An Open Letter to Netflix

Dear Netflix,

Jesus, are you trying to kill me here? Seriously, guys, when a person rents The Savages, Atonement, and Lars and the Real Girl all at the same time you really ought to include either a complimentary box of Kleenex or a gallon size drum of Prozac with the DVDs.

Because that person will start off with Lars and the Real Girl thinking "Boy, this looks like one really quirky indie comedy right here!", only she will end up being depressed after only a few minutes of watching it. She will once again realize how insanely talented Ryan Gosling is but feel frustrated because she never ends up actually connecting with the character of Lars and instead just thinks that it's sad enough that this guy is so withdrawn and isolated to come up with the concept of Bianca, but even sadder that we're supposed to expect the whole town to go along with the idea for 90 consecutive minutes. Sigh.

Then that person will pop in "The Notebook" and hope to be cheered up by a hunkier, less crazy version of Ryan Gosling and she'll remember what a piece of crap Hallmark/Lifetime pablum-fest that movie is (even WITH the kiss in the rain) and end up throwing the DVD across the room.

Then, later on, she'll try and watch The Savages because if there's one thing that never fails this person it's Philip Seymour Hoffman. Plus, with Laura Linney to boot, how can this movie be a bad thing? I'll tell you how, Netflix. It's about a brother and sister who have to put their dementia-ridden father into a nursing home. Um, nothing funny or quirky about that, not even in a dark-comedy sort of way, is there, Netflix? It's just dark. And more depressing. And very tiring.

So finally, this person will watch Atonement. Because surely a beautiful period film with James McAvoy (who, if you'll recall, Netflix, this person once referred to as "Mr. Yum-nus" from The Chronicles of Narnia) can't be all bad, right? So this person will watch the film and start to feel better because even after a horrible lie made in childhood, things ultimately end up alright and our two lovers are brought together again - OH WAIT THEY NEVER GET BACK TOGETHER BECAUSE THEY BOTH DIE HORRIBLE HORRIBLE DEATHS AND NOTHING CAN EVER BE PUT RIGHT AGAIN....ahem. Sorry, Netflix.

You see where I'm going with this, Netflix? Be careful what you mail to people in those little red envelopes. Just sayin'.

Your movie fan,

Beth

A quick open letter to my circa 1985 peach Princess Phone

Dear Circa 1985 Peach Princess Phone,

Damn, I've missed you. I mean, look at you. Who couldn't love that? For whatever reason I was talking at work today about Generation X-era technology and you came immediately to mind. No one here seems to remember you because they are all tech savvy Millenial kids, but I DO, Peach Princess Phone. I REMEMBER. I had to scour the Internet to find you, but when I tracked you down, this picture made me grin from ear to ear.

The hours we spent whispering secrets throughout my junior high and high school years will never be forgotten. I hope you're in a better place and still smelling like the Love's Baby Soft I drowned myself in.

LYLAS,

Beth

P.S. Don't tell the Mac Plus and Atari that I've written you, I don't want to have any hurt feelings. You know how they can be.

An Open Letter to the World of Beth

Dear World of Beth,

What am I going to DO with you people? You leave me no choice but to make a complete and utter cornball out of myself, folks.

To say "thank you" for all of the kind words and support and hilarious headbutting memories of Mrs. Puff just doesn't seem adequate - and yet, it's all I can do. Thank you for the calls and the emails and the text messages and the flowers and blog comments and strippergrams (okay, maybe not...)....thank you for just being there, and for Always Just Being There even when I am infuriating and difficult and distant and retreat from the world for weeks on end. Thank you for getting me through this. Thank you for making me realize that I am not utterly and completely alone. Thank you for supporting me through such an awful decision. Thank you for making me laugh even during tough times.

Thank you for being a friend (cue "Golden Girls" theme song....).

Seriously, you've all been so great. Headbutts and giant bellies for you all.

Murf,
Beth

Open letter to my new dentist in San Francisco

Dear New San Francisco Dentist,

Look, you seem like a nice guy. You came highly recommended from not just one, but several of my co-workers. Your office has some fantastic city views. Also, may I mention that you look an awful lot like Stanley Tucci (pictured here) and that endeared me to you almost instantly.

And yet.

I feel like we have to talk about the absolutely ridiculous sales job you did on me during my "consultation" visit where you tried to convince me to spend $4,000 on veneers and "power whitening." If I may, sir, are you on CRACK? Four GRAND? ARE YOU HIGH?

