dear south charleston blockbuster

Hello. It’s been a long, long time since we’ve seen each other, but you know how that goes. Turns out I got a job offer far away from the friendly confines of Kanawha County and I haven’t had any reason to come see you. I know, I was a really good customer. I rented a ton of stuff from you during the cold winter. But then spring arrived, I moved and I knew our relationship couldn’t continue. Rather than just break things off with you, I abandoned you. I figured you’d just go away quietly.

But like any bad relationship I’ve had, you don’t go away quietly. Sure, you go away. You even disappear. But then you rear your ugly head once more.

After all of our years together, I’m stunned to find out you don’t even know me at all. For you to accuse me of trying to hold on to a copy of ANY movie starring Katherine Heigl tells me you never listened to a word I said. And what’s even worse was you never even called me to accuse me. You had a cold, emotionless nasty gram sent to me asking for your DVD back.

Well, Blockbuster, I’m here to tell you … I don’t have your stupid DVD. I don’t know who has your stupid DVD. It’s someone who obviously thinks a night well spent involves vapid chick movies.

Now, before you call me out on my rentals of all three Amy Fisher movies, just know I’ve never rented a movie that involves Meredity Baxter Birney or the phrase “Not Without My Daughter.” Just because I spend lazy Saturdays watching Lifetime Movie Network doesn’t mean I’d ever have the desire to pay for a new release.

Again, it’s like I said — It’s like you never knew me at all.

So, understand that demanding the return of something I don’t have will get you nowhere. In fact, you should be thanking me for preventing someone else from having to watch that movie. But you won’t thank me. You never did.

I miss you, but only when there’s nothing on TV. I know I have one of you just down the street, but it won’t ever be the same. Nothing compares 2 u.

Love (but tinged with hate),

Jacque

an(other) open letter

Dear Douchebag Scooter Owner Who Lives at My Apartment Complex,

First, I’d like to commend you for doing your part in both helping reduce fuel costs for those of us with actual vehicles and helping decrease the amount of alleged gases that contribute to “global warming.” Your dedication to saving money, and the planet, are admirable.

However, I’d like to be frank with you if I may. If you don’t stop parking your f-ing mechanical bicycle in one of the four spaces directly in front of my apartment, I am just … going … to lose it.

Yes, I realize that there is no assigned parking in the complex. I also realize you have the right to park your moped wherever you choose. I have the right to think you’re a dick for it.

With the size of your Big Wheel, you really don’t NEED a parking space, period. You could easily wheel it under the stairs that lead up to your apartment. Chances are, the apartment management won’t even mind. I mean, let’s be honest. It’s half the size of your partner-in-douche, the Vespa owner, who also takes up parking spots right up front.

Let’s put this into proper perspective a minute, shall we? On your girlymobile, you can’t possibly haul cargo. The other night when I came home from a sizable grocery trip, I had to walk completely across the parking lot because, again, you took one of the four spaces directly up front. I carried — by myself — 13 plastic grocery bags about the length of a football field and then up four flights of stairs.

I don’t necessarily mind, though. It’s good exercise. Keeps me strong.

But you know what I do mind? Coming home in the pouring rain with a broken umbrella to find you, again, parked RIGHT up front. Certainly you were already prepared for inclement weather when you took your trike out to the organic coffeehouse to read your book about the Summer of Love and drink your ethically-grown-and-brewed $7 coffee. I, however, wasn’t as prepared after my day spent downtown under florescent lights trying to squeeze four days worth of work into 10 hours.

However, I digress.

Sometimes, when I’m staring out the window of the Metro, I fantasize about covering your prized weeniemobile in lighter fluid and throwing the match. I smile to myself as the heat from your burning, blue-flower-covered scooter warms me from the inside. I see you running from your apartment with your hands flailing yelling, “Whyyyyy?”

I giggle to myself as I tell you why. Because owning something that takes up a quarter of a parking space, while efficient, doesn’t give you the right to be a douchebag about it. Yes, I get it. You’re with it. You’re “green.” I’m black, like my heart.

So, in closing, please stop parking right up front. It’s not cool. You’re harshing my mellow. I promise to donate to any cause of your choosing if you give me the consideration of NOT taking one of the better parking spaces. I think we can agree to these conditions and continue to co-exist peacefully. That’s my goal, of course.

