, douse it with gasoline, nail polish remover, Bacardi 151 and any other highly flammable liquid you have in your home, and set that shit on fire. The remnants of this effigy of fashion should be buried far below the Earth's crust, alongside Vanilla Ice's Greatest Hits album and the guy who invented Bacon-flavored Easy Mac.

Now Lady, don't get me wrong. You have the right to wear whatever you please, because this is AMERICA, god damn it. I fully support the right of citizens to strut their stuff in, say, hot pink leggings and an oversized Winnie The Pooh t-shirt purchased at Disneyland in 1995, like the Lady, we'll call her Lady Part Uno, who wandered into my store before you. But, the outfit you wore into my store today, Lady Part Dos, should never have been seen by the eyes of Man.

Okay, Lady, so let's start from the bottom and work our way up:

YOUR SHOES. My oh my, Lady, I never knew they made 3" wedge Jelly sandals. If the year were 1997 and I was looking for an edge over the sluts of my 12-and-up summer camp, I would have rocked the hell out of these. I may have added some Puff Paint though--alas, we are all fallible.

YOUR PANTS!! Oh god, your pants. They are at least four sizes too small, and my soul is crying. Big can be beautiful if Big wears the appropriate pant size. Buying a size eight does not a size eight make.

YOUR SHIRT AND/OR YOUR LACK OF TANK TOP. Okay, Lady, I think I've been pretty tolerant of your shenanigans thus far. The buck stops here, Toots. When you purchase, and wear--IN PUBLIC!!--a blouse with slits on either side that go up to your rib cage, the designer of this shirt is sending you a not-so-subtle message to wear this OVER A TANK TOP. These slits are not flesh curtains. They are not meant to flutter in the breeze, exposing your naked muffin top for all to see. TRUST ME.

YOUR MAKE-UP. White eyeliner? Really? Am I on Candid Camera?

Okay, Lady! I feel better now. Thank you for wandering into my store and loudly not buying anything whilst violating my corneas and offending my paying customers with your exposed and exorbitant flesh! You're hawt!

Dear Kind Sir: I Hope You Got A Blow Job

You inspired my very first Craigslist rave. That is saying a lot.

I was leaving work from the Portland Airport on a Tuesday afternoon at 5:30pm or so. Apparently all of humankind and their respective mothers were also attempting to travel between PDX and I-205 at this particular juncture of time. Normally, on a sunny day such as it was, I would roll down my windows, crank my embarassingly unhip music ("Broadway Today" anyone?), and succumb to the tragedy of slow-moving traffic. But, today was different.

I was in a mother-loving HURRY. There were things to do and dogs to pick up before the $5/minute deadline and my gas light was on and, I swear on all that is holy, changing from a pleasant amber color to a Lucifer-like blazing, urgent red. I flew past the left-turn-only traffic, bypassing a direct and slow route to the north-bound Glen Jackson Bridge, hoping instead to flip a bitch between Shari's and the Clarion Hotel at Holman.

You must have sensed my trepidation. I hope you know I wasn't trying to cheat. Really, I wasn't!! I thought I could pull of the U-ey beside the car wash, but then I remembered the "No Turn On Red" between Holman and the 205 onramp... DAMN! Such a bitch could never be rightfully flipped. These were desperate times, and desperate measures were called for.

Dear, kind Sir, in your modestly murdered-out black Outback, I wasn't even attempting to merge in front of you. I had my eye on the slow-moving diesel Ford monstrosity to your rear. I actually don't even know how you saw my blinker, or anticipated my need to geeyet over. I looked behind my left shoulder, expecting to see cars whizzing past, only to gaze upon your smiling, Oakley-wearing face, waving me on. I smiled widely and said, LOUDLY!, "THANK YOU!!"

I kept you in my rear-view until I exited at Highway 14 East. I want to throw roses at you and kiss you on the mouth.

You made my day.

-The girl in the white VW

PS. Later on this day when I went to Starbucks, my barista was really nice so I left $3 in the tip jar, because you inspired me with your kindness. I hope that very barista gave you a blow job, because then all would be right with the world and I may again believe in God.

The Dinosaur Pontificates on Life

I am old and wise, and you should listen to me:

Tip well. Your server gets taxed 10% on your tab regardless and their job is sucky.And don't forget your pizza delivery person! Gas prices are downright offensive, and Jesus Mary & Joseph, they're bringing hot pizza to your doorstep! Show the love!

Don't waste time at a job that makes you miserable.

The Lakers suck and should die.

Sometimes, a little road rage releases just enough tension to make you feel good again. Thanks, Girl-In-The-Hyundai-Who-Nearly-Killed-Me-While-Putting-On-Mascara!! Sorry I flipped you off. Well, actually I take that back. Flipping you off was wonderful.

Oregon Ducks football rules the school, and yes, I hate Bellotti too.

Douchebag is the funniest word, ever. (Post-Script Edit: Wait, make that chode)

Rap music was single-handedly destroyed by Soulja Boy and his retarded kin. Those who grew up on post-Little-John ("Yeah! Okay!" Are you fucking serious? Kill yourself.) rap should go listen to Biggie and Dre's Chronic 2001 and prepare for their brain to explode.

Smile and say thank you to people who assist you at the store--whatever store that may be--Safeway, American Eagle, Rite Aid, your local Private Lives (I'm not judging). It really does make a difference. Smiling and saying thank you takes minimal effort, and if you can't muster it up, seek therapy.

You should watch the History Channel more often.

Drugs are bad. Trust me, I pay serious dinero to study black tar heroin and methamphetamine. As much as I love you all, I'd rather not see you professionally.

Add a dog to your family. Don't seek perfection as my dog Amos is the cutest god damn thing alive so I already beat you to it.

If you don't return your shopping cart and are not pregnant, ass old, or suffering from a serious physical ailment... JUST EFFING DO IT! Come on! I'm nearly positive you could use the exercise. Oh what, you don't have time? You just went shopping. Get the eff out of town.

Driving the speed limit is dumb. If you have boobs and tear ducts, risk it.

See movies by yourself. Eat so much popcorn doused in Artificial Butter Substance and salt that you have a mitt of sodium and preservatives by the time the credits roll. You will thank yourself.

Get your oil changed. Like, yesterday.

Once in a while, when you're feeling down, go to passiveaggressivenotes. com .. it is glorious.

For that matter, head over to hotchickswithdouchebags. com too.. also glorious.

Tell the people you love that you love them. They need to hear it as much as you do.

Soccer freaking rules.

So does college football.

Alameda Brew Pub has the best beer ever. Go there! It's off Powell in NE Portland, and you get the added benefit of driving past "The G Spot" which is the most depressing strip club I've ever seen.Yay Portland!

Wearing pajama pants and Uggs to the store don't make ya bad.

Credit cards are the devil.

Give yourself permission to find joy in your daily life... even if that takes form in laughing at those durned Emo kids with their ridiculous tapered tight-ass jeans. Bask in the glory of not having been so retarded in your own high school years!

Enjoy turning 23, like I did today! It's not as bad as I thought it would be.