Look, I get that you probably have French Impressionist paintings to pay off and kids to put through private school and all of that, I do. But to recommend a "treatment plan" that incorporated tooth bleaching before you've so much as looked at my chompers was a pretty giant red flag. Also, the fact that your financial assistant tried to pass FOUR GRAND off as being "very affordable" was hilarious at best and a little offensive at worst.

Piece of advice, if I may, sir? Wait until after my first cleaning and after you've taken a gander at my gums and teeth before going straight into the cosmetic dentistry sales job. Prove yourself as a dentist before you enter the world of Extreme Makeovers and FOR GOD'S SAKE don't go asking people for FOUR GRAND on the first date. That's just bad manners.

Ideally I'd like to go back to you for many years to come - provided I can get the bad taste out of my mouth from our initial consultation.

Cavity Free,

Beth

Open Letter to Cheyenne, The Stylist Who Cut My Hair Yesterday

Dear Cheyenne,

First off, sir, props for being enough of a diva that you can actually pull off the name “Cheyenne.”
Um, yeah….so on that note about the bitchy diva-ness. I really didn’t appreciate the attitude you dished up to me when I came in for my haircut. I get that I wasn’t wearing a sassy halter sundress with stilettos like many of the other patrons there, and I get that my DIY color-from-a-box needs a touch up, badly. I get that my Payless sneakers and Maybelline lip gloss weren't real appreciated in your posh Aveda-centric world.

But bee-yotch, please.

I deserve a pair of snaps and a “You look gorgeous, girlfriend!” just as much as every other customer that perches on your stylist chair does. At the very least, I deserved a freakin’ handshake when I met you for the first time rather than a head-to-toe glance at my outfit, not to mention some conversational small talk while you cut and style my hair. For $95, you could have at least pretended to be somewhat engaging rather than merely showing off how stylish and cutting edge you are. We get it, okay?

Smell ya later - the hunt for a great stylist in the city is back on, big time.

Best,
Beth

Open Letter to the Electrician Who Wired the Kitchen in my Apartment

Dear Electrician,

I ask you, was there some sort of random shortage on electrical outlets when you were tasked to wire up my apartment?

Surely there has to be a logical reason as to why you put just one, single, solitary outlet in my kitchen. Really, just one outlet in which to plug things in? What is this, the third world? Is this some sort of test to see how creative I can be with my electricity consumption?

Your excruciatingly minimal outlet allotment means I can’t (for example) brew coffee and make toast at the same time. This hardly seems like a particularly exotic or demanding request. And yet, you deny me that simple pleasure and force me to take my toaster into my living room and utilize those outlets in order to toast. That is just downright madness. You, sir/ma’am, limit my ability to simultaneously brew and toast. CURSE YOU AND YOUR ENTIRE ELECTRICIAN FAMILY!

I hope when you return home from a hard day of electrical work to your posh, space-age multiple outlet-laden kitchen that you remember just how truly blessed you are when it comes time to utilize the food processor AND the Foreman Grill AND the bread machine. All at the same time.

Some of us, you see, are not so electrically fortunate.

Best,
Beth

An Open, Bittersweet, Letter to Seattle

Dear Seattle,

Well, old friend, it looks like it's our last night together. When I arrived at your doorstep, I was a 22 year old baby bunny rabbit, all wide-eyed to the world and dying for some adventure outside of Colorado, which I called home for my entire life. Now, 11 years later, we're parting ways and I'm off to hang with your older, more worldly, sister San Francisco. What a ride it's been - how to capture all of our time together?

I arrived unsure of what I was looking for, only that I was looking for something else. One time early on in our relationship I drove to Portland on a whim because I was bored and it totally slayed me that I could do that without asking anyone's permission. Check me out, driving three hours away without even telling my mom! You showed me what was possible, Seattle, if I went out there and did it.

Oh Seattle, with your sunny days spent lounging on Alki Beach and your rainy days spent wandering through Half Price Books, I'll miss you. You've given me Spicy Tuna Rolls at Chinoise on Queen Anne and pitchers of Mac and Jack at Linda's and spinach dip at Elephant and Castle and brunch at the Broadway Grill and crepes at 611 and countless happy hours at the Sitting Room.

You've shown me drag queen nuns at the Pride parade, a homeless guy relieving himself in the alley outside my first apartment, an irate Nordstorm shopper who "doesn't play that game," a Chicago native who could not pronounce "Factoria" and "San Jose" properly to save her life, and an executive's wife who once left a phone message for her husband that said "Just tell him the man who has been stalking me has been shot."