Failure to comply may result in an action for which I may not be held liable. This includes, but is not limited to, toilet papering your scooter, accidentally dropping an egg from my balcony onto the scooter, covering your seat in peanut butter, letting the air out of your tires (not flattening them … I’ll preserve your tires, just empty them) and leaving you passive-aggressive notes with Post-Its on your windshield.

Thanks for your consideration in this manner. We’re all in this community together. Let’s be friends.

Love,

Jacque Jo

oh, screw you, washington post

There are days like today that there’s just not enough duct tape to hold the pieces of my head together.

I absolutely, positively HATE the patronizing tone of this entire article.

Here’s something for major news outlets for your reporting down the road:

THIS KIND OF STORY IS NOT UNIQUE TO WEST VIRGINIA.

(This is also NOT UNIQUE in Kentucky, Alabama, Mississippi, Missouri, Kansas, Florida, Ohio, Virginia or about 41 other states.)

Let me do a little back reporting for you, guys. Two perfectly normal white guys (note: by saying “normal white guys” I’m not implying that black people are NOT normal or different or anything — I know you’re ready to jump on that) got WAXED in both 2000 and 2004. You know why? Voters basically got told the Democrats would take away their guns. (You don’t do that in a state like West Virginia. It’s also very bad to steal JoBoo’s rum.)

Here’s the thing you all don’t know, or you choose to ignore: West Virginia’s Democrats are largely Democrats in name only. The state (by and large) is controlled by various unions and special interest groups and all of that who throw the label “Democrat” on their candidate and tell you anybody Republican is just simply evil. Most labor unions in the state just encourage you to vote straight ticket and not even think about it. (This would be why about 40 percent of West Virginia’s House of Delegates is filled with absolute self-motivated morons who have no business being the representative of their cul-de-sac, much less many, many residents.)

West Virginia’s residents are conservative by nature, and yes, they do love their God and guns. The only reason Democrats got a free ride in this place was largely because of people being too uneducated to actually research the issues and vote with the candidate they choose. Now, would that have always been the Republican? No. It wouldn’t. I’ve never, ever voted a straight ticket in my life and I never will. (Such is the hell of the Libertarian.) What’s happening now isn’t racism. It’s just the state’s overall realization that, “Hey!! We don’t like those liberal hippie babykilling socialists.” (Note: This is 100 PERCENT NOT how I feel. I’m just paraphrasing.)

When I see stories like this, again, I just feel cheated. I feel like I’ve eaten this cereal all the way to the bottom of the box and they forgot the toy. Would I be lying to you if I said I know there are people in West Virginia who will vote for John McCain strictly because he’s white? No. There are plenty of them. Would I be lying to you if I said there weren’t West Virginians laboring under the delusion that Barack Obama is Muslim? No. Again, there are plenty of them.

But there are plenty of them in every state. And it gets so tiresome and overdone to be this country’s beaten-down red-headed stepchild and I don’t even live there anymore. I had to leave to find the kind of opportunity I wanted and I’m fine with that. It’s not the state’s fault that I felt it had nothing left to offer me. But it just gets under my skin to see the national media do these kinds of stories. We’re not your little novelty project.

(Exit soapbox, stage left.)

i’m just sayin’

When I find out which one of you gave my phone number to the crazy old person, I’m going to kill you without mercy. Today, the story ideas he gave me were the Italian Army near World War II (I think — I wasn’t listening as soon as I heard who it was) and why Westclox changed its name to Westclocks.

Oh, and it’s someone I know and you’re prank calling me, I’m going to break your kneecaps.

thanks, Mr. Metro Sneezer

Dear Man in Really Nice Suit with Leather Briefcase Who Got on the Metro Yesterday at Union Station,

I understand. You’re a busy man. I’m a busy girl, even though I don’t look it with my pale blue backpack, hippie messenger bag and iPod stuck to my head to drown out the collective sound of defeat around me. I understand that you had a lot of important paperwork to get done in your short ride to Farragut North, so I even forgave you for spreading out all over me to get this paperwork done. Chances are, you’re far more important (and make far more money) than I ever will be. Deadlines, pressures, clients. I’ve been there. I get it.

