WTF Wednesdays #17: I Wish Upon a…NOPE

Have you ever heard of Wish? If not, I can sum it up pretty plainly: It’s an online shopping mall of horrors. 


Basically, you can get anything from Bluetooth headsets to refrigerator cover organizers (you didn’t think you needed one, did you?) for insanely low prices. 


Now that I think of it, I have been meaning to get a pair of Geordi la Forge sunglasses. 

The only catch is that 99% of what you buy ships from China, so it may or may not ever make it to you.

The positive to this is that, five months from now, when you’ve completely forgotten you’d ordered a $2 waffle/pancake/egg/cake baking mold, it’s like a mini surprise Christmas when it arrives. 

That is, if what you ordered isn’t utter crap. 

To be fair, out of the five or so things I’ve ordered off Wish, I recall only one thing totally sucking. 

So, to that, do not order clothes from Wish unless you weigh precisely 80 pounds, soaking wet. 

I was feeling like playing it dangerously, so I ordered this hideous gauzy, lime green monstrosity. It was similar to this:


When I finally got it, three years later, the gauzy neon look was totally out. Not to mention, the XL size wouldn’t even fit over my fat head. Had it fit, it would have made a fabulous choker necklace, as it was My Size Barbie size. 

So, I wasted $7 and three years of my life waiting for something I forgot I ordered. Not a big deal in the whole scheme of things. 

Wish is harmless, if you go into it knowing you can’t be in dire need of any item you deem worthy of buying, and you understand that the quality is just a notch above the Dollar Store. 

Lately, I’ve been bombarded, accosted by Wish ads on Facebook. I swear, every other post is a random Wish ad.

Why this is of any interest to myself (and, hopefully, you) is the nature of what Wish is advertising. 

It’s weird af.

And, unlike most ads on Facebook that are creepily accurate and timely (I’m not even ashamed to admit that I was googling “hemorrhoid cream”-it’s great for undereye puffiness-and not five minutes later an ad for Preparation H showed up in my Facebook ads), these “suggestions” are downright nope-eff-you-Wish. 

The following are not things I’ve previously Googled. 

I swear.


WTF?! Why? Please tell me this is a mouth trainer for when you want to make a face that expresses surprise, but your facial muscles are too weak, so this helps make them strong, and literally nothing else. 


What.in.the.holy.hell is this? I have so many questions. 

Is this a fake pregnancy belly? (I’m only guessing that, because the description says, “LIZ 5-7 Months…”)

Why does one need an artificial pregnancy belly? Is this for a messed up April Fool’s joke? A scam? A weird fetish? Also, why is this not $2 like everything else? 

$221 for a fake blob of flesh is not a steal! I say! 


OK. This thing is actually kind of cute…

EXCEPT IT’S A MINIATURE PENIS WITH EYES AND AN ASS CRACK.

Is this a pencil topper or something?


Source
Now, this next one is definitely PG-13, maybe R-rated. If you’re an innocent, dainty flower, maybe you’ve read enough. Just sayin’. 

So, when I first saw this one, I legit thought it was just a regular old hammock. These were my thoughts:

What have you got now, Wish?

What is that? 

Is that a hammock? 

Two people in a hammock? That’s just asking for trou…

Wait. 

What the hell are they doing?!

OMG. 

My virgin eyes! 

I think they’re…doing it in a hammock! 

I had to get confirmation. 

Me: “Babe! Look at this hammock for sale on Wish! They are being quite unsafe! Imagine me, just me in a hammock. I’d just be innocently trying to get into the damn thing to read or nap, and I’d probably get wrapped up, spin like an out-of-control gyro meat machine, and end up flat on my face. Who is crazy enough to attempt sex in a fucking hammock?”

Him: “Yup. That looks exactly like what they’re doing. We’d probably break the damn thing, and, with my luck, I’d get a potted plant up my ass.” 

Behold, you can buy a sex swing hammock for $31 on Wish! 


(Not sure I’d trust it. But, that’s just me.) 

Literally me upon seeing Wish’s interesting new wares.
 


This one…

OMG. 

Sorry, I was gagging on my diet root beer. 

Every time I see this, I can’t even.

I’ve paid close to $50 for Spanx that are intended to do literally the opposite of what these $5 tights that wouldn’t fit an American infant are trying to do. 

Why, why are we trying to make oddly placed bubbles of thigh fat fashionable? Is this a thing? Please tell me it’s not. 
Wish, what the ever-loving fuck? 


Chrissy Teigen’s James Brown*

I’m a satire writer. I felt the need to start with that, in case you’re new here or you haven’t already realized that 90% of my blog is humor-based.

So, I think almost anything is laugh-till-I-pee funny.

It’s true.

My friends either love or hate going to the movies with me, because there’s a 110% chance I’ll be the loudest one laughing at every.single hint of a joke.

I laugh at myself and my ineptness. I laugh at fart and poop jokes. Hell, I laugh at farts. Every fart. I laugh at the fact that my boyfriend and I call each other Miss and Mr. Poopy Butthole (instead of the usual “Honey” or “Sweetie” *gagging noise*). I laugh at my students’ corny straight-from-the-dollar-special-Scholastic-knock-knock-book. Like, I genuinely laugh. I laugh at puppies simply being puppy-y. I laugh when conversations turn awkward. I laugh at my dad’s pronunciation of a Yoo-hoo as Yo-ho.

I fucking think everything is funny.

Well, almost.

Not everything is funny.

What makes me stop dead in my tracks during a laughing fit?

What makes me instantly get on my high horse soap box?

You want to know?

It’s when people pass off utter, on-purpose stupidity as “cute”.

I’m all for laughing at silly things like this:


Because it’s not stupidity, it’s a misunderstanding, turned hilarity.

source

Recently, I stumbled upon a stupid af BuzzFeed article about–are you ready for this–Chrissy Teigen’s butthole.

Get this, despite having had sex with her husband, however many hundreds (thousands) of times, she had no clue he’d spied her butthole.

Apparently, she had always assumed her coffee crumpet was the one sacred place left on her body that her husband had not seen.

Chrissy, didn’t you ever wonder why all of your friends were getting their assholes bleached? No, it wasn’t for health reasons. SMH.
I really don’t aim to be a snotty bitch, but, really? How can someone be that dumb?

Furthermore, why are we perpetuating the stupidity by glorifying it?

All images from BuzzFeed, obviously. 



I was planning on completely dismissing this article as a slow news day at BuzzFeed, until I continued reading (why did I continue reading??), and was forced to choke down her grammatically incorrect, cringe-worthy tweet.

There are at least 11,378 fools out there who either didn’t even notice the lack of any understanding of grammar whatsoever in her post or they just didn’t care.

WE NEED TO START CARING.

As an educator, it is literally my job to spread knowledge and to stop the scourge of ignorance.

Why are we continuing to share, repost, retweet, and glorify stupidity masked in I’m-pretty-so-it’s-OK?

So, I did my due diligence as an educator, and I commented on the poor grammar and lame subject of an article someone actually got paid to write, and I was met with being called a “judgemental bitch”.

I will be honest, I was my usual snarky, dripping-in-satire-self, but I simply can’t sit by, as someone’s stupidity is celebrated, and do nothing.

In hindsight, maybe I should have privately messaged Chrissy, and said something along the lines of:

“Chrissy, sweetie, I’m not being mean when I say this, and really, I’m just trying to help you, but you might want to invest in a basic human anatomy book. While you’re at, you might want to also add to your Amazon cart, “Grammar For Dummies”. Actually, no. What am I thinking? You’re paid for your good looks. You don’t need basic common sense. Nah. You’re good. Forget I even said anything.”

Too much?

While I’m at it, ladies, can we stop playing the dumb, because it’s perceived-as-cute-card?

Maybe Chrissy Teigen is secretly a rocket scientist, but since women are still more valued for their looks, she plays that role, because a girl’s gotta eat?

