Monday, November 13, 2006

Dear Stupid Stepford Wife


(Note: This is the first of what I predict will be a long series of "Open Letters" to come. Enjoy!)

Dear Stupid Stepford Wife -
Hey!! Do you remember that day last week when I was trying to get into the building and you were in the way? No? Then let me refresh your memory:

As I approached the building, arms overloaded with heavy groceries, I came upon a most annoying scene: you, your first-born, your stroller, and your newest offspring. You were waiting for the little bastard to finish teetering back and forth between the two sets of doors in our lobby, without regard to the fact that a) other people live in this building and, b) some of us hate children. You had to have noticed me. I let out a rather vocal, “fuck!” at the sight of you, as I struggled up the four stairs to the entrance.
Although I’m sure you didn’t hear me through the glass door, I know you saw me; you were holding the inner door open for your little bastard with your foot and holding onto your stroller with your two hands. Was it going to blow away? A real mother would have let go of the stroller (which was safely in the lobby and not going to roll down the street into oncoming traffic), picked up the 15lb bastard, and apologized. But, not you!


By this point, Larry had caught up with me, carrying the rest of our groceries. Now both of us were waiting impatiently, as you tried “negotiating” with the little fucker to go in with you. I made sure to let out a sigh, but you barely noticed. After the little fucker finally went through, we followed. Had I not sighed, I suspect we would still be waiting.

In the lobby, you were still holding the door open. This was because another tenant, Aloof Dreadlock Lesbian, was coming in. Great! So, that’s two tenants I don’t care for. Could this get any worse?

Larry headed for the mailbox while I watched you. I have never seen someone move so slowly in my life. Seriously, are you heavily medicated, Stupid Stepford Wife? Are you living in a state of oblivion? Or is it that you are incredibly rude and self-centered? It took you forever to get from the front door to the elevator. Unfortunately, Larry and I were weighed down by our groceries, so there was no way to bolt ahead of all of you, slam the “DOOR CLOSE” button, and declare victory.


As Larry closed the mailbox door, we realized that a) your fucking stroller would be taking up 90% of the space in the tiny elevator and, b) we weren’t in the mood to fake interest in your little bastards who, I’m sure would be staring at us the whole ride up, maybe trying to touch us, too. Yuck. And that’s on top of trying to ignore Aloof Dreadlock Lesbian.

“No, just--just go ahead,” Larry said to you, annoyed now, as I put my groceries down. There we stood, watching the elevator go all the way to 6 (because you no doubt forgot to press your floor—again, state of oblivion), then the protracted pause that the elevator always makes at 6 before it realizes it can’t go up anymore and must now reset itself before reversing direction. It stopped on 3; another long wait while you got off. I imagine you had to coax the already spoiled little Spiro out with his favorite rattle as the elevator started beeping.

Let me just say that I can’t wait to see you again, Stupid Stepford Wife. I hope that I’m ahead of you in the lobby. I hope that you are struggling with groceries and have both kids with you. I’m going to slam the front door in your face, run for the elevator, lock you out, and press all the buttons so that you have to wait forever. Maybe I’ll take a tour of all the floors that day. Just to make you suffer—but you probably won’t even notice.

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