Dear Universe: You Suck

Yes, that’s right, Universe.

This is a letter to inform you that, currently, you are sucking.

Given the last couple of weeks and the bad mood I’ve been in, it was very clever of you to trick me into having lunch with my Mother yesterday in the midst of a very busy week.  And by ‘clever’ I mean ‘cruel.’

I must also give you props for starting the day off with an e-mail from BeBop stating that because I came very close to having a nervous breakdown the other night at our local tree-lighting festival (because being absolutely inundated with cute little babies in Santa onesies and toddlers with felt antler hats and strollers and other adorable, holiday-themed family bric a brac was just too much for me), I might want to perhaps think twice about attending his office holiday party. 

Despite the fact that since he’s a new employee and this is our first party there, and let’s not forget the fact that he works for a giant and extremely fun animation company who might JUST MAYBE PERHAPS have a kick-ass party.  But, yes, apparently I am fragile (or FRA-GEE-LAY ["must be Italian!"] as they say in A Christmas Story) thus I might not want to subject myself to more adorable little creatures in holiday attire singing touching but very off-key Christmas carols.  I might, say, run screaming from the party or fling myself on a life-sized version of a cartoon character and totally embarrass BeBop in front of his new co-workers.

So good job, Universe, for getting my day off to a great start.

Lunch started off with a bang as my Mother informed me of how she had just called my sister with a list of fabulous baby names for her to consider. It must have occurred to you that perhaps this was not the most enjoyable topic of conversation for me. Sadly, the same thought did not occur to my Mother.

I bet I caught YOU off guard, though, when I ordered a tuna sandwich in the hopes that Mercury poisoning would just end my life right then and there.  And, you must have given me some extra credit when I ordered tap water in the hope that the tuna combined with the lead by-products would bring a dramatic, chest-clutching and quick death that would end my torture.  But it did not. I was forced to discuss my sister’s due date and the idea of throwing her a baby shower this spring. 

(Ah, yes, forcing me to consider the possibility of planning a baby shower, replete with invitations engraved with a charming cartoon of a cute-bellied pregnant woman and presents and games and adorable little pink (or blue!) cupcakes was a stroke of genius. Good one Universe!  And I mean that in the same way I said ‘good one’ to BeBop when he left a realistic plastic cockroach for me on the stairs the other day, scaring the pee right out of me.)

Did you think the combination of my current crankiness and this discussion would just cause my head to explode in a fiery ball of self-pity?

I, quite honestly, was just as surprised as you that I managed to survive lunch.  (The waitress did look somewhat surprised when I ordered a giant serving of Polonium-210 for dessert, but sadly she thought I was just combining current events with my wacky sense of humor!)

I must give credit where credit is due, Universe.  The coup de grace was really at the very end of lunch, just when I thought I might survive and make it back to the office in one piece, when we ran into one of my Mother’s friends.

"Congratulations on the BABY," she screamed across the courtyard.

"I, uh…ummm….wrong sister,"  I replied, in the single most awkward display of awkwardness since the Dawn of Time.

As I ran from the courtyard back to my car, with tears streaming down my face, I hope you felt a sense of satisfaction for breaking me.  I returned to work just in time for a meeting, after crying off every inch of Sephora make up and Almay mascara and looking simply au natural.  And by ‘au natural’ I mean ‘hideous’ and ‘like I’ve been smacked in the face with a two-by-four.  A two-by-four covered in rusty nails.’

So dear Universe, I could say that this was it, that you won.  I could cry Uncle.

But I won’t.

Bring it on, biyatch, bring it on. 

Let’s see what you’re really made of.

Peace out,

Watson

PS  I’m not really that tough.  So PLEASE make me strong enough to get through the kiddie-themed Christmas party tonight even though I know my period is mere hours away.  Because I woke up spotting today, and it’s only 12 CrappyDPO, so THANKS for that.

PPS  Please let them have copious amounts of alcohol at said party.

PPPS   Oh!  I should clarify. Please don’t let me drink too much and end up in a compromising position with a giant Nemo fish.  That would be bad.  Very, very bad.

PPPPS  Okay, I’m sorry I called you a biyatch.  I take that back.  And I’ve really had enough of this. 

UNCLE.