Either way, I don’t care how “judgemental” I’m perceived to be, I’m going to continue fighting ignorance one snarky, time-wasting social media comment war at a time.

*James Brown= slang for butthole.

 

Pure Gold 

My mom is a great storyteller. Family stories have been passed down, retold countless times, and loved since I can remember. On Sunday, my mom told us a story I had never heard before, and how it’s even possible she never told us this doozy, I do not know. 

Because it’s pure gold. 

Back in the time of Mom Jeans, VHS, and Kenny Loggins cassette tapes, my mom and her brother had a battle of epic proportions. 

It was Christmastime, and my uncle was visiting, as he did every year. My cousin and I were young, and likely we were the reason the whole fam bam was at the park in the middle of December. 

For some insane reason, the topic of who was faster on foot between my mom and my uncle came up in conversation. My uncle swore he’d literally beat the pants off of my mom. 

Well, that pretty much sealed the deal. 

My mom and uncle readied themselves for a foot race that would easily rival that of Usain Bolt…if he were middle aged, out of shape, and if he considered tight Lee jeans appropriate running attire. 

Quite handy for the two marathon runners was that the particular park where we were had parallel bridges, not too far away from each other. My grandmother, humoring her two always-picked-last-for-sports-children said she’d call “ready or not”. 

I guess now is a good time to paint the scene.

My good ol’ Uncle Gary, or, My Own Personal John Candy was one of the best parts of my childhood. If my mom was a good storyteller, it’s only because she learned the craft from the king of all storytellers-her older brother. 


He was round, and, just like Santa, when he laughed, his belly shook like a bowl full of jelly. (And he laughed a lot, because he always had a new, mildly inappropriate joke up his sleeve.)


In essence, he was pleasantly, perfectly plump (he wouldn’t have been Uncle Gary had he been any different). 

As for my mom, it was she who I inherited my overly curvaceous bod, cellulite, and body hair from, so…

I think the picture is fairly clear. 

They were 100% the kids who cheated on running the mile in PE class (or walked the entirety, coming in with a record time of 12 minutes). 

Basically, we had a pair of real marathon winners.

I don’t think my mom even took the race seriously. She probably figured she’d have to embarrass him by beating the pants off him in front of God and everybody, or that he had a cheat or a trick ready and waiting. 

This was why she was far more concerned with what he was doing at the starting line, instead of readying herself for moving more quickly than she had in years. 

She was staring him down, incredulity and an ounce of fear growing, as his Rocky-esque stance proved he was ready and actually serious. 

Suddenly, Grandma called, “Go!” and it was all just a blur of color block windbreaker and handlebar mustache. 

My mom was glued to her spot. Stunned. 

Pretty quickly, she couldn’t contain her laughter and broke down in hysterics. 

She said, “At the starting gate, I collapsed in laughter. I saw him there, this 300 pound man, with his 32 year-old shoes flapping, going like the wind.”

As my mom was dissolving into a puddle of tear-soaked Jordache, Grandma was yelling, “Go, Judy! Just go a little bit, Judy!” 

After listening to this story, it was only natural that I dared my brother to our own relay race. 

I was fairly certain I’d beat the crap out of him. I’d only been an aerial yogaist for five weeks straight, and all of my walks to 7-11 had to make me more capable of movement than him. 

The last time I was witness to him doing anything that resembled physical exertion was when we went on a family picnic five years ago, and I dragged him on a “hike” up to a lookout, barely half a mile away. It was not his favorite. 
I figured I’d finish and have time to bake a cake before he came across the finish line. 

As he confidently, unwaveringly got into his runner’s stance, I began to doubt myself as a shoe-in for first place. 

Maybe he runs during his time off? Had I somehow completely missed that aspect of his life? 

I said to my mom, “I think I’m kinda scared!” 

She replied, “Maybe you should be. Sometimes fat people surprise you and they run like the wind!”

Spoiler Alert: I lost miserably.

Not only did I lose, I came incredibly close to eating asphalt. 

