Dear State of California,

Since you don't see fit to provide my kid's teacher with surface cleaner or paper towels, tape or other basic teaching materials, I've decided I refuse to pay my taxes until you get it together. I'm spending more in supplying the classroom than I would in taxes, not to mention working there for free the better part of full time. So I figure that I'm doing you a huge favor by getting your job done for you. Clearly you all in Sacramento can't get it together enough to make sure these kids have what they need, so I'm going to channel all my efforts and tax dollars into the place YOU ought be channeling tax dollars.



















And by the way, you jerks seem to have plenty of time money to keep up the state capital and pay corrupt politicians huge salaries and ensure their kickbacks. It seems to me that you look after yourself, give public education basically nothing, and then punish the schools for struggling to meet state standards by cutting the funding they need to have the resources to get their test scores up and their kids educated. I'm sure it's no big deal to you since your kids all go to La Petite Snot Academy or wherever.

If you come looking for me to get your money, you can kiss the back of my Levi 503 skinnies. It's spent. On my child's "free" public education.

Bite me,
Lauren

Dear Mean Parents Across the Alley,

If you're going to use outdated parenting practices to bring up your little one, that's totally your prerogative, but when it affects me, I feel like I have a right to complain. I know you probably aren't thinking about the long term consequences of letting your little baby cry for hours on end. You are probably at your wit's end and really just need a good 6-8 hour stretch of sleep.

I understand that. Of course I do! The thing is that there are some people who are still in touch with their human biology enough to know that the yucky feeling adults get when babies cry and we just want them to be quiet exists because we are supposed to comfort our children when they are sad or lonely and feed them when they're hungry. Even if it isn't on our schedule.


You guys are the brainiacs who decided to have a kid. The least you can do is sacrifice a little sleep and sanity for the first two years so that your kid (and neighbors) are well adjusted. No seriously.

All this isn't really the reason for this letter though, dear neighbors. The thing is, while my milk is all dried up, the sound of a desperate baby wailing for an hour makes me feel like my milk is letting down. I can't concentrate on anything. I can't focus. My cortisol levels are rising as nature intended to happen when a baby cries. I'm a mama myself, so my body has been re-programmed by nature to respond to the sounds of a child in need to a different degree than your average non-parent (who still has a stress hormone response to crying, incidentally). And being a pack animal, I want to Spiderman my way across the alley and into your apartment and pick up your wee one and comfort it until it is quiet.

I'm serious, nearby parents, if I grab my boobs one more time expecting to find my shirt wet, I will go over to your building, let myself in, find you, and pick that baby up myself. You are effing with the hormones of the wrong lady.

With sympathy for your plight as sleepless parents and an overload of estrogen and prolactin,
Lauren

Dear MUNI narcs,

You are not cops. You are basically the same thing as a meter maid, which is one step below a high school security guard in the hierarchy of douchey narcs. Meaning you're bigger douches than the people whose job it is to harass 16 year olds for bringing their skateboards to school. You have a working class job in which you harass people who don't have proof of payment on public transportation. Guess who that is? Your fellow poor and working class humans.

You impose a tax on the poor of San Francisco by enforcing the fare system. MUNI was originally supposed to pay for itself and become free, sort of like the bridges. Since the local government screwed that up, the working class and poor of San Francisco, who can't afford cars and parking, are stuck paying exorbitant fares on public transportation so that the rich folks in St. Francis Wood and Seacliff can have nicely paved roads to drive their BMWs Prius' on.

So you know, way to go, making a living by selling out your demographic. I'm sure you can feel the integrity oozing out of your pores when you write a $50 ticket for a single mom taking her toddler to go apply for welfare or a homeless man trying to get to a cheaper hostel. I mean really, you are like, a cornerstone in the foundation of a civilized society. Glad to see you are out upholding our values. I'm sure you feel really good about what you're doing every day for work.

When you arrogantly ask to see my transfer as I exit Civic Center so I can walk through the Tenderloin to my studio apartment where I live with my child and I tell you that your job is a crock, don't be surprised.

Get a job that doesn't screw over the people who can't afford it. I don't owe you my transfer; I don't owe you anything. In fact, you owe me an apology.

No, I do not respect your sewn on "badge,"
Lauren

Dear David Caruso,

Your unbelievably stoic character, Horatio, on CSI: Miami is amazing. He isn't terribly handsome, yet he has the most beautiful Latin women in Miami all up on his jock. He doesn't really interrogate suspects, yet he gets the answers he seeks. Horatio doesn't do any crime lab work, but gets the credit for all the good finds, and he gets all the personal back story drama in most episodes. He's a tough guy who sees the world in black and white, legal and illegal, yet he comes off as incredibly sensitive even though he never shows any emotion whatsoever. He's a man's man.

Most importantly though, Horatio gets to voice Indiana Jones style one liners every 5 minutes. "After I find Lucia, [long dramatic pause] I'm going to shut down your 'corporation.' Forever." Ah-MAY-zing!

I don't know how you landed this gig, Mr. Caruso, with virtually no real acting and tons of perks, but I bow down to you. You've gone from obsolete naked butt guy from NYPD Blue to the hardcore Dudley Do-Right of CSI: Miami. Congratulations, I'd nearly forgotten you existed before this gig.

Yours in CSI addiction,
Lauren

Dear Academy of Art Students,

Art school is so cool, it almost hurts. That's why you have to make sure that every time you leave the house you have enough hip clothes on to look totally radical, but not completely like a hipster. You've got to rock slang that was trendy in the 1980s (since that's the retro cycle for the early 2000s,) but make sure that you use it ironically, even though you're not entirely sure what irony actually is. Your leggings have to dramatically clash with your skirt, because if you used complimentary colors, all the other art students would know you were referring to your color wheel again. Most importantly, your girl jeans have got to be nice and tight, perhaps even brightly colored.


When you're 19 and living in an art school dorm and too cool for life, life is hard. I mean, you really ought to be able to hang out in dive bars so you can look as angsty as you feel. Too bad none of the bars around your neighborhood of clustered dorms will let you in. To pass the time you throw eggs out of your dorm window and chain smoke on your front stoop, wishing that the world understood how hard your life is living in a $1500 a month shared room with aesthetically pleasing black buses shuttling you all over the city each day and mom and dad picking up the tab for it all. You try to get neighbors to spot you for Pabst because you heard it was the beer of angst ridden punk rock kids once upon a time.

In the morning, when folks in your neighborhood are trying to walk downtown to go to work, you are outside with 30 of your dorm mates, hanging around waiting for the bus. Remember when you were younger and your teachers made you line up before school and you thought to yourself, "This is so lame. I am not a sheep! Why's Mrs. So-and-so gotta be The Man all the time." And you were right. Lining up is like, hella oppressive. You're your own person! You stand where you want! Now that you're all grown up and your parents have sent you off to a prestigious university in a city known for being full of cynical, chain-smoking artists, you don't have to bow down to The Man and get in a line before class. Who cares that the people in your neighborhood have to get to work so they can pay their rent that is inflated because your school is taking over the neighborhood and driving up rents? Not you, that's who! Oh hey, there goes a dude you threw an egg at last night walking to a miserable construction job so he can feed his family. Did I just see you pull that hoodie up to hide your face better? Oh right, that was really because you're so cool.

Don't think I don't understand you, little art students. I do. I've been cynical and angsty my whole life. My wardrobe is full of black and skinny jeans and even some neon things from H&M! I've got your number. And I, for one, think it's great the you've decided to be so edgy that you don't give a flying french connection UK about your neighbors. Sure, I am one of them, but if living on a street covered in broken eggs and vomit from when you drink too much on your stoop that I can't freely walk down while class is in session is the price I have to pay for your self expression, I am so down with that. If my rent goes up and up and my landlord makes my life miserable because of rent control so that you can go to a school that buys up independent hotels and turns them into overpriced dorms that you'll move out of in a year, moving into a 300 square foot studio at the same price, effectively forcing me out of my neighborhood, well that is just swell. Anything I can do to help the younger generation. Really.

So keep on keepin' on, kids. Don't worry about being considerate neighbors while you support the largest landowner in San Francisco's drive to take over the whole city and amass millions and millions of dollars in the process. You won't be here in 3 years anyway, you'll be Emeryville working at Pixar or in Paris designing haute couture or something and really making something of yourself. Then you'll get to say that San Francisco is oh-so overrated, or that it's nowhere near as chic as where you've landed. You won't care that single moms like me were forced to move to Livermore or Fairfield, or that we had to pull our kids away from your messes on the sidewalk for 4 years. I mean, who even remembers their college days anyway?

