Saturday, May 29, 2010

Letter to the Library

I love being a writer. What I can't stand is the paperwork.
Peter De Vries





To whom it may concern at the public library:

I do not appreciate, nor do I find it appropriate, that you advocate rape.

Don’t deny it. You know what I’m talking about. That poster on the giant bulletin board that greets you when you enter the library. The one next to the flyers about yoga class, and story time and poetry hour. The one that says “Rape Each Other.” Yeah, that one. I have a problem with it.

The library is a family place. And even if it weren’t, rape is never okay. Never.

I realized after the second, no third, no fourth look that there were three other words on the page, and if you put all those words together, the poster actually advocates against rape, or for awareness or for keeping an eye out for rape or some anti-rape related message.

But those other words, the ones after “rape” and before “each other”, the ones that are the pivotal difference between a pro-rape, and anti-rape message, were barely visible on the poster. Why? Because the poster was black. And the word RAPE, was in big bold white letters at the top of the poster. And the words EACH OTHER were also in big bold white letters at the bottom of the poster. And those three pivotal words WATCH OUT FOR were in light black fuzzy smaller letters in the middle of the poster.

In case you haven’t connected the dots here, white writing stands out against a black background and is easy to read. Light black writing against a black background? Not so much.

So I’m going to need to you to either fix the poster or take it down. Yes, I finally realized the message was, RAPE: WATCH OUT FOR EACH OTHER, but that was after a quadruple take and much studying and squinting and getting out of the glasses because surely my library isn’t telling me to rape someone. But if I were in a hurry and just flying by, that’s exactly what you told me to do. And that’s not cool.

Kelley

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Warranty

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.
Ray Bradbury


Warranty
By Kelley Williams


My husband bought a laptop the other day and spent $300 on a warranty.

"$300!" I cried. Literally. I cried.

"Don't worry. If I shoot my computer it's covered," he said.

"That's ridiculous. Why would anyone shoot their computer?" I said with much eye rolling and went upstairs to turn on our desktop computer so that I could write another fabulous story for my legions of adoring fans.

And for like the thousandth time since we bought it, it decided to be a total jerk: freezing up, crashing, saying my documents don’t exist, not opening the internets, then opening twenty internets, running updates for programs we don’t even have.

And then I completely understood why someone would shoot their computer. In fact, I wasn’t sure why this hadn’t occurred to me before. So I went out to buy a gun to do said shooting. But before I could begin, I realized I didn't have $300-shoot-your-computer warranty for my desktop.

So I lugged my jerky (jerky as in it's a jerk, not jerky as in awkward movements, or as in dehydrated meat. I'm not going to eat my computer. Try to keep up, please.) to Best Buy and said I wanted to purchase the $300-shoot-your-computer warranty so I could shoot my computer.

The Best Buy smurf (why does Best Buy make their employees dress like smurfs?) said, "so you want to redeem your warranty?"

"No. I don’t have a warranty,” I said with much exasperation. "Well actually, I don't know if I have one. We may have gotten a warranty when we bought the computer. But probably not because my husband hates, loathes, warranties, - except of course for the $300-shoot-your-computer warranty he recently purchased - so I'm guessing we didn't buy one. But now that you've invented shoot-your-computer warranty I want to purchase it."

Best Buy smurf: "You want to shoot your computer?”

Me: “Yes.”

Best Buy smurf: “Why?”

Me: “Because it’s jerk.”

Best Buy smurf: “Your computer’s a jerk?”

Me: “That’s what I said.”

Best Buy smurf: "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

Me: "I want to shoot my computer. It's not that complicated. Sheesh."

Smurfy got all panicked looking and reached for the we've-got-a-crazy-lady button under the counter. "Relax,” I said. “I'm not going to shoot it here. I'm going to shoot it at home, where there aren't any witnesses. Because it's probably going to be bloody. And some people faint at the sight of blood. And I really don't like to make people faint. I'm nice like that. Unless a witness is required to redeem the warranty, then I'll shoot it here and all the faint-hearted will just have to deal with it."

Smurfy looked less relaxed, so I reached in my purse to hand him some gum, because the act of chewing gum releases tension, and less tense smurfs are able to deal with women who ask for shoot-your-computer warranties (wipe that dubious look off your face, it’s totally true. I read it somewhere, probably Wikipedia, or maybe I just made it up. I don’t remember). But before I could pull out my gum I was tackled by five smurfs, which really is not as awesome as it sounds, and I was like, "relax people, I was just going for my gum," but it came out sounding like "gun" because my face was shoved into the floor by a food happy smurf who apparently does think jerky computers mean dehydrated meat and is only working at Best Buy for the food. I was jerked, as in awkward movement, to my feet, escorted to the door and banned from Best Buy forever.

Needless to say I was a might ticked off. Not because I was tackled by smurfs, nor because I was banned from Best Buy, nor because they were holding my desktop hostage, but because my need to shoot a computer was unsatisfied.

So… I went home and shot Mark’s computer.

He doesn’t know yet, so please don’t tell him. I’m pretty sure when he finds out it will be the second time I see him mad. Until he realizes it was a suicide – cuz that’s how I made it look – and then he’ll probably just be sad. Unless $300-shoot-your-computer warranties don’t cover suicides, in which case – can I come stay with you?



Editor's Note: Some parts of this story may be kinda, sorta, a little bit fictional. However, the first three paragraphs, minus the literal crying, are 100% true. There is a warranty out there that will replace your computer if you shoot it. What is this world coming to?

Another Dove Promise

"If you fall down 7 times, get up 8."

Again, Dove, this is not a promise. More like advice. However, if you're falling down 7 times, my advice would be get to a doctor. You have an equilibrium problem, or something wrong with your legs. Or a drinking problem. And in that case, get to an AA meeting.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Broken

A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.
Thomas Mann, Essays of Three Decades, 1947


Broken

an excerpt


By Kelley Williams

After her family left and Jake had been put to bed, Maggie went through the house checking the locks on doors and windows that had not been opened. She flipped off lights and headed down the hallway to her bedroom. Besides the unmentionable boxes in the garage, four boxes still lined the hall. Her mother had left them there on purpose, hoping to encourage Maggie to make some contribution to her new house.

Three were labeled office, and one was labeled kitchen. It had been placed there by mistake. Sighing, Maggie picked it up and headed to the kitchen.

The box was full of miscellaneous items, two cookbooks, a toaster, four plastic bowls stacked inside each other, refrigerator magnets. The last item Maggie pulled from the box was delicately sheathed in bubble wrap. It was the antique porcelain tea-pot passed down to her from her great-grandmother. She ran her hands over its cool, smooth surface and wondered at the types of things it had seen over four generations.

If teapots could talk. Would it tell of how she and Jackson used to run through the house, Maggie shrieking in delight as Jackson chased? Would it tell of the times she and Jackson had made love on the counter, the kitchen floor, the dining room table? Would it talk about the mistress of the house, a woman who’d once known happiness so great it burst like sunshine from the tips of her fingers and toes, out the top of her head and through her eyes? Would it mention the ghost, the lost soul, who now haunts in her place?

Maggie stood up over of the kitchen floor and kicked the empty box away, exposing the hard tile. One more time, her hand lovingly traced the handle, the spout, the base of the teapot.

She held it out in front of her with both hands and let it drop. It shattered to pieces, the way she knew it would, and the sound, that of a heart breaking, was familiar and oddly comforting.

She stared at the jagged pieces that, together, once held the shapes of roses with intricate detail, but were now only swirls of pale pink and lilac. Deliberately, she stepped forward with her right foot and then her left, letting her weight settle over the pieces. The shards sliced her skin, tore her flesh apart. But it wasn’t enough. She twisted her feet from side to side, grinding them to the floor. Looking down at the tile, she watched the blood seep from beneath her feet, and she waited.

Nothing.

She twisted again, rocked forward on the balls of her feet and backward on her heels, each movement cutting new wounds. Again, she waited. Waited for the pain, for an ache more intense than one she carried with her every day. But, as she knew it wouldn’t, it didn’t come.

Maggie stepped back, grabbed two dishtowels and fashioned them around her feet to contain the blood. Crudely hobbling to the bathroom, she washed her feet in the tub and bandaged them. From her bedroom, she grabbed a pair of fuzzy pink socks and slipped them on. She found the box in the hallway labeled office junk drawer and rifled through it until she found the superglue.

Thirty minutes later she had glued the pieces back together. Amazingly, none were missing. In some places you had to look closely to see the lines of repair. The jagged shards were once again her great-grandmother's teapot.