You know when you are trying to go faster than your body can catch up and your head has literally a head start? Well, that was me the entire 20 or so feet we ran. 

Not only did he beat me by running a hell of a lot faster than me, he did so with bare feet. 

When my dad yelled, “Go!” (BTW, my dad was excited enough to watch this spectacle, that he actually paused the golf he was watching, and said, “Now, I gotta see this.” as he practically ran outside), I thought my body would be moving quicker than it did. It was like I was in slo-mo, shlepping through molasses. Before I could even start actually moving, he had propelled his body through the finish line with his Fred Flinstone feet. 

It wasn’t even a competition. 

The two expert sprinters

Moral of the story: Don’t underestimate people carrying around some extra weight, because they can move. With the exception of this fat chick. I can’t move quickly for anything. 
Also, family stories are better when you don’t try to reenact them. Don’t let history repeat itself, people!  

Flashback Friday: Sudden Summer Shame

Happy Flashback Friday! 

I just realized that some of my newer readers might not know that I used to write for the U.K.-based online magazine, Shopper Lottie. It got to be a little much on top of working and coming up with content for my blog, because the Shopper Lottie content had to be original and not previously published. I guess I’m really not the writing machine that I would like to be. Still, it was a really awesome experience, and I still adore the magazine creator, Charlotte. 

Since it’s almost summer break, I thought I’d share a post I wrote for Shopper Lottie about that fun realization when you’re super not summer body ready. 

Let me know what you think in the comments! 

Six Summer Fashion Tips For When You “Forgot” to Get That Summer Bod

WTF Wednesdays #16

I have at least three posts sitting in my drafts folder just waiting to be finished. My excuse for not having a polished piece this week is that I’m a teacher and it’s the last week of school.

I’m just feeling lucky that my brain hasn’t melted.

Yesterday was spent out in the sun all day for Field Day. I could barely even.

I silently mouth or say outright, “WTF?!” at least 20 times a day in response to a wide assortment of inconveniences, ridiculous happenstances, strange personal choices, and annoyances. 

It’s basically my go-to response, because I’m a lady like that. 

So, for this week’s installment of #WTFW, I am sharing some WTFs with you. Ready or not, here they come! 

1. How is it that one minute I’m watching a video on how to make strawberry cheesecake macarons, and then, somehow, it’s three hours later and I’m in deep, searching through a rando’s Facebook pictures of their dog? Or, why is it I spend an ungodly amount of time scrolling the comment section of a video on how to fold a shirt? Why do I waste my time like this? I think I need therapy. 

2. When, after walking precisely 20 miles round trip to the work room, staff lounge, admin’s office, back to the work room for the tape I forgot, and back to my classroom, I realize my Fitbit is still charging on my computer. None of those steps counted. Might as well just go home and go to bed. The day is a wash. FML.

3. When one second I am peacefully, albeit horribly, singing to my latest favorite tune in the car, and the next, I am screaming obscenities, that would make a sailor blush, at the idiot who is driving 30 miles an hour on the FUCKING FREEWAY. 

Check out this video on YouTube:

source

This is 1,000% me. 

4. Sometimes I start my makeup on the opposite side of my face that I always start with, and I wonder if I’ve somehow entered a parallel universe. Or, I worry I’m losing my mind, because what kind of routine-driven person does that kind of thing?

5. Sometimes (always) I ask my boyfriend really ridiculous, inane questions that, most likely, make him question his undying love for me and are, 100%, why he has more gray hairs and some new wrinkles. I’ve personally aged the poor man. Some examples would be:
“Did you wash your hands?”

“Do you think it’s safe to eat this salami I left in my bag all day?”

“Did you lock the doors (for the 8,563rd time)?”

“Can you smell my breath from over there?”

“Do you think anyone at Panda Express will notice I’m not wearing a bra?”

“What do you think it means when someone’s pee is green? Asking for a friend.”

And, his absolute favorite: “Can you hold my purse while I use the restroom?”

 I don’t know why I’m crazy, I just am.  