You know what's cute? Even if any of you were reading this, I'm not sure you'd get the sarcasm. I'd pat you on the head and buy you a PBR if I could, kiddos.

Yours in totally mega radical ironic slang and skinny jeans forever (or at least until a new trend comes along),
Lauren

Dear Douchebag Guys with High Sperm Counts,

Please stop impregnating my friends. I think sex is great too, I really do. I just don't understand why you've all decided that 2008 is the year to 'forget' to pull out, or whatever it is you do for birth control. I mean really, you've all been having sex for awhile now, so I'm sure you know that your man fluids aren't supposed to make contact with our girly areas.

You've probably also figured out that you're a douchebag by now, but if you haven't, here's a clue. If you do any of the following:
-make her cry on a regular basis
-downplay her feelings and invalidate her experiences
-wake her up to yell at her
-fly into rages
-turn every argument back around on her
-only think of things as they apply to you and your feelings
-tell her she's gaining weight or point out her cellulite
-think women in general are irrational or irresponsible
-treat her disrespectfully in front of her friends, your friends, and especially your ex
-demand that you be the decider (a la our president) in everything
-make sure she's the one that has to deal with the fallout from those decisions when they go badly
-have a negative attitude about the majority of things she wants to do or finds enjoyable
-pressure her for sex she doesn't want to have
-refuse to take any responsibility for contraception
-or are generally a big jerkface

you are a douchebag.

Do the women of the world a favor and just go get the snip already. Please and thank you.

No love whatsoever-- in fact, a whole lot of animosity,
Lauren

Dear Horoscope,

Since you informed me that as soon as I solve a problem today another will develop, I have decided that I quit. If I don't solve any problems, then hopefully no more can develop. I'm putting the universe on notice that I am taking a break from participating today.

With more stress than affection,
Lauren

Dear Single Women*,

You know how we chat on the phone and text back and forth during the day or get together for brunch on Sundays for a real life Sex and the City girl talk? Is it just me, or does it always come back to dating and guys and guys and dating and sex politics and does-he-like-me what-is-he-thinking? We're always giving each other advice on when to call and what to say and how to talk so we don't scare off male suitors. We are constantly trying to figure out how to be "good enough" so that guys want us.

To that I say BOOOOOOO. If you are being yourself, nay, if I am being myself (I need this pep talk too), and a guy doesn't like that, or is scared off or doesn't think I'm worth hanging around with, then he isn't good enough for me. And when it's you, girl, and he isn't calling or initiating time to hang out with you, or is giving you mixed signals like crazy, it is him that isn't good enough for you.

You cannot be any different than yourself to accept love or affection from someone else. You'll always know that it isn't really you he is into, it's the perception of you he has based on what you show him to make yourself seem desirable. Who wants that? I've been known to say, "You either like me or you don't," and I mean it, but in practice, it's hard. It's so easy to get attitude in your voice and say that, but it's hard to silence the voice inside your head that is saying, "Am I good enough? Did I say something wrong? Should I explain it then? If I do will I seem neurotic?"

We have got to do it, womenfolk, we have got to silence that voice and say, "Listen boys, you either like me the way I am or you just don't like me, and in that case, see ya." We are good enough. We are desirable with our quirks and vulnerabilities and so-called imperfections. If some guy you're seeing can't appreciate that without a bunch of game playing, he isn't the right guy for you. He fails, not you.

Call him when you want to talk to him. Text him when you want to text him. Let him know what you're thinking. If he can't handle that, it's because he is flawed, not you. Get love and affection for the quirky, wonderful person that you are.

Yours forever in sisterhood,
Lauren


*I truly apologize for blatant heterosexism in this post.

Dear Well Meaning Friends,

When I tell you about something upsetting going on in my life, it is not helpful to respond with a ton of OMGs or a barrage of questions I have clearly already asked myself. It isn't about you or your participation in my drama. You should be there to support me. "Ohmigod what are you going to do?" isn't helpful, nor is it any of your business until I decide to make it so. Especially when I say that I don't know and you ask me again and again and again.

Try, "That's tough. I'm here for you when and if you need me." No seriously. Try it. Just because I confide something in you doesn't mean I am giving you license to make it into some big drama fest you can use to make your own life feel calmer or easier. This is my life, not a movie; nor are we in high school anymore. Try considering that you're my friend and you care about me, and think about the impact your words and actions have on my life.

