Category: open letters

Open Letters to Humans I Encountered When I Left the House Today #1

open letters image


Dear Men in the Huge Truck Behind Me This Morning,

Hi. It’s me–the lady in the tiny car you were completely up the ass of as I idled efficiently, attempting to make up for some of the fossil fuels you burn through like an ’80s coke-head on a weekend bender in L.A.

I was sitting at the yield sign near the exit of our neighborhood, waiting for the school bus 100 yards from us to signify all children were finished boarding and cars could legally resume driving past.

You knew this. Because your truck is ridiculously tall, in the same way your dick is most likely ridiculously small, I know you could see the bus, too.

But you had to be an asshole, didn’t you? You had to honk at me. Watch, I’m gonna make ‘er jump, Joe Bob. Yessirree, that’s funny, Cletus! I imagined you saying as you startled my kid and me with your pointless horn bleat.

Rather than risking my son having to watch his mom being shot by one of our nation’s “good guys with a gun,” I illegally pulled forward toward the bus and parked in front of a nearby house.

I wasn’t supposed to move, you see, because the bus had the STOP sign out and lights flashing. You knew this, but you didn’t care. This is because you’re a piece of shit, but I think you know that, too.

By pulling forward and parking in front of a house to get out of your way, I allowed you to get exactly one car length ahead of me before you also had to wait for the bus to tuck in its “PLEASE DON’T RUN OVER THE CHILDREN YOU IGNORANT ASSHOLES” sign.

I would like to think you felt stupid in that moment, but I’m pretty sure that would be giving you too much credit.

I mostly just wanted to say that I hope you were super late for work.

Sorry about your micropenis,



Dear Nivea



Me, thinking about Nivea products.

Dear Nivea,

Recently, I ran out of my favorite skin cleanser, Burt’s Bees Wild Lettuce Toner. Unable to find another bottle of my usual product, I decided to try your Nivea Visage Moisturizing Toner.

I knew there was something different about your toner immediately and found its skin-soothing properties to be quite satisfactory. It did indeed comfort my skin, as the bottle promises, and this in turn comforted my soul.

I couldn’t really put my finger on what made your toner so extraordinary until this morning when I was reading the bottle and I noticed the writing at the bottom. This writing finally explained why your product is special.

There, in your large, easy-to-read print, you have answered the question that has been plaguing me since I first tried your toner. Lo and behold! The secret is that your Nivea Moisturizing Toner is “SKIN INSPIRED.” That’s it! I should have guessed! You are a clever bunch, working hard in your Nivea laboratories, aren’t you?

In addition to explaining to me why your product is superior, this revelation has also made me question the integrity of the lesser, NON-SKIN INSPIRED skin products on the market. Perhaps if Burt’s Bees Wild Lettuce Toner was SKIN INSPIRED like your own, I might have been able to find a bottle of it somewhere?! Ha! And what is inspiring them to make their skin products, I now have to wonder? It certainly isn’t SKIN or they would have put that on the bottle like your company, right?

In fact, my new favorite company Nivea, you have inspired me to make a change in my own lifestyle, a change for the better. I only hope that I can live up to your fine example of inspiration and make you proud.

From now on, when I cook dinner for my family, it will be FOOD INSPIRED. When I get dressed, it will be CLOTHING INSPIRED because I know that is what you would do. When I take a shower, I’m going to try a new approach, and thanks to you, my showers will now be CLEAN INSPIRED. I cannot decide if my laundry will be CLEAN INSPIRED, or instead CLOTHING INSPIRED, but I’m sure the answer will come to me soon. Maybe you could recommend another of your fine products to help me with that dilemma?

In closing, I just want to say thank you, Nivea, for the SKIN INSPIRED skin products and the lessons I will take from them and use to better my life in so many ways. You might say that I am now NIVEA INSPIRED!


Tawni Nivea

P.S. I hope you don’t mind that I have changed my last name to Nivea in your honor. I decided the least I can do is change my name, since your company has changed my life!



The inspiration is setting in.



Wildly inspired by Nivea.

Open Letters to Other Drivers



Dear Truck Driving Lady,

You came roaring up the on-ramp and shot wildly across the four lanes of traffic, only to settle into the far left lane and slow down to 5 under the 65 MPH speed limit. I am still wondering why you did this. It was really weird. Was someone chasing you? Are you just really stupid?

Seriously, what was that all about?

In case you are wondering, I was driving one of the cars you narrowly avoided sideswiping, only because I noticed your erratic movement and anticipated your trajectory of vehicular insanity. I slowed from the 73 MPH I was doing in a middle lane and stayed back until you completed your pointlessly dangerous maneuver.

You’re welcome,

Dear Truck Driving Man,

Just because you throw garbage in the back of your truck while it is parked, thereby forcing the highway winds to suck it out as you speed along, piece by wretched, flapping-back-to-smack-my-car’s-windshield piece, it does not absolve you of the crime. You’re still littering.


You’re trash,

Dear Other Drivers,

Please pull up into the empty twenty feet of space you are leaving in front of your car as you sit, waiting for the light to turn green. You’re totally freaking me out.

It is not only weird to leave this big space in front of your car; it is inconsiderate to the cars further down the line behind you. They might not make the light once it turns green because you inexplicably decided you needed to keep a football field’s length between you and the next car.

More than being angry at you for being rude, I am perplexed to the point of bewilderment by your strange behavior.