6. When I buy my Friday Treat Donut at Starbucks (for $2, might I add) and there are freaking free donuts in the staff lounge. Fatty don’t play. WTF! 


7. This:


So, tell me: What makes you go “WTF”? I need some humor to get me through this last week, people! 

Ain’t It Purty?

Happy Monday! Yesterday, I spent ages customizing a new theme for my blog page. I felt my page needed some updating and a fresh new look. Mostly, I want my blog to be easy to navigate and fun to look at.

I would love feedback about the new look. Specifically, is my fat gob too much right there, front and center? I feel like it is a little shocking, especially for those who visit my blog upon just waking up.

Since customizing this new theme, my “about” and “home” links have disappeared. My “about” page still exists, but I don’t know how to get to it!

(I know it still exists, because I followed the link provided on the Bloggers Bash post.)

This is no bueno! Since Wordpress support has been so expeditious in their replies as of late, I am likely not going to get the help I need from them this year.

Anyone have any idea why this might have happened?

Let me know what you think about my new theme and layout, along with why I might have a missing menu!

Many thanks!

 

Flashback Friday: Catharsis

Elko 2

I wanted to share a piece I wrote about Elko for this week’s #fbf. I wanted to include this in my BuzzFeed application, but it wasn’t enough words. Also, it’s the first piece my mom asked about when I told her I had to send in some of my writing. 

Any time the seasons change, I think of Elko. So, I’ve been thinking of it a lot lately. 

It can’t be explained by one key event or moment. It was a series of moments, feelings, awakenings. It was carried by the electrically charged breeze during a thunderstorm. It was kicked up and then settled, into the cracks and crannies of my brain, like the dirt from the road. It came to me, pungent, in through the window, smelling of wet sagebrush and desert. It was changing oak leaves in the fall. The smell of coffee and wet pavement. It was the green hills in the spring. The thick, silent snowflakes in the winter. It was stillness. Jack rabbits. The moon and the stars. It was fresh, plump grapes. Fried chicken and biscuits. It was peace. Sleep. Renewal. It was faraway, twinkling lights, signaling home. It was something, somewhere, everything, always. It was Elko.

WTF Wednesdays #13: BuzzFeed Edition

Holy shit, ya’ll! I did something crazy! Last Friday, I sent my application to BuzzFeed London for a summer Writer Fellow position!

I think I hinted at engaging in something that could be a life-changer in my Wednesday post last week. I figured I had better explain further.

After an especially stressful day teaching, I started searching for writing gigs. I was suddenly struck with the thought, “What about BuzzFeed?” So, I searched their job opportunities, saw the fellow program in London, and was just like, “HOLY SHIT. YES!”

Not only is this gig in my favorite city that just happens to reside in my favorite country, it is a writing opportunity for the summer (I have been on the search for a summer job abroad). It really couldn’t have been more perfect.

I first saw this job posting last Monday and the application was due that Friday.

This wouldn’t have been that big of a deal for Last-Minute-Lorna (one of my many alter-egos), but the application requirements were intensive.

Not that that is a bad thing. I mean, I’d rather apply to an organization that only wants the best of the best than an institution that has no standards, but I had a week to get it all done. A week. 

This sounds like a lot, but it really isn’t. It.really.isn’t.

This is what was required to apply:

  • 3 non-fiction pieces that are at minimum 1,000 words each (I sent Aerial AnticsLinda, and Felony Stop)
  • A cover letter including:
    • 3-5 pitches that the applicant feels are relevant and that BuzzFeed London would be interested in
    • 2-3 literary influences that have helped shape the applicant’s writing, perspective, and style
    • Career goals and what the applicant would want to accomplish if given the opportunity to work at BuzzFeed London

The pitches were the hardest part, and what I spent most of my week on. Not only did I want to come up with original (or, if not entirely original, a new, Fatty McCupcakes-esque spin on an existing theme) ideas, I needed to make sure they would fit within the culture of BuzzFeed London. I revised and edited precisely a million times. I also enlisted the help of my editor and two English friends who are also fellow writers.