I remember when my dad died and everyone had some B.S., "He went to a better place," type of comment for me. I wanted to punch some of my closest friends and relatives in the face multiple times a day. Sometimes, even the most comforting words have an unintended negative effect.

So what I'm saying is: if you were using your brain for 3 seconds before you responded to me, your response might not have had as much to do with your need for excitement and might have actually been helpful and comforting.

I'm trying to overlook it because you're the only friends I've got,
Lauren

Dear Mercury Retrograde,

It's been sort of fun watching everyone's lives fall apart in the last two and a half weeks. Especially my life; that's been really fun. It's comical when everything that can go wrong does, in fact, go wrong. I kinda feel like I'm living inside a Ben Stiller movie. You know, where you squirm in your seat because you just wish that for once something good would happen.

The joke's over now, Mercury Retrograde. I am so officially over you. It really isn't funny anymore. I'm over all the broken cars and appliances, the injuries, the snafus, the impossible catch-22s, and every other miserable thing that comes with you. You are Murphy's Law incarnate and I can't handle the wrath you are raining down around me.

Hoping this will post before my wifi cuts out or my laptop crashes (or I have an emotional breakdown and throw it on the floor),
Lauren

Dear Neighbors,

I spent tonight giving myself a mani-pedi, papaya enzyme facial, touching up my hair dye and tweezing my out of control sasquatch eyebrows. (Not to mention blogging and watching Cujo- alone.) Suffice to say, I am pretty darn pathetic tonight.

Now, you know and I know that our building has airshafts. I'm sure you heard me chatting on the phone earlier while I was in the bathroom applying my facial or tweezing, talking to a girlfriend about how badly I need the different beauty treatments I was in the process of applying, or about how difficult it is to tell what the guy you're interested in is really thinking about you. Did you notice how I left the room to finish chatting as it got late at night? I'm polite like that.

Here's my problem, and it's twofold: I am a pathetic loser tonight, and I can hear you two going at it through the airshaft. I thought it was terribly cute how you were chasing your girlfriend around the apartment and spanking her as she squealed. I was enthralled, really. And when you guys playfully fell into bed and started mattress dancing, I was enraptured. When I closed my airshaft and bathroom door so that I wouldn't hear you anymore and I could still hear moaning interspersed with screaming and profanities, well, I can barely begin to describe how ecstatic I was.

Do you really have to rub it in that I am a lonely, single girl who spent a Friday night in a beautiful city with a bustling nightlife painting and repainting her toenails? Would it be possible to, oh I don't know, close your airshaft and bathroom door? I know I'm talking crazy here. Who wants to take the time to create a little privacy when the mood strikes? It's more exciting and naughty when everyone can hear! Open your windows and let the sound echo back and forth across the alley so all of our neighbors can hear it. I mean, if you have something to say, please, tell the whole class!


I'll just be sitting on my bed, adjusting my nerdy glasses and turning up the volume on Cujo as high as it will go without waking my daughter. I'll be bunking down under the covers trying to focus intently on the movie so I forget that sex is, in fact, something people actually engage in. Please, don't tone it down on my account.

With admiration (for what seems to be an ability for never-ending porn star sex),
Lauren

Dear Tourists,

Is it really necessary to amble down the street, zigging and zagging back and forth across the sidewalk? I know that you are just shopping and sightseeing, but I have things to do in this neighborhood. I live here. I'm one of the locals you look at like a zoo animal from your tour bus as I sit on my front steps in my pajamas smoking and drinking coffee with a neighbor. I realize San Francisco is a really fabulous place to be, and that folks will flock to downtown of supercool urban areas to get their fill of touristing behavior, and I am terribly grateful to live in a place everyone wants to visit.


Some days though, I see your butt, and it's clothed in ill fitting sweat pants that have a mildly offensive logo across the backside and a strange formation of bleach stains, and each cheek pops up individually because you are walking. so. slowly. and shaking those hips so they are hard to get around. Other times you are making a line outside of Sears Fine Foods or a cable car stop you think is better than the turnaround because the line is shorter (oh hey guys, by the way, San Francisco isn't an amusement park!) and blocking the whole sidewalk.

