Dear Evil DJ Company,

Why are you not returning our calls or e-mails? Is it because you know we're going to fire you and hire Marita's awesome grandpa Rocco to DJ our wedding instead? Because rest assured, we are justified.

Since entering into a contract with you, you have:

*Purposefully rescheduled two meetings to make us miss the $50 bridal show discount deadline

*Assigned us a terrifyingly bland DJ named Gary, who has a mustache, which everyone knows I am not all right with

*And might I add, that Gary actually refused to come to our house to let us meet him? And then, when he finally came, he mostly told stories of how he used to spin records at the now-defunct Beachland Ballroom?

*Sent me e-mails addressed alternately to Mr. Shable, Ben Oja, and, most confusingly, "Heather"

*Charged us three hundred dollars more than Rocco is planning on charging

And now, you're not returning our calls. So call me, so that we can end this horrible charade and I can delete the backlog of e-mails you've sent (to Heather) advertising all the wonderful extra services you provide (our names in lights on the dance floor!) for just a small additional fee.



We don't want to fight. We just want to party like it's 1999.

All best,
Kim

Dear Shithead Neighbor,

First of all, the six flowering plants you have deposited haphazardly into the ground around your light pole do not constitute "a garden." And second of all, if my dog needs to poop two feet from them, and I am standing eight inches from her ass with a plastic baggie, ready to collect the damages, you do not have the right, as a decent person, to scream at me about how I need to "keep my filthy dog out of your garden, because that's what the tree lawn is for."

Obviously, you have never had a dog, and are not aware that they are not, in actuality, genetically programmed to shit on the tree lawn, and it is impossible to direct them to do so.

But aside from that, I am aghast at your inhumanity. What gives you the right to scream at me, in broad daylight, in front of other neighbors? I wasn't dancing on your "garden." We actually weren't even in your "garden." And may I remind you, I do not believe those plants constitute a fucking "garden!"

Does it honestly give you pleasure to make people like me feel bad about myself, and make me afraid to walk down your street again for fear of incurring your vengeful wrath? Once you got out of your iffy-looking pick-up truck, did you go inside and say to your husband (if he's even still with you, considering you probably berated him daily for not remembering to put his shoes back on his shoe tree) "I had quite the productive day, I went to the grocery store and then I made a nice-looking girl and her cute pet dog doubt their self-worth"?

Listen, I saw the sign on your lawn that says "Best Yard on the Street." I'm not quite certain if you made this sign yourself, or if some sort of pathetic block party committee gave it to you to shut you up for a few months so everyone else could enjoy their summer. But in my opinion, the Best Yard on the Street is not the one with the randomly sodded flowers, but the one in which people are not afraid to congregate, let their dogs and children run, and have a good time.

You probably don't have any children. And if you do, they probably left town right the fuck away.

Anyway, don't worry, Che and I won't be back to darken your "garden" again. Do not be surprised, however, to find that, in the middle of the night, your "garden" meets with an unfortunate accident. I'm just saying.

All best,

Kim

Could you hate this dog?

Night at Giant Eagle

Having slept until nearly noon this morning (after finally coming down from my mouse-disposal adrenaline high at two a.m. the night before), I found myself with an excess of energy around ten o'clock and decided to make the most of it with a trip to the grocery store, thinking it would be less crowded.

While there, I learned the following things:

1. Really, really ugly people go shopping at night.

2. They often bring their children, who are often barefoot.

3. They buy the following items: Spiderman popcicles. Fatback. Thomas' English muffins.

4. They have coupons for every item they buy.

5. They always pay by check.

6. They hate Oprah Winfrey ("Why that God-damn Oprah Winfrey got to be on the cover of every magazine? Give someone else a chance, girl!") and, confusingly, Maya Angelou ("That woman a bitch.").

7. They are very interested in what you're buying. ("What you got there? Peas? Why you buyin' peas? In the pod? That makes no sense.")

All in all, a highly depressing trip. Which I then decided to follow up by depositing two of the $2 checks I've received as dividends from the stock I got from work. Because nothing caps off a night at Giant Eagle like a $4 deposit slip.

Kim smash!

So, my happiness level has decreased dramatically since my last post, due mostly to hormones (currently, my normal, happy self has been swallowed deep into the belly of an evil, raging monster who earlier today compared one of her co-workers unfavorably to a ball of yarn). Luckily for all involved, I did not Blog While PMSing (BWP), and have allowed myself to mellow out from Super Angry to Generally Pissed Off. About what, you ask? A number of things:

1. As I type this, the Cavs are losing in a most spectacular fashion. I don't have the sound on, but I imagine that they're just playing the audio track of one of the cameramen's daughter's middle school intramural games. It would probably sync up very nicely to the action.

2. No matter how many new songs I put on it, my MP3 player insists on playing only the following songs, again and again and again:

• End of the Movie, Cake
• Bad Day, Daniel Powter (I am the only person still to have this on their MP3 player, right?)
• We Can Work It Out, Stevie Wonder
• Zoot Suit Riot, Cherry Poppin' Dadies
• Jesus Walks, Kanye West

3. The railings on the stairs leading to the front door of my office building have been removed, and these vaguely ominous silver speed bumps have been put up along the stairs, ostensibly to prevent skateboarders from using our parking lot for their illicit purposes. I'm actually torn on this, because it seems sort of fascist, but also, I believe all skateboarders secretly make fun of me whenever I walk by.

4. Jaslene won America's Next Top Model, despite the fact that she is a man.

5. The dog went and slept on my pillow after a long walk in the rain, and now my pillow reeks of wet dogness.

6. Every time I tried to get a book from the shelf at the library today, a weird old man in a Lake County Captains raincoat magically appeared and wanted the same book. Or else he wanted me to look at his ween. I was not willing to find out.

7. In general, all people, everywhere, are annoying (except for you, my faithful blog readers, who are cool and understanding of my Incredible Hulk-esque tranformation, and know in your hearts that I will become a functional member of society again within a few short days).

In conclusion, someone needs to invent something, other than wine, to which I am allergic, that can free me from this hormone driven beast! Please, do something! Before I start bitch-slapping nuns and kicking the invalid!

NOTE: LeBron James just got hurt, probably because I wrote something crappy about the Cavs. I am the worst person ever.