You've given me a few bad temp jobs, a stint as an overpaid receptionist/proposal monkey, and the courage to try out this wacky thing called Public Relations. You gave me Thomas the Wonder Cat and Mrs. Puff. You tested my heart and proved to me that I can survive even when it breaks into a million tiny pieces. Year after year, you've shown me how beautiful and clear and green and lush you can be on a sunny warm day in the spring after ten months of winter darkness.

We've both grown up so much since we first got together - a little wiser, a little more sophisticated and a little rougher around the edges given all of our experiences together. I'll miss you, old friend, but rest assured I'll be back. I couldn't leave you this easily, not after all we've been through together.

Fondly,
Beth

An Open Letter to the Cast, Crew and Producers of “The Holiday,”

Dear Cast, Crew and Producers of “The Holiday,”

Not since “13 Going on 30” have I desperately longed for a time machine, so that I could travel back to the Beth of Two Hours Ago, wrestle her/me to the ground and wrench the remote control from her/my hands so that I could get those two utterly wasted hours back. I feel robbed of my time after watching this fluffy, predictable mess, and these days I don’t have a lot of time to spare, which makes this movie all the more bothersome.

Listen, you’re all smart people. You’re all talented. I like you all, especially you, Jude Law, when you wear dorky glasses like you did. But, seriously, what were you thinking when you read this script? In the first 37 seconds, the following things are painfully, painfully obvious: Kate Winslet’s character will find her girl-power and Cameron Diaz’s character will learn to cry. Jude Law will be Flawed Somehow But Still Win Over The Pretty Girl and Jack Black’s doughy character will be cheated on by his supermodel/actress girlfriend and he will realize the Right Girl Was There All Along.

Sigh. See? I just gave away the entire plot in two sentences. Look, I swear my heart is not made of coal, I cry at Extreme Home Makeover like the rest of the world does. But oh, the things I could have spent my $3.99 on instead of this mess! I urge you all to go out and make some smart indie hipster movie to cleanse your souls of The Holiday immediately.

Until then,
Beth

An Open Letter to the Hotel Diva in San Francisco

Dear Hotel Diva,

Um, hi. I’m not a diva by any standard – my people, the Danish, were brought up to believe that it’s just plain bad manners to raise a fuss about ANYTHING (including being in fire, trapped in a well, etc.), so I feel a little out of sorts by writing you in the first place. However, you’re the freakin’ HOTEL DIVA so I feel like we need to talk. I mean, look at those pictures of you - you're adorable. And while technically not incorrect, they're a little misleading.

For one, the fact that you have concert footage of Cher and Liza playing in the lobby (kitschy in its own right) isn’t enough to make you “diva-licious.” My room was smaller than my kitchen table and featured a “goody bag” that included deodorant and coupons for male body spray. Again, I hate to raise a fuss here, but you call those GOODIES? What self-respecting diva in her right mind is going to be wooed by some deodorant and a few sample pieces of Trident?

Girlfriend, do we need to also talk about the fact that my comforter (while soft) was grey on one side and then hunter-caliber ORANGE on the other? Is this diva-worthy? You’re telling me that Beyonce sleeps on sheets that are grey and orange? Methinks not.

Your concierge referred me and my guest to Max’s, which – while very conveniently located – felt to us like an upscale version of Perkins. Perkins. Which – don’t get me wrong – is fabulous when the situation calls for a bread bowl salad and a Chocolate Chipper, but when you’re staying at the HOTEL DIVA, it’s a bit of a bring down.

Finally, may I point out that my guest had a room with no air conditioning (What, a diva is supposed to sweat here?) and I was in a street-level room with a view of an alley. The glamour, shall we say, was a bit lax.

Look, I feel weird even bringing any of this up. But the fact that you pride yourself on being the HOTEL DIVA makes this letter all the more necessary.

Bring in some fluffy white down comforters, some air conditioners, a goodie bag that features at least something beyond COUPONS, free Wi-Fi for your guests and some rooms that are more than closet sized and we’ll talk again.

Until then –

Beth

An Open Letter to “Shut Up And Sing,” the Dixie Chicks Documentary

Dear Dixie Chicks Documentary,

Having recently spent what felt like an endless number of hours watching you, could you please explain to me how it is possible that a documentary such as yourself could be so dreadfully, painfully, mind-numbingly boring? You have rednecks versus liberals! You have freedom of speech issues! You have war protesters and death threats and Rick Rubin! You even have that inspiring “Not Ready To Make Nice” song that even I like as your soundtrack!