(Somehow, even after re-reading precisely 8,457 times and handing my draft over to my editor, I messed up my numbering and there were a couple pretty glaring typos. Woes is me, I cunt count. So, likely, my application was immediately sent to the trash bin.) 

My literary influences and the write up I sent is as follows:

As white-girl-basic as it may make me sound, Sophie Kinsella is my writing idol. At a time when I was still young and dumb enough to think that getting myself out of debt snafus was as easy as having an upscale yard sale, Kinsella was my spiritual guide on all shopping, love, and oh-shit-I’m-really-screwed matters. Her character, Becky, was a cooler, more British (like, a lot more, since I’m zero British), savvier version of myself. What I learned from Kinsella’s writing was how to reach my readers on a personal, relatable level. In reading Kinsella, I learned the fine art of self-deprecation-poking fun at one’s self and pointing out personal downfalls without seeming whiny or oppressed. Not to mention, Kinsella’s humor and hijinks have been the basis for how I’ve found my own writer’s voice.

The Twelve Little Cakes by Dominika Dery was the first memoir I ever read. In hopes of weaning me off Kinsella, my mom purchased this book for me at the Dollar Store, no less. She thought it looked meatier than your average chick-lit book, and it had “cakes” in the title. She figured it would be a win. For once, my mother’s literary suggestions paid off, and I was utterly engrossed by Dery’s life growing up in Communist Prague. It was in this book that I found the beauty in telling a story about one’s life, however mundane. Dery’s life was by no means unremarkable, but the real essence of her story was found in the simple goings-on of her family. Because Dery told her story in such a way that you could have sworn she lived right down the street, every word was like coming home. Dery’s The Twelve Little Cakes has been hugely influential for how I write my own beautifully mundane stories.

I was first introduced to Khaled Hosseini via the movie, The Kite Runner. Strangely, The Kite Runner was not my first reading of Hosseini, but A Thousand Splendid Suns. This books sits on my nightstand, dusty, but not forgotten. Hosseini was my first introduction into the beautifully chaotic Middle East and the misunderstood Islam faith. Before having read a book on the topic of Islam, written by a Muslim author, I was blind. After delving heart first into A Thousand Splendid Suns and then devouring book after book on the Middle East, I am now intoxicated by the rhythmic prose and haunting stories of suffering, love, and loss found in Hosseini’s books. As a writer, I have learned from his books how to tell a deeply complex and emotionally charged story with only a few words.

I am hoping that my three literary influences show that I am complex, a deep thinker, and am open to new perspectives, and not just a basic, white bitch. Because, as much as I am basic, I am multifarious.

So, now I wait.

Honestly, it was most likely a crap shoot, a shot in the dark, a first step of many yet to come. But, a part of me is holding out hope that I somehow stood out among the thousands of others applicants. And, those applicants had worse typos than me. 

But, also…

I feel insecure sometimes about my ability. Do I even have an ability to write? Am I relevant, but original? Can I bring up serious topics without alienating my readers? Will I run out of ways to be an asshole in my writing? Will I fail to come up with ways to poke fun at myself and be self-deprecating?

Am I even a writer?

This is my deranged-self-conscious-waiting-to-hear-about-an-opportunity-I-really-want-behavior.

I don’t even know if the rejects will hear if they were rejected. I guess if it’s July 1st and I’m not on a plane to London, I didn’t get it. 

WHAT DO I DO IN THE MEANTIME? 

Just be glad you don’t live with me and have to deal with this on an hourly basis. My poor, poor boyfriend. 

 

source
 

 

WTF Wednesday #12

It’s 9:15 PM and I just realized that I haven’t put together my post for tomorrow. I think I just outed myself as the kind of blogger who does not have their shit together. I almost never have blog posts planned days in advance. I usually get a wild idea the night before I post, and then I spend a few frantic hours piecing it together. Not always, but almost always. 

Anyway, this week has moved as slow as an eight-year-old when you’re late for anything, but at the same time, it’s speeding by far too fast. 

How I feel about everything this week!