But Maggie knew even if you put all the pieces back together, once something had been broken, it would never be whole again.


Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Friday morning

I couldn't find my keys. They were lost. As in forever. I searched everywhere. Turned my purse inside out. Retraced my steps from last night. No luck. They were gone. Forever. I called Mark to ask him if he could come bring me my car key. He was all, "I'm kinda busy right now." And I'm like, "Are you in a meeting?" And he's like, " No, I'm just in the middle of some stuff." And I'm like," Yeah well I can't go to work so you think you can bring me my key?" He says, "Okay." So I continue looking, leave the kitchen, slide on the floor in the living room and almost bust my head open. I think maybe I brought my keys with me upstairs when I got home last night and put them in my closet, which if that's the case, forget it. They really are gone forever, lost in a sea of clothes and shoes. I go back downstairs, walk very carefully across the living room, into the kitchen and look in my purse...again...because most often when my keys are lost they're actually in my purse. I find a hundred receipts, a thousand pounds of change, a crumbled up cookie, but no keys. I'm defeated. I've really done it. I've lost my keys before, but this is the real deal. They're gone. What a sad sad day. I start to walk away...but then...what's that?! Sticking out of the side pocket of my purse is a surfboard. And guess what? I have a surfboard key chain! It's my keys!!! YAY! Do happy dance, call off Mark, continue happy dance. Just kidding, no time for happy dance, I'm freaking late!

In summary:
I lost my keys. I found them. In my purse.

The End.


Dedicated to Amylicious.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Promises

I have made this letter longer than usual, because I lack the time to make it short.
Blaise Pascal



Promises
By Kelley Williams


Dear Dove Chocolate,

You owe me a job and several hundred thousand dollars.

I recently ate two pieces of your Promises chocolate, and clearly you are confused. Or just a bold-faced liar. I’m inclined to believe the latter.

As defined by Merriam Webster’s online dictionary, a promise is:

1: a legally binding declaration that gives the person to whom it is made a right to expect or to claim the performance or forbearance of a specified act

2: reason to expect something

So you can imagine my joy when I unwrapped my first piece of chocolate and was gifted with the promise spoil yourself today. As if that wasn’t amazing enough, my second piece of chocolate promised drink champagne, wear a tiara, use the good china.

I didn’t know what I did to deserve such savory promises, and I was slightly confused as to how either one of those constituted a promise, but who am I to question you, Dove Chocolate? So relish your sweet promises I did.

I called my boss and told him “today I’m being spoiled. I’m not coming in to work. If you don’t like it, take it up with Dove Chocolate, they promised.” I hung up before he could respond.

Proper spoiling of oneself requires moola, and since I’m a little cash poor I made a trip to the bank to request a loan. The loan executive did not immediately hand over the 100 grand like I expected, in fact he was all, “we need you to fill out this form, and we have to run a credit check.” But doing all that didn’t sound like being spoiled to me, so I said, “don’t worry, Dove Chocolate promised to spoil myself today.” And then he said all reverently, “ooh a Dove promise. Well in that case, here’s 500 grand, cash.”

After making it rain on myself in the bank lobby (because I've always wanted to do that, and because I like rubbing my good fortune in other people's faces), I hit Chanel, then Coach, then Jimmy Choo, then any clothes store, shoe store, purse store, and accessory store I wanted.

I was giddy from my purchases and thanking the Dove Chocolate gods for granting me such a delicious promise when I heard Angels singing and champagne flavored raindrops began falling around me, causing me to remember your second promise, Dove.

Promise Two, Part One: Drink Champagne. My favorite champagne is Martini and Rossi and it costs approximately $11.00. But surely an $11.00 bottle of champagne was not what you had in mind, Dove, when you promised to spoil me. So I bought Cristal Champagne. Several bottles of vintage crystal, which is slightly more than $11.00 a bottle.

Promise Two, Part Two: Wear a tiara. Now I do own a tiara. It’s from my wedding day. But wearing a tiara I already own hardly constitutes as spoiling myself. And besides, I need one with diamonds. Lots of big diamonds. So I headed to the mecca of jewelry stores, Tiffany. But would you believe Tiffany did not have any platinum tiaras studded with copious amounts of diamonds no smaller than 3 carats? Not to worry. All I had to whisper was Dove Promise and the good folks at Tiffany went to work immediately, crafting me a headdress so opulent it brought tears to my eyes.