What I didn’t get? Why you didn’t cover your beak when you sneezed yesterday. Why you turned your head not toward the aisle, but toward me. Maybe it’s instinct. But I felt your germs blanket me like fog at the Golden Gate before 9 a.m.

And now, I’m paying for it. I feel disconnected. Light-headed. Throbby and achy. I’m on the cusp of a first-class sick, all because you hosed me with your own personal germ rinse. No amount of Bath and Body Works hand sanitizer was going to stop this. You, Man in Really Nice Suit with Leather Briefcase Who Got on the Metro Yesterday at Union Station, are Patient Zero. And now I’m Patient One.

I would tell you that I hope you’re paying for it as much as I am, but I can’t really afford to tempt Karma any more than I already have. I will just say I hope your office is as close to a CVS as mine is. And next time, please don’t sneeze on the person sitting beside you. It’s not cool, man.

Love,

Jacque Jo (sniff sniff … blahhhh)

quote of the day

“They always seem like good ideas till someone drops a deuce in the apple pie.”
— Sweet Ann

an open letter

Dear Guy Behind the Counter at Organic to Go at McPherson Square,

I realize that my box of vegetable-laden salad I just purchased weighed 1.3 pounds when you put it on the scale. By some standards, that would make me “a pig,” but in this case, I don’t think getting in more than the required daily servings of healthful, organic vegetables falls under that label. However, your muttering of “whoa!” when you saw what said healthful, organic, vegetable-laden salad weighed was more than enough to kick my self-esteem down another couple of notches and let me know that you, sir, believe that I spend my nights holed up in my closet sneak eating Ho Hos while crying and writing in my journal. This simply isn’t true.

(I mean, I do eat Ho Hos, but usually on the couch in front of everybody.)

Thanks for making me feel like Manuel Uribe. I can only hope that in a couple of more months, they’ll forklift me out of the house and put me on a flatbed truck to see what the neighborhood looks like.

Love,

Jacque

oh, here it goes again

How many of you remember the douchebag lawyer and judge in Washington who sued the dry cleaners for $67 million over a pair of pants?

Wisely, a judge sent him packing with a big, fat “fail” after it was determined that just because you have the money to sue doesn’t mean you have the ability to win. Oh, and you look like a giant wiener when you cry on the stand about PANTS.

That was last year. It’s nice to see it took at least 365 days before another douchebag lawyer decided to try his hand at the same lawsuit.

Charleston attorney sues over missing pants

J. Tapdancing. C.

(Here’s where I aptly point out, if you’ve clicked on the story link, that this lawyer has a standalone mustache, and you KNOW how I feel about standalone mustaches.)

Now, I’m not saying that you shouldn’t be able to have things “made right” if a dry cleaner loses your clothes. God knows I’ve had my share of unpleasant dry cleaning experiences. And, maybe, it’s just my nature to roll over and take it, but it never crossed my mind to call a lawyer to get the cash register of justice warmed up.

And people wonder why West Virginia’s a judicial hellhole? Yeah, you, Mr. Big Shot Lawyer at a Big Firm suing a mom-and-pop dry cleaner? You’re part of the problem. I hope you’re proud of yourself. Why the hell would anybody WANT to open a business in West Virginia if they’re going to be tied up in litigation over a freaking pair of pants. I’m willing to bet you’ve got more than enough to buy a new pair without batting an eye.

Principle? What’s that you say? The principle? Oh, yes, silly me. The principle of making someone pay for wronging you. I understand. And to an extent, I agree. I mean, I have to imagine this was as traumatic for you as someone, say, running over your child or shooting your cat. I know that when I can’t find my socks after I go to the laundromat, I really want to make those bastards pay. I wanna make those bastards pay up right!!

Remember … when you’re on the stand, cry. Oh, and if you get your head out of your ass and you want to spare yourself, and your state, some embarrassment, e-mail me. Link’s easy to find. I’ll buy you a new pair of pants. And you won’t even have to cry. And maybe on the way home, we can stop at McDonald’s. Just remember that you’re really allergic to cheese, so order a Quarter Pounder and make sure to NOT CHECK IT so we can sue them for about $15 million after you eat your cheeseburger in the dark.

It’s as American as …

My love of the 1980s is rather unfailing and unparalleled.

What’s more American than this song? Really? I would say Budweiser, but ooh, sorry … sