I Scream

Dear Dreyer’s Grand Ice Cream Holdings, Inc.:

One sure sign that a product of yours is not up to my high quality standards is if I mine. When I mine your bucket of ice cream, I chisel my spoon deep in the the frozen mass of fat and sugar in search of the elusive chunks of gooey, goodness advertised in excess on the front of your package. If a product is particularly lacking in gooey, goodness, then what's left after my mining exhibition is merely a carton full of bland, boring ice cream.

If I had wanted just ice cream, rather than ice cream packed with cookie dough and chocolate chips, then I would have bought a carton of plain ol' ice cream. But I didn't want just ice cream. I wanted the falsified depiction of vanilla ice cream packed with not only cookie dough, but also free-floating chocolate chips that your "Nestle® Toll House® Cookie Swirl" flavor promised.

And you took your advertising ploy one step further; you stamped two golden seals on the package, suggesting that this worthless product won a "Best Taste Award" issued from the American Culinary Institute. And because your marketing ploy was that good, I purchased your product.

But I was horribly disappointed. After mining your carton, I found only one solitary chunk of cookie dough— a fraction of the amount found in the standard cookie dough ice cream that your company also produces.

My extreme disappointment in your product, coupled with the bold packaging made me feel cheated. Later, I researched the ACI's Best Taste Awards and realized that you received a general award for all of your ice cream products rather than for this particular flavor. But you were sneaky, carefully choosing which packages to emblazon the award seal on so it appeared that those actual flavors received the award instead of your entire company.

So, this is why I will shy away from your products in the future. But also because I have always preferred Ben and Jerry's ice cream over yours, and here's why: they have mastered the art of gooey, goodness-filled ice cream and you have not. By skimping on the gooey goodness you advertised in excess on your packaging, you're lying to your consumers and missing what's most important. For Ben and Jerry's, they follow a basic prinicpal; they regard ice cream as a mere lettuce leaf bed upon which the main course resides. With their philosophy, the ice cream is a base that the mouthwateringly gooey goodness of ingredients require as a glue to unify them into one food product. In other words, the base of ice cream is not the entire product.

Note: This is a draft of a letter written almost exactly one year ago that I still intend to mail to Dreyer's. I'll let you know if I actually get off my lazy ass and send it.

Things I Would Like to Attribute to Today's Full Moon

1. I was barked at three times today; once by a black standard poodle, once by a man, and once by a male mallard.
2. A female mallard (the mate of the mallard above) vigorously attacked my shoelaces while I waited for the bus.
3. A mob of at least twenty Japanese tourists in business suits took pictures of the mallard attacking my shoelaces, then of a bus when it rolled up to the stop, and then of both mallards as they strutted back and forth across heavy traffic.
4. I was yelled at by a bus driver for standing a mere three feet away from the curb as it pulled up. Didn't I know it was dangerous to stand only three feet from the curb, even though that's how far the bus shelter I was standing next to is?
5. My dog slept in her bed for most of the day, ignoring me even when I came home.
6. JamesandSarah, the evil upstairs neighbors, signaled their return at promptly 2 PM with screaming and crashing sounds after blessing me with only two days of peace.
7. As I was picking up various articles of clothing I had dry cleaned, a large mass of cigarette ash spilled out from the plastic bag covering my clothes, presumably coming from one or more articles of clothing. That's funny, I thought I didn't smoke.
8. While riding the bus home, a man sitting behind me "accidently" pulled on my hair because he "thought it was the cord you pull to stop the bus". He didn't get off for four more stops.

CAUTION: May Contain Flammable Materials

Never ask me what I think of the girlfriend you have been dating for two months because I'm going to tell you. Also, don't expect me to sugarcoat the truth after complaining about how I didn't warn you that the last one was Megabitchtron from Planet Hell.

Cosy Pitch

Yesterday, while riding the bus home, I entertained Tyler with a work-related tale of horror and budget crises involving a stupid Master Use Permit for the building I work in and the Metro bus system. Naturally, it was a slightly long story as it involved two different inept factions of our local government. Tyler didn't shush me even once, so either he had fallen on his job of keeping me in line while out in public, or I was not speaking loudly for once. However annoying I might have been or not been, it only took to the halfway point of my story arch before a man sitting across the aisle interrupted me with an exaggerated sigh usually aimed at bimbos loudly bitching to their boyfriends over a cellphone. As I don't fancy myself a bimbo, I don't own a cellphone that I feel the need to scream into for the duration of my bus rides, and I wasn't bitching at my boyfriend, I took a mild offense to his treatment.