Amidst a full week of state testing at school and trying to walk enough so I can eat dessert, I’m working on something that could be the most epic thing I’ve ever done. That, or it could be all for naught. No pressure. 

I promise I’ll be back to my usual crazy rants and ravings next week, so forgive me this one really lazy attempt at a post. 

Also, as soon as I can, I’ll share what I’m earning more gray hairs and an extra eye twitch for when possible. 

Since I might as well wrap this up as lamely and lazily as possible, I’ll now hand it off to you. Since reading comments are my absolute favorite pastime, let me have it. 

How is your week going? Any juicy gossip? Got any rants you need to get off your chest? Did you learn an awesomely random new piece of trivia? Anything. Let me know in the comments. 

Sorry I’m lame. 

Flashback Friday: Be Cool, Alright?

I’m re-blogging this post for #fbf, because I almost wrecked my diet the other day with Boston Market Cinnamon Apples and mashed potatoes. Like, it was so.close. Too close. As in, I circled the whole of Boston Market five times, drooling, staring, frothing at the mouth. I can never be seen there again. So, I’ll just live vicariously through my past foodscapades. Is it bad that this post doesn’t make me feel shameful, but hungry for macaroni and cheese, and nostalgic for my bacon grease sweats? 

Dear Boston Market Yeller, 

My boyfriend and I visited your establishment this past Saturday, around 6:00 PM. You greeted us by yelling, “Welcome to Boston Market. What can I help you with?” from behind the counter, at least 15 feet away, before we were even in the door. While the gesture was, thoughtful, semi-courteous, it was a little overwhelming, as every single individual in the restaurant turned to watch us come in. I’m sure realizing it wasn’t the Queen of England entering, but a couple in their fat pants, was quite disappointing. Had I known I would have been welcomed so warmly, I would have worn a more supportive bra and my fancy sweats, the ones without paint and bacon grease stains. 

I want to say I appreciate your tenacity, but it just came off as abrasive. My boyfriend and I ordered the meal for 3, and we really didn’t appreciate your need to repeat this fact no less than 10 times to your coworkers and what appeared to be the lady behind us. Yes, we were two people ordering the meal designed for three people. We had on elastic pants, was that not evidence enough that we were planning on eating heartily? Also, I would like to point out that it was highly probable that we had an adult or two waiting at home. We could have been being thrifty and mindful of our diets. This could have easily been the case. It wasn’t, but it could have been. 

Furthermore, we were taken aback by your method of checking customers out. Instead of doing it yourself, you yelled our order, repeatedly, across the entire kitchen to the young man, who must have been hard of hearing, because Sparks heard what we had for dinner, while he didn’t. After the 3rd time this young man had to ask you to repeat yourself, perhaps it was time to just take over. I’m so glad that our choices, the most fattening sides possible, were repeated for all to hear. Just for future reference, when two people come in, in oversized sweatshirts and they don’t take off their sunglasses, they would like their poor life choices kept between you and them, not shared with the entire restaurant. 

I am only writing this letter to you because you have potential. The passion you have for your product is evident, but I would suggest you work on your voice level and tact. You have zero tact. None. I would like to assume that most people visiting a Boston Market have serious plans of wrecking their diets. These people are already low, don’t assist them with their impending demise. Do you want to be an accessory for death by cookie dough? I don’t think so. Just be cool, alright? Sheesh. 

Signed, 
The Couple Who Bought a Meal For Three, and Ate It ALLLLLL 

***As an aside…

If hearing…
“Mashed with gravy, Mac and cheese, and cinnamon apples for THREE!”

“How many?” 

“THREE!”

“You said, mashed, apples, and spinach?” 

NO, mashed potatoes, gravy, MACARONI AND CHEESE, and cinnamon apples!” 

OK, I think I got it. And that was the meal for three?”

YES, the meal for three”

….doesn’t make you want to reevaluate your life, I don’t know what will. It’s time for a change. My “last resort” pants are tight and I’m certain my fat is trying to suffocate me in my sleep. Help.