And yet, you waste half of yourself with extended footage of the Chicks in the studio, recording tracks, plinging their banjos, talking with producers – blah, blah, blah. There's a lot of footage of Nathalie Manes laying on various couches in recording studios with no makeup on, but she's never saying anything particularly articulate or motivating. In fact usually she's getting counselled by her PR advisors and tour managers about how to react - this is supposed to inspire me? Plus, you’re poorly organized – flipping back in time to 2003, then ahead to 2006, then back to 2005, then back again to 2003 – what is UP, Dixie Chicks Documentary?

I was so looking forward to spending some time with you and this is what I get for it?

Whatever,
Beth

An Open Letter to MySpace

Myspace, are you intentionally trying to be difficult? Do you want me to stop and turn this Internet around and go back home? Do you, MySpace? Because I WILL.

All I want is a cute little background picture, maybe some cute little extra features, to customize my, well, my space, and it’s taking me hours to figure that out. Are there no good editing/customizing programs out there? Can no one make this an easier, more intuitive process? Seriously, MySpace, 12-year-olds have figured you out and I can’t? Is there a special invisible font that you employ that people over 30 can’t see somehow?

I was hoping to work with you as a nice compliment to the World of Beth, in the off chance I get organized and take more digital pictures to share with, well, the World of Beth. I was hoping to put up a nice playlist of songs I enjoy. I had lots of hopes and dreams for us, MySpace.

But right now I think you just need a time out. Just wait until your father gets home, MySpace, he’s going to have to have a word with you. For now, you’re officially grounded.

Ugh,
Beth

Open Letter to Every. Single. Person. At the Northgate Target this weekend

Dear Every Single Person At the Northgate Target This Weekend,

First of all, let me be clear. This means you. Yes, you. All of you. Every single person that was there on Saturday. All of you.

PUT DOWN YOUR DAMNED CELL PHONES AND JUST START SHOPPING ALREADY. SOME OF US ARE AT TARGET TO, UM, ACTUALLY SHOP AT TARGET.

Thank you, that is all.

Cheerio,
Beth

P.S. Hi there, did anyone else notice they're selling Boot's goodies at Northgate now? Bring on the Eurotrashy skin care products and makeup! That was the only thing that saved my sanity among the cell phone toting masses.

P.P.S. Hi there, I see you still talking on your cell phone. HANG UP RIGHT NOW. ENOUGH ALREADY.

Open Letter to Celery

Hi Celery,

Why do you have to be so awful? Right now I'm nibbling on you and cursing myself for ever having thought up the idea of bringing you to work as a healthy snack. Everytime I sit down and try to give you another chance, I am a little bit sadder and more disgusted for the experience.

Look, Celery, I'm trying to take small steps towards a "lifestyle change" by incorporating veggies like you into my diet. But it's your ridiculous, almost comically noisy personality, mixed with your consistent bland flavor and mouth-full-of-spongely-floss sensation that continues to keep us apart.

Maybe like the wise scribe from ABBA said, "knowing me, knowing you....there is nothing we can do." I do wish it could have worked out, Celery. Please have your homeboy cucumber give me a call if you happen to see him in the crisper later on.

Best,

Beth

Open Letter to the professional cat-sitter who refused to cat sit Mrs. Puff because it would (quote) "break his heart"

Dear Inappropriate Pet Sitter Guy,

I try to use my blog for good instead of evil. I try not to be That Girl who rants in excessive detail about my friends, my work, my politics etc. But when I inquired about your possibly cat-sitting my cat over the holidays, I must say your reaction surprised and offended me enormously. You have given me no choice but to go off and rip you a new one in my blog.

Without ever having met me or my cat, your email response stated that the experience of visiting the 25-pound Mrs. Puff would "break (your) heart to see her before, during and after visiting her." You stated that "some people might find fat cats cute or funny, but I just see an uncomfortable animal who probably can't run around and play, can't jump onto a window sill, or pull herself up to the top of a kitty condo., and who will probably die young."

You stated you would be "bummed out big time seeing your cat" and went on to lecture me about the risks of feline obesity ("diabeties, and other terrible illnesses, through no fault of their own..."), letting me know that you apologized to your 16-pound cat the last time he got weighed ('I'm sorry I let you eat to much.').

Where do I even begin with this, sir? Look, on one hand, I appreciate your concern for my cat's welfare. I do. But you know nothing about my cat or how I, or her veteranian, care for her. I don't really appreciate your lecturing me about my pet's health, diet, weight, and prognosis for a healthy rest of her life. The snide implication that I keep my cat fat for my own amusement is totally out of line. You're not really in a position to pontificate about how mobile or comfortable or healthy my cat is, never have seen or interacted with her. The repeated mentions of how "bummed out" and heartbroken you would be during the cat-sitting experience is melodramatic beyond compare. Even the most well-intentioned animal lover need not be a guilt-tripping judgemental ass.