"I guess someone isn't enjoying my story," I said to Tyler before immediately continuing to rattle off my increasing horrors with Metro.

It didn't take long before I noticed a ranting undertone competing with my story. I continued to speak, but looked in the direction of the ranting. It was the same man, who was scooting erratically in his seat and waving his arms. I caught some words about the "bus system" and "government" and realized that he was subjecting the innocent bystanders seated near him to an unfounded hatred for me. The fact that he felt the need to torment the woman quietly seated in front of him and the other older woman quietly seated behind him caused something deep inside my mind to twang.

"Excuse me! Do you have a fucking problem?" The words flowed out of my mouth uncontrolled, as often happens when I'm incensed with anger towards a stranger. I caught a wave of movement from my hazy peripheral vision as all the bus riders turned towards me to watch. "'Cause if you have a problem," I continued, "you don't need to torture your fellow bus riders."

"Is that what you think-" he began to counter, but my irritation had overrun the floodgates of reason, and there was no stopping me.

"I'm not talking that loud. And if you have a problem with what I'm saying- as it seems you do- than you can just move somewhere else. There's plenty of seats in the back. Why don't you pick your ass up and move to one of them?"

Determined to finish my story and thereby spite the psycho bus rider, I turned back to Tyler and continued where I had paused. The man sat stiffly in his seat, clenching his fists through the rest of what I had to tell. When my story smoldered joylessly to its end, Tyler and I continued to talk idly. The whole while, the man sat rigidly in his seat and directed waves of anger and hatred towards us, making me acutely aware of every word exchange. When I pulled the rope for our stop, and then walked to the front of the bus behind Tyler, I could feel the psycho's eyes boring into the back of my head. I tried to look into the bus windows and return the man's gaze of hatred with one of fearlessness, but distorted dark pine trees and a gray sky was all that reflected back.

Agitatedly

Dear Pilot Corporation of America:

Your "G-2" pen sucks. Not only is the design of your "contour rubber grip" so uncomfortable that it hurts when writing, but the ink flow is non-existent. This is unacceptable for a pen that costs over one U.S. dollar. When I buy a package of two pens for $2.95 plus Washington State sales tax, I expect to buy a quality pair of disposable pens. If I was interested in cheap crap, I would buy a ten pack of Bic knock-offs from Office Depot for one-third the price of your two pens. Perhaps you should concentrate more on the comfort and function of you wares than on the dated "new age" design you mistakenly think to be stylish.

Agitatedly,

Mindy M.

Dear University District Rite-Aid:

You suck. Not only do you not carry my favorite type of pen, but you are also host to the rudest employees in the U-District. Every time I shop in your store, I'm glared at after asking for help, shoved aside while shopping in the aisles, and forced to stand in a long line of angrily huffing customers while your employees avoid the cash registers.

I also hate your store layout and the fact that your checkout counter is modeled after a UFO wedged between two mountains. Where the hell do you think your customers are supposed to line up around that monstrosity of a checkout counter when you only ever have one checker available at a time (if that)? Bartell's is only a few blocks away, and although they are much smaller and have less of a selection, they manage to have more checkers operating tills than you ever do. Oh, and I forgot to mention that the employees at Bartell's on the Ave actually smile at me when I walk in.

Agitatedly Huffing,

Mindy M.

Mintron: Defender of the Phone System

While I mostly love my job, there is a downside to answering the phones. Sometimes, we get crazy people who try and tell us that pig shit is falling from the sky and want us to do something about it. Two years ago, I hung up on a rude telemarketer who had the nerve to call me back and bitch me out for hanging up on him while he was in mid-sentence (as if telemarketers deserve any respect for selling their souls). When I told him he better watch out or I'll send Bun Bun after him, he said to me, "Fuck off you fucking BITCH. I don't want to sell you anything but my ass. You deserve to eat the shit out of my toilet."

We also had a marathon ordeal with one lunatic who called herself Liba (after her sign, Libra). She needed us to give her a free trip to Israel so she could move there and fulfill the mission her spirit guides assigned to her: setting up an electrolysis business that would offer palmistry and other psychic advice while hairy Israeli women were waiting for their appointments (or maybe it was during their electrolysis sessions- we never did piece together the story from all of her babblings).