Promise Two, Part Three: Use the good china. My china is dishwasher and microwave safe, and I know, Dove, that is not what you meant by “good.” Off I went to see my dear friend Kate Spade from whom I purchased every plate, bowl, cup, platter, teapot, coffee pot and gravy boat of the uber fabulous dragonfly June Lane Collection.

My money was gone and I was spent. Spoiling oneself is hard work. I headed home to savor my luxuriant purchases.

I was sitting in my kitchen, wearing my tiara, sipping cristal from my Kate Spade China while admiring my Jimmy Choo shoes and Chanel dress when a Mac Truck called REALITY came barreling through the wall to tell me that my boss fired me for missing work and the bank wants their five hundred thousand dollars back. Now.

So, thanks a lot Dove. Your little “promises” left me jobless and in debt. Perhaps, instead of promise, you should call your little sayings a suggestion, or a tip, or an idea, or add a little footnote that says this is our way of saying stop and smell the roses; it is not meant to be taken literally.

But take it literally I did, because, Dove, you promised.

When you see my attorney on your door-step, please refer to Merriam Webster’s promise definition number one.

Yours truly,
Kelley

Thursday, May 13, 2010

My New Profession: Tattoo Artist

Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.
Alfred Hitchcock



My New Profession: Tattoo Artist
By Kelley Williams


So after the Publix cashier mistook my clogged sweat gland masquerading as a white head for a piece of jewelry or some such, I decided- after consuming copious amounts of wine- that four, five, six…oh who’s counting…months with Whitey was enough.

My friend Luscious told me about this amazing thing called a needle that her dermatologist once gave her to rid one’s otherwise perfect nose of clogged sweat glands masquerading as white heads. Apparently you take said needle and make an X on clogged sweat gland, and then leave it alone. The next night, do the same thing, but in a different direction so that you’ve made an asterisk type thingy and then, leave it alone. The next morning, wake up, run to the mirror and viola, Whitey is gone. Commence appropriate mourning period for loss of friend then begin running-man, cabbage patch happy dance because he was really more of a frenemy.

Well I did not have a dermatologist prescribed needle, so I decided to use a sewing needle, after of course sterilizing the heck out of it. And by sterilizing, I mean burn with a lighter until the needle turns black. I race upstairs with my needle, which, given my track record with stairs (I am the only person I know who regularly falls up stairs), was a pretty awesome idea, and say one last hello and a triumphant farewell to Whitey in my magnifying mirror.

I then do what Luscious says and make an X on Whitey. And then I do not leave it alone. I make another X. And another one. And then, because the wine told me to, I decide to poke it. And poor Whitey gets punctured. And nothing comes out, so clearly not a white head (see honey, I can’t just pop it like you suggested), but since it’s supposed to be a clogged sweat gland, shouldn’t it secrete something upon being punctured, like, I don’t know, sweat, maybe? Which makes me pose the question: Luscious, are you sure it’s a clogged sweat gland?

Anywho, upon puncturing Whitey, the burned needle leaves a trace of black ash, which I try to rub off with my finger. But it’s actually under the skin, inside of Whitey, so it doesn’t come off. I of course do the only logical thing to remove black ash, and puncture Whitey again. Black ash doesn’t go away, but I think, wow I’m piercing my skin with a needle and it doesn’t hurt. Which I consider to be some sort of miracle, but now I’m thinking it might be the wine. So the side of my nose now sports Whitey and Black Ash. Which makes me think of when my friend Ashley was going to get her first car and her dad suggested she get a license plate that said Bad Assh. Ha. Haha. Hahahaha. More wine any one?

The moral of the story is, if you need to pierce something on your body, consume copious amounts of wine first. Although I cannot legally, or morally, or ethically or whatever, advocate this because you might pierce something, uh, sensitive, and I don’t want to be held responsible for permanently damaged body parts after a copious-amount-of-wine-drinking induced night of piercing.

But seriously, the real moral of the story? Don’t try to remove clogged sweat glands masquerading a white heads after consuming, four, five, six…oh who’s counting…glasses of wine unless you want a black ash tattoo.




Monday, May 10, 2010

For You Luscious - For Your Pantry - Take Three

Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.



Stupid White Zin.

For You Luscious - For Your Pantry - Take two

Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take, but by the number of breaths you take.