So, phew. Thanks for getting back to me about the pet-sitting gig, but next time, just decline politely and spare your potential customers the side dish of judgement you served me.

Meow,
Beth

Open Letter to Ra the Sun God

All hail Ra,

First off, I’d like to open by saying thank you very much for your gift, the sun. Really nice work overall on your part here. We in Seattle don’t see a lot of the sun, but we sure do appreciate it when it makes an appearance.

Which brings to my reason for writing. I wanted to take a moment to apologize on behalf of my people, the Seattleites. As I mentioned, we’re sort of new to the concept of “the sun” and as such we tend to get a little overexcited when it appears. This week is a prime example. It’s been 80 degrees now for two days (again, great work!), but it seems that folks haven’t quite worked out how to dress in this warm climate.

On behalf of the pale, the flabby, the hairy, the pasty and the totally inappropriately underclad citizens of Seattle that have been prancing around our city this week, I apologize. Especially for the shirtless man with a paunch in cut-off hotpants that was riding the number 11 bus last night. Sorry ‘bout that. Seriously.

Anyway – I know you’re busy. Thanks again for the sun and the warmth thing that you’ve got going on. We’re looking forward to seeing more of it in the months ahead and I promise I’ll do what I can to throw a couple of cardigans around the biggest pasty and hairy offenders out there.

Keep on keepin’ on,
Beth

Open Letter to the Music Store Employee That Bought Some Of My CD's This Morning And Mocked The Remainder

Dude.

Seriously, dude. That attitude is NOT COOL.

I do not at all appreciate your snarky tone and "I'm-like-so-more-ironic-than-thou" hipster judgment when looking over my CDs. I realize that some of the CDs I brought in were (gasp!) slightly uncool, but doesn't your hipster mind grasp that's why I was trying to unload them in the first place? Could you not have been slightly more accomodating to a customer looking to freshen up her music selection, rather than snickering over the CDs you clearly don't approve of or enjoy?

Whatever, man. I'm outta here.

Another Open Letter

Dear World At Large,

Um, how long have you been holding out on me, World At Large? You're telling me that they have brought back Jell-O Pudding Pops and no one alerted me to this? Where was the ticker-tape parade? Where was the Food Network Marathon?

It's not often that I am known to squeal in the frozen foods section of my local grocery store, but clearly this discovery merited a giddy little shriek.

Keep me posted if other major elements of my childhood come back into the mainstream. Oh wait, they already have.

Sigh.

Yours in 80's nostalgia,
Beth

Open Letter of Thanks

Open Letter to the Previous Driver of the Flexcar Which I Recently Used On Weekend Errands

Dear Sir/Madam,

In the one-in-a-billion chance that you actually should come across my blog, I wanted to take a moment and say thank you. While bopping around town in my Flexcar today, I noticed a CD hiding above the cup holder entitled, simply, "Car Mix." I popped it in. And it was SHEER BRILLIANCE.

Was it the opening remix of The Smiths' "How Soon is Now?" that made this such a fabulous, enjoyable CD? Was it the ABBA-infused Madonna song that I cannot get enough of? Was it that feel-good Natasha Bedingford song "These Words" that had me shouting "IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou!" out loud while driving? It was the whole thing, my Flexcar amigo. Whether you left your mix in the car by accident, or whether you left in there to pop in the next time you needed to run some errands, this sampling of new songs and old favorites made a rather dull errand trip much more entertaining for this gal.

Come to think of it, the only way that they could make Flexcar any better is if all users, just like you did, started leaving little "gifts" behind for the next passenger to enjoy. Could be a refreshing bottle of water, a recipe for Scalloped Potatoes or a mix CD of your favorite songs. Just a thought. Thanks again for turning my temporary Honda Civic into a temporary dance hall/karaoke bar.

Yours in the spirit of Flexcar,
Beth

Note to Self About What Constitutes An Acceptable Snack

Dear Beth,

Look, it's admirable that you're trying to eat more vegetables, and I fully support the idea of your bringing healthier snacks to work to nibble on throughout the day.

But honey, brussel sprouts? What the $#@) were you thinking? Yes, I know they're good every now and then drenched in butter with some red pepper flakes, but are you kidding me with the notion that you're going to actually eat them as a SNACK AT WORK? I cannot possibly think of a sadder snack except maybe a raw onion or a bag of gravel.

Throw them out now let's just not talk about this incident again.

Yours,
Beth