But more often than I would like, we get really bitchy people who have no manners. Sometimes they're hoary Orthodox Jews who are pissed at me because they believe it's my fault there aren't enough kosher eateries in Seattle. Other times, it's people who are just generally condescending and rude, such as today:

It started off like any typical hour during work. The phone started to ring and one of our five lines lit up. With the phone answering reflexes one develops over time, I snatched up the receiver and answered with my typical, "Good afternoon, Place of Work"

"Hi, is this Mindy?" a middle-aged woman asked.

"Yes, this is her."

"Hi Mindy, how are you doing?" she said, rather than asked, with a condescending tone to her voice.

"I'm good, and you?"

"It's 'I'm doing well', not 'I'm good'." She followed this immediately with raucous laughter that left me staring at the wall blankly wishing she was talking to me in person so I could deliver one of my perfected Ice Queen stares of doom.

"Excuse me?" I had to settle with an Ice Queen tone of doom.

She then stopped laughing and launched into a lecture on phone grammar. "Proper grammar is important when answering phones," she said. I agreed with her, but I also didn't want a condescending lecture by someone I didn't know. Angered and insulted, I stopped listening at this point as she went on to explain the details of her phone etiquette and some nonsensical reasoning why I was in the wrong.

I decided to cut her off and try the even angrier Ice Queen tone of instant death. "Excuse me?" I repeated, sending waves of ice shards through the receiver."You said that already."I realized this woman was a tough bitch who probably possessed Ice Queen immunity based on her already shocking display of rudeness. I changed tactics, this time following the fight fire with fire philosophy. "Just who are you?" I asked her in my best mimic of the condescending tone possessed by rich people who think their importance to the world is directly related to the digits of their available sum at the bank."Oh, I'm Sharon F. This is Mindy G., right?""No, it's not." I said curtly."But you said you were Mindy."

"I am Mindy. The Mindy you're looking for is a volunteer for Place of Work, but I'm employed here." At this point, she had activated the "Mega Bitch" mode of my self-defense mood system. I couldn't hold back any longer. "If you're just going to ask for 'Mindy' then everyone will to assume you're asking for me. Do you understand that there is more than one person by the name of Mindy in this world?"

"Well, we're working on a program together, may I speak with her?" I was astounded.- it was as if she was immune to everything I attacked her with. How could a foe withstand my Ice Queen attacks and Mega Bitch vibes?

I decided a rapid bombardment of my special combo attack, MEGA BITCHY ICE QUEEN, would weaken her defenses and possibly leave a lingering and undetectable side effect that would ruin the rest of her work day, and hopefully last into the rush hour drive home, resulting in an accident which would hopefully severely damage the exterior of her car and result in substantial insurance hikes. "No, you may not. I can take a message for you."

"Why can't I speak with her?"

"Because she's not here right now." I said, continuing the bombardment of my special combo attack.

"Well, when will she be in?"

"Since she doesn't work here, I have no idea when she'll be around." It was a direct hit!

"May I have her cell phone number?"

"I'm not allowed to give out student information, so no." Another direct hit!

"Well that's a dumb rule. Did you create that just because you don't like me?" She was showing her emotions, indicating that I had penetrated her defense systems and all that was left was taking her out all the way.

"Ma'am, I can take down your name and number and contact her for you." That would surely ruin the rest of her day. Ma'am. The horrible, most insulting term for a middle aged woman, especially if used in conjunction with the MEGA BITCHY ICE QUEEN attack. She gave me her number, clearly defeated by the tone of her voice. But I wasn't satisfied, the defense system not fully deactivated. "Good bye," I said, "and have a nice day."

Sidewalk Peeves

While we�re on lists:

1. Non-elderly people who walk really slow in the middle of a narrow sidewalk, thus hindering oncoming pedestrians and those wishing to pass.
2. People who walk in a large gaggle, consuming the entire sidewalk and forcing everyone else to walk through mud. Hey, just because you wear Prada shoes doesn't mean that everyone else has to ruin their shoes and pants, you cancer-ridden, wrinkle-infested sorority whores.
3. People who walk shoulder-to-shoulder with two or three others and expect anyone walking towards them to jump in the bushes/mud. I grew up with five tortuous boys and survived an overcrowded high school with hallways thinner than a sidewalk, so don't think I can't and won't shoulder by just because you can shove innocent old ladies and lost Japanese tourists out of your way.
4. People who dart around someone and jump into the path of an oncoming pedestrian. As in driving, wait until oncoming traffic is clear before passing.
5. People who shoulder someone while passing from behind, especially if they are carrying shopping bags stuffed with hardback books or other equally sturdy wares that tend to leave bruises.

Of Dog Owners and Parents

When I signed up for the Seattle P-Patch program a year ago, I thought the most appealing part of having a garden would be planting whatever vegetables I chose and watching them grow into plump, delectable produce for my consuming pleasure. Never did I imagine what joy I would derive from ripping up grass and other weeds. But needless to say, this is the best part of my garden. Screw the easy way of weeding, which consists of "Roto-tilling" the entire plot with an unwieldy machine from the pits of garden shed hell and then leaving the unearthed weeds to dry in the sun. No, this stressed college student prefers to plunk her ass down in the dirt and gleefully rip chunks of grass by the handfuls. And as I found out today, my dog apparently enjoys sitting next to me in the sun while airborne grains of dirt fleck her white fur.

So this is what part of my day was like. After months of having neglected my plot due to the dismal Seattle weather, daily demands of school work, and absolute laziness, I finally hauled myself, my dog, and my gardening gear up the road to my garden plot. The abandoned plot wasn't completely alone as there were others here and there overtaken by grass, but mine was immediately identifiable by the twelve massive broccoli plants sporting bright yellow blooms. Overgrown broccoli is not a new sight to me, so I hunkered down into the dirt and settled in for a couple of hours work of weeding. And there I sat, happily ripping mounds of grass from the rich, soggy soil while the pleasant "spring" sun kept my back warm.

A savage soundtrack of dog fights and dog owners who believe in negotiating with their pets played over my blissful weed ripping. After an entire spring and summer of listening to the chaotic chorus of the dog run near my garden plot, I've learned to ignore most of the yips, yaps, howls and screams of dogs and their owners. However, my ears couldn't block out one dog fight in particular. Vicious snarls from two large dogs echoed across the dog run, through the parking lot and over to my garden plot. The snarls continued to echo. And they continued some more. Finally, the voice of one of the owner's could be heard over the violent dogs; "Penny! Now, Penny, you know that's not good. Stop fighting with that other dog. Penny! Penny, if you don't stop fighting with that other dog I swear I'm going to spray you with this hose here. Penny, don't make me..."

I always thought it was horrible how some parents try to negotiate with their misbehaving children lest the child throws a temper tantrum and cries in public, but the ridiculousness of negotiating with a dog just goes to emphasize how ineffective this method is for children (who, hopefully, are much smarter than dogs).

The fight eventually ended with both owners dragging their dogs across the shit-encrusted dirt in opposite directions, both heading for their cars and hopefully out of the park and out of my life forever. Soon, Penny and her new friend left me alone with the mournful howl of a basset hound and a few abrasive yips of joy. Once again, peace enfolded my corner of the park as I adjusted my loose-fitting jeans lest the crack of my white moon should offend anyone wandering the gently curving woodchip pathways of the P-Patch.

Soon enough, a mother and her daughter appeared- no doubt church goers who decided to spend the wonderfully sunny afternoon wandering the park and playing at the playground. "Alison! Al-ee-son! Walking through gardens that don't belong to you isn't nice- you walk on the pathway." I peered through my weeds and watched pensively as Alison continued to trample through gardens. "Alison, come over here! Look at this bug! Alison!" the mother cried frantically in a vain attempt at enticing the kid to step on the proper pathway. But Alison had no interest in a bug and so ran through a couple of more garden plots. She stopped at a plot across from mine a started stomping on my neighbor's onions and lettuce. "Alison! Alison! Look at the bug I found over here!" the mother cried, running after her child. When she reached the scene of the crime, she yanked the child through some more onions and onto the woodchips. Then, she stared right at me and asked, "Do you have a problem?"

"Funny you should ask," I replied, "I do."

The mother glared icily at me, and I could tell she knew what I was thinking. I left it at that and went back to pulling my weeds and showering my dog with dirt, trying not to listen to the mother mutter about "how rude people are these days" as she dragged The Abominable Onion Stomper towards the playground.

Crazy Old Dog Lady

It seems that everyone knows a crazy old cat lady. For me, there was a scary woman in the north university district (or, as I named it, "the university ghetto") that always sat with my former landlord/neighbor on his overflowing porch of rusting and rotting junk. They would remain unmoving on the porch, even in the rain or during the winter, where they would watch the news on a blue and white 13" TV late into the night. Because both she and my landlord pissed me off, and because she seemed to always be lurking outside my living room window, she earned the name "My Landlord's Ho."

My Landlord's Ho was a reputed crazy old cat lady. She never used the term herself, but she had admitted to owning over ten cats (the number might have even been closer to twenty). In a fit of rage over the fact that she hadn't taken proper care of my landlord's cat while he was away, my landlord once disclosed to Tyler that his ho kept her cats separated into different rooms- some even in "compartments". Since this is second-hand knowledge, I'm not sure what he meant by "compartments", but I always had the image of cats stuffed in those large plastic Tupperware containers. Anyway, My Landlord's Ho had a couple of living room cats, a couple of bedroom cats and a couple of bathroom cats, and I assume the most annoying were stored away in under-the-bed boxes. She separated her cats because she owned so many that they often fought with one another.

To this day, I conjure up images of what it was like before My Landlord's Ho started keeping the cats locked up in different rooms and compartments. There must have been one time where there was a huge living room brawl where all ten+ cats screeched and hissed at one another as they flew to the center of the room in a giant orgy of claws and teeth. Fibers of upholstery and fur must have clouded the air in an impenetrable dust, while the weaker cats were tossed against walls and the floors, kicking up the smell of sour cat piss forever soaked into the rotting floor and carpet.

It's images like this that make me wish there were more crazy old dog ladies in this world. But you never hear stories about them, only stories about people like My Landlord's Ho. I think this world might be a better place if there were more crazy old dog ladies. I doubt it's that hard to become a crazy old dog lady; there certainly are dogs smaller than cats these days (my dog being one of them). Besides, at least you can house train dogs and don't need to live in a house full of stench-filled litter boxes. All you need to do is fence in your yard and install a doggy door and you're good to go. Of course, there are minor setbacks- like having dogs that dig and burglars that can squeeze through a dog door. But I'm being hypothetical here. Even with the consideration of what troubles you'd have when owning over ten dogs, at least you won't have furniture and door jambs that have been shredded to bits.

When I grow up, maybe I'll do a great service for this country and become a crazy old dog lady. I'll own a house and surround my decent-sized yard with a six foot fence. Then I'll spend my solitary days relaxing on my porch in a rocking chair and idly throwing a dirt and saliva covered ball to one end of my property. The thought of sitting in the sun with a drinking glass full of vodka and watching ten frantic dogs run over each other in pursuit of a ball is rather appealing.

Replace the dogs with children and you have the typical backwoods Mormon family I grew up near. Maybe that's why the idea is so appealing- it's like the frantic sibling-filled days I envied my Mormon schoolmates for. Of course, I have no intention giving birth to that many kids, so dogs seem like a fitting substitute. And on the rare days that I feel my life is meaningless and I'm crazy for owning so many dogs, I can just dress them up in some random doggie outfits and pretend that I'm a Mormon with a house full of children.

A Short Conversation Amongst Creative Writers

"For the past 20 years of my life- and I'm only 21, so that's most of my life- I had eaten at McDonald's maybe four times. I used to think that it was bland and boring and too greasy and I hated it. But then I saw the light during the beginning of this summer. I had lunch with a co-worker who drove, so I had no choice in the matter of where we ate. He chose McDonald's. I thought, 'Ah, sure. What difference does it make since it's so cheap?' So I ordered the number two meal, and at his coaching supersized it. It was so good! And you can't beat the value of it, especially since you get a ridiculous amount of fries and more soda than you can drink! Since that faithful day, I've been eating at McDonald's maybe three or even four times a week."

"That's DISGUSTING! Think of your arteries, Man! Think of your arteries!" the other girl in our four-person discussion group screamed in terror.

"Well, I have no problem if people decide to eat at fast food restaurants," I said, jumping to his defense. "Sometimes I eat at Kid Valley. I love their milkshakes."

"I'm a vegetarian, so I have political motives," she returned. I was surprised as I thought she would be the last person who was a vegetarian. Her dark hair was cut shorter than most boys and she possessed a short, masculine body that screamed "I eat meat!" I stared her in the eye, thinking; "Well I'm vegetarian, too. I just eat the Gardenburgers." It was one of those odd moments where the cliché western showdown music would be fitting if it suddenly rose into the air from the depths of nothingness.

"Have you ever read Fast Food Nation?" I suddenly asked her.

"No, I don't read boring crap like that."

"Have you ever read Fast Food Nation?" I asked again, turning to the McDonald's Posterboy.

"Actually, I read it this summer."

"Well, I guess that means you have a right to eat there without having judgment passed on you."

"Yeah, I guess it does."

The above story isn't entirely true. However, the lesbian person was a total, unfounded bitch about the dude eating at McDonald's.