LOVE YOU!!!

For You Luscious - For Your Pantry

Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath you take.

Dinner Plans

A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and goes to bed at
night and in between does what he wants to do.
Bob Dylan



Dinner Plans
By Kelley Williams



Dinner Plans upon leaving work and heading to Publix: wine and cupcakes.

It's been that kind of a day.

Dinner Plans upon having Publix cashier ring up said wine and cupcakes and mistake the clogged sweat gland on the side of my nose that has been masquerading as a white head, as in pimple, for the last four months, for a nose ring or face sticker or whatever the hell else people attach to their face in the name of fashion or culture or whatever: wine, cupcakes and ruffles and french onion dip.

Friday, May 7, 2010

Bertha

The most beautiful things are those that madness prompts and reason writes.
André Gide, Journals, 1894



Bertha
By Kelley Williams


I work in non-profit. And it’s a little known fact that to work in non-profit you have to be a little bit crazy. Every once in awhile, though, the word gets out. You can imagine the confusion this causes with the full blown crazy people who submit their resumes thinking they have the perfect job qualifications.

We said a little bit crazy! Not, Eee Eee shower scene, boiling bunny crazy.

A few times, the the full blown crazies have slipped through the cracks, disguised as normal people. But thankfully it’s not long before they start reverting to their crazy ways and we are able to swiftly get rid of them.

I recently switched jobs, but I used to work with four other little-bit-crazy women in an office the size of a Q-tip box.

I know what you’re thinking. You’d rather have someone reach down your throat and pull out your intestines than work in a small - did I mention it was small? - office with five women.

But guess what? We all got along. In fact, we’re actually, gasp, friends!

There’s the wise one, Agnes, full of practical solutions, sage advice and of course, lotion.

Hilda’s the one who keeps us on track and makes sure we stay serious. Seriously! She’s also good at sniffing out the full blown crazies, except for that one… good ole blew eyes.

Maud’s slightly more-than-a-little-bit crazy demeanor keeps things lively and ensures there is never a dull, or quiet, moment.

I am the one who rocks out to Journey and often stops talking mid-sentence to stare absently into space for indeterminate amounts of time.

And then there’s heaven-sent, fresh air we breathe, sunshine of our lives, Bertha. I’m sorry, did that border on creepy? It must be that little bit crazy coming through. Simply put, Bertha provides our comic relief.

Sometimes it’s with her one liners:

“Recently - a few months ago - I was…” I don’t remember the rest, but it’s not important. The first five words say it all.

Said by me or Agnes or Hilda, “We need to buy cellophane to put that basket together.”

Said by Bertha, “Cellophane? Isn’t that the stuff they put over your mouth when they want you to fall asleep?”

It was the height of season (unless you’ve worked in non-profit, this phrase is of no significance to you) and Bertha was printing something when she muttered to her printer, “You stupid piece of crap.” Okay, so maybe you had to be there. But trust me, it was hilarious.

Sometimes it’s her tuning in to the end of conversation and exclaiming at exactly the wrong moment, in other words as the boss is walking by, “You were in bed with: insert Board Member’s name!”

Seriously, I almost died on that one.

Sometimes her comic relief comes in the form of an accidental marriage. This would have been the time she went to Staples and one of the employees was hitting on her. (This happens to her everywhere she goes.) He noticed a silver band on her left ring finger.

“Are you married?” he asked.

Flustered and not knowing what to say, Bertha said, “Yes.”

“Wow you’re young. It’s hard to make a marriage work that young.”

“Yeah, well my husband lives on a boat in Jupiter and I live here.”

Either this answer made perfect sense to the Staples employee or he was too befuddled to question it. Either way, he seemed to accept her answer.

Imagine Bertha’s boyfriend’s surprise that evening when she got home and informed him they were now married.

And sometimes the story continues several months later. Only this time the same Staples employee forgot that she’s married and invited her to a weekend at Disney World with him and his daughter. Apparently sometimes the full blown crazies sniff out the little bit crazies and try to use the common craziness as the basis for which to build a future.

Bertha’s reply? Why, just what you’d expect when a total stranger invites one to spend a weekend with him and his daughter: “Hmm…yeah, yeah, maybe.” Really, Bertha? Maybe? I guess Where Dreams Come True doesn’t just apply to children, but to creepy Staples employed fathers also.