So you all know, there are over 700,000 residents of San Francisco. Over a million people commute into the city for work on weekdays. Your vacation is our business as usual. Consider that as you stroll out of your hotel in the morning, bloated from eating overpriced, bland, midwestern fare that doesn't represent our city's incredible epicurean delights in the slightest.

Condescendingly,
Lauren

Dear MUNI,

I love it when synchronicity is the word of the day and the 27 meets the 71 perfectly, or the N picks me up at the beach when I'm wet and cold and tired just after sunset. In those moments I think I could kiss nearly any of the contaminated surfaces you provide me with day after day.

It's just that when I have to wait through 179872343 T's to catch a J and I end up waiting 45 minutes for a train when I could just WALK to the Mission if I had the right shoes on, (but of course I don't because I'm busy being so darn cute all the time), I want to punch you in your face. And I imagine that could hurt my hand, seeing as you're a huge bureaucratic government run agency and all. I'm scrappy, but I ain't that tough.

Perhaps we could compromise and you could finally work out the kinks the the Third Street Corridor project and get my trains running in some kind of reasonable fashion again? Please?



The girl who relies on you whether you're working for her or not,
Lauren

Dear Kid,

Shut up and go to sleep already.

More love than you'll ever know,
Mom

Dear Men in My Life,

I realize emotional unavailability has probably worked well for you in the past, but it freaks me out. I'd really like to know what you're thinking. When you sit there and think things but don't say them out loud I feel like you're having a conversation with someone about me right in front of me, but we're in a really loud bar and I can't make out what you're saying. Then I start to imagine what you might be thinking and that's just asking for trouble. So, you know, feel free to let me in on what's going on inside your awesome brains.



Affectionately,
Lauren

Dear Skin,

If you could stop breaking out now I'd be eternally grateful. Okay thanks.

It's not that I don't value what you do for my body, and I realize your response to stress and environmental toxins is sort of beyond your control.

I should be saying thank you to you for protecting me from harmful bacteria and viruses and for drinking water for me in the shower when I'm dumb and dehydrated but really need fluids. I should be grateful for all the work you do to filter the dirty, dangerous world from the delicate inside of my body.

But seriously. With the oil plus skin cell shedding at an exponential rate. Is it that necessary? Really? Last time I checked I wasn't an adolescent any more!


Love (but not feeling it in this moment),
Lauren

Dear B.O.B. (battery operated boyfriend),

You are so not cutting it. I'd break up with you if I thought I could get more earth shaking, soul quaking sex elsewhere.

But I can't.

Yours forever in times of excitement and desperation,
Lauren

Dear Bank Account,

Why so low, buddy? Chin Balance up, dude!

Wishing-you-would-stop-depleting-yourself-ingly,
Lauren

Dear Remote Control,

WHERE ARE YOU!? Cartoon Network is getting old. Adult Swim is rad, but their daytime programming sucks. I'm paying $30 a month to watch one channel because you decided to get up and walk away. Not cool. Get back here!

Yours in times of happiness and frustration,
Lauren

Dear Guys in Bars,

You'll have a lot better luck with the ladies if you actually talk to them instead of telling your bartender that you think they're hot. That really doesn't get you anywhere.

Truthfully, the majority of you won't get anywhere anyway, but a few of you just might have a chance if you just go talk to that pretty gal over on the other side of the bar.

Sincerely,
Lauren

Dear Kitchen,

Is it too much to ask that you stay clean for more than 10 minutes!? I don't eat THAT much food, so I don't understand why there are dirty dishes all over you.

Yours in times of orgasmic food and sinks full of gross dishes,
Lauren

Dear My Comfy Bed,

Thank you for enveloping me in your warmth and cushiness this morning as I stumble in at 5:30 with a sore throat and a desperate need for sleep and comfort. You're always here when I need you. And you smell good too.

Love,
Lauren

Dear Chocolate,

I am so.feeling.you right now. Thanks for being in my life to increase my ass size positive endorphins. You're a true friend.

Make out with me some more,
Lauren

Dear Miserly Landlord,

Thanks for being a big jerkface and never fixing anything while charging illegal arbitrary fees for anything and everything. No really. You've given me new tools to inspire me to stand up for myself.

By the way, I hope the leak in my bathroom ceiling causes it to collapse before you repair it so you have to spend ten times as much money fixing it. Nothing would make me happier than to see your giant bank account depleted by the cost of crappy repairs on my apartment.

No love,
Lauren