If I am waiting next to you in the left turning lane as you sit in the straight lane, I sometimes stare at you, then at the large gap of space you aren’t pulling into, then back at you. Sometimes I hold up my hands in a questioning manner. This is my way of trying to say: “What the fuck?

(I thought that I should probably explain that to you, since you are obviously oblivious to the most kindergartenly, bare basics of concepts, such as forming a line.)

The next time you leave a huge space in front of your car, I am going to get out of my own car, leap spastically into the giant space you are not pulling up into with your vehicle, and dance around like a maniac. I might also simulate swimming around in the large area in front of your car before I flip you off, and get back into my car before the light turns green.

My husband thinks I should pretend to parallel park a car into the space in front of your car. That’s pretty funny; I might go with that one. I haven’t yet decided. I’ll surprise you.

Curmudgeonly yours,


Open Letter to My Trashy Neighbors


Dear Trashy Neighbors,

Thank you for inviting my son and me to your child’s birthday party. The water slide was really fun for the kids. Great idea.

I noticed all of the men drinking beers, so when you offered me a drink, assuming I’d drink kiddie punch with the other mothers, I chose beer. I’d think you wouldn’t judge me for this, as it was a beverage being offered and I’m an adult, but I felt like you did.

As I drank the forbidden Female Beer, I felt the disapproving stares of the women. I hope you ladies didn’t mind my uppity display of Fuck the Boys Club, but I don’t have much patience for gender stereotypes, or the holier-than-thou crowd.

Father of the birthday girl: When you said to me, “We should party sometime,” I had a hard time not laughing at you. Are we teenagers in the seventies or something? Is your daughter’s birthday party theme Dazed and Confused? Are we going to smoke a doob behind the bouncy house? Was it the beer thing that made you think I want to “party” with you? I mean really—who says things like that?

Mother of the birthday girl: Your husband is gross. And I am tired of listening to your arguments as to why I should spank my son, while my well-behaved child who has never been hit in his life is shoved around by your poorly-behaved, constantly-beaten children. They’re learning directly from you that we hit people with whom we disagree, and this horrible life lesson is making them the most violent and least fun kids on the playground. My son doesn’t even want to come over anymore because your kids are so shitty and pushy.

So, hey, here’s a little clue: It’s not working. If it did, you’d only have to hit them once, right? And guess what else? Your children don’t respect you—they fucking hate you. By hitting them constantly, you’ve completely desensitized them to all discipline. In stoner terms—for your husband—you started with the discipline knob on 11, and you have nowhere to go but up (i.e. more violence).

When your creepy pro-kid-hitting husband leeringly told me I needed to “smack that ass” when I mentioned that my son doesn’t take naps, not only did I know that you two have discussed my non-spanking beliefs, but I was completely grossed out by the way your icky husband said “smack that ass.” Sexual innuendos and children do not mix. Learn it, live it.

Also: When you hit your 3-year-old daughter in the head like that, I want to steal her away from you forever. She’s a sweet little kid and I hope she puts you in a nursing home that smells like piss and desperation someday for all of the times you’ve smacked her around.

In short: I think you are fucking carnie freaks and I am never coming to another birthday party or play date at your house again.



P.S. You sent me a link to your family blog and I do read it, but only to make fun of your atrocious spelling and grammar blunders. And when you listed “shoot my first buck” as one of your New Year’s Resolutions, I nearly peed myself laughing.

Open Letter to Kraft Macaroni & Cheese

Dear Kraft Macaroni & Cheese,

Oh, we are such grand old friends. You and your delightfully versatile pal Ramen Noodles were there for me in college, and I will never forget the way you kept me alive during the more financially bereft phases of my existence. Never.

We even endured the English boyfriend together, and his irritating way of referring to you as “Kraft Dinner” instead of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. We mocked him by saying “Kroooffft Dinn-ahhhh” when he left the room while rolling our eyes at each other conspiratorially because he was nearly 30, yet couldn’t drive a car. And remember how we laughed when he bragged about his accent like it was some sort of girl magnet, when really, he’d been in the states for over a decade and was obviously trying so hard? Poor insecure little man. Oh, we had fun making fun of the “Brit-iot,” didn’t we?

But the honeymoon is over, I’m sorry to say. I broke up with the loser who mispronounced your name mostly because I was tired of chauffeuring a large man-child around Los Angeles, as pushing a stop pedal and a go pedal were apparently beyond his skill set. Now I am also breaking up with you, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. I do feel worse about dumping you than I do for leaving the aforementioned ex-boyfriend, in case that helps.

The first reason I must bid you goodbye is that I have a child now; a child who would eat you for every single meal, if allowed. I cook you so often that I am ridiculously sick of smelling your hot, milky cheese and starch smell. I am nauseated right now just thinking about you. “Hot Dairy” would make a great band name or lactation fetish pornography title, but I’m pretty sure there will never be a Scentsy© candle.

The second reason is that since giving birth, simple carbohydrates seem to make me instantly gain weight. It’s a bit horrifying. I merely look at your bloated, white pasta-ness and poof! There go the thighs again. It’s like my ass and thighs are in some sort of middle-aged expansion competition, and I can’t pick a winner.

So as you can see, it’s just not working out between us anymore, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, but thanks for the years of service and loyalty. You were there when I needed you most, and I’ll never forget that. It’s not you, it’s me. I swear.

Also, tell bread to call me… we need to talk.