But Bertha is not only funny, she is a wealth of knowledge. Ever wondered about the differences between a bull, a cow and a horse? Bertha can tell you.

Just got a cat and you’re wondering if it’s a boy or a girl? Ask Bertha, she’ll, uh, er…never mind, don’t ask her that one.

Comedy and zoology aren’t the only weapons in her talent arsenal. Bertha is a stellar chauffeur. Your car broke down and you’re in need of a lift? Just give Bertha a call. She hates being late so you know she’ll get you to your destination on time, but more importantly, she’ll get you there safely. She’s only been in three accidents and hit just one biker.

For these reasons and oh so many more, Bertha is the wind beneath our wings. The yin to our yang. She completes us. I could wax poetic all day about the wonder that is Bertha. What? I’m starting to sound creepy again. Sorry, it’s a by-product of the craziness and a little hard to control. In fact, I’m convinced that if it weren’t for Bertha, that little bit of craziness inside of Agnes, Maud, Hilda and I would turn into full-blown psychosis. And then we'd have to hide from those nice young men in their clean white coats coming to take us away ha-ha, ho-ho, hee-hee, ha,haa.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Death by Ruffles and French Onion Dip

Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.
Gene Fowler


Death by Ruffles and French Onion Dip
By Kelley Williams

Ruffles potato chips and French Onion Dip will be the death of me, causing me to end up on that show about people who die freakish deaths. Like that guy who was killed by his TV, or the guy who peed himself to death, or the guy who nabbed on old lady’s purse, or the guy who died by beer keg. Anyone else noticing a common thread here?

It pains me dearly that something I love oh-so-much, would treat me oh-so-bad, but alas, it is true. But I won’t die from a massive artery-clogging heart attack like all other lovers of fine food who consume an entire bag of Ruffles and an entire container of French Onion Dip in one sitting do. Nor will the Grim Reaper come for me because my love affair with Ruffles and French Onion Dip will cause my butt to grow so large that Jim Bob confuses me with the prize winning pig at the county fair and buys me from the 4-H kid who fattened me up in order to roast me over an open pit at his family reunion.

The fact is, I won’t even get to finish the entire bag of Ruffles and the entire container of French Onion Dip – which is the real tragedy if you ask me – because death will find me before I even experience that first bite of deliciousness.

Here’s how it’s goin’ down.

I purchase the chips and dip, and a few other essentials, from Target, race to my car and throw all the bags, sans the one containing the items of my demise (which will be securely placed by my side), in the back seat and strap on my seatbelt. Target is only two minutes from my house, which means I am only two minutes away from tasting utter bliss. But that is two minutes too long. The Ruffles and Dip must be enjoyed now. So on the way out of the parking lot I open the bag of chips. As I cross six lanes of oncoming traffic, I attempt to unscrew the lid on the jar of French Onion Dip. Except that unscrewing the lid on a jar of French Onion Dip requires two hands – preferably bear hands with the strength of The Incredible Hulk – and driving requires at least one hand. For those of you who’ve misplaced your calculator, that’s three hands. And guess what? I only have two. Weird, I know.

My unfortunate third hand deficiency makes driving across six lanes while opening the jar of French Onion Dip impossible. But I make use of my superior prioritizing skills and decide the driving can wait. I cradle the Ruffles in my lap, point my car in the direction of the desired lane, step on the gas, and turn all my attention to the French Onion Dip.

And that’s how it’ll happen. I’m not exactly sure if another car will hit me, or if I’ll hit another car, or maybe a telephone pole. Or maybe sail over the median and get hit by several cars at once. Regardless, the end result will be the same.

I know that some of you, deeply saddened by my untimely demise, may call this a senseless tragedy. But know this, if I did manage to unscrew the lid and even just one French Onion Dip covered Ruffle reached my lips before lights out, I died a happy girl. And if you must blame someone, don’t blame my beloved. Blame Target. They did not have The Best French Onion Dip On The Planet: Fritolay French Onion Dip with the easily removable plastic lid and easily peeled back foil cover. Instead I had to purchase Not The Best French Onion Dip On The Planet: Lays French Onion Dip, with the impossible to unscrew and cross six lanes of traffic at the same time lid.

So if you really think about it, Target will be the death of me.

In place of flowers, please cover my casket with Ruffles and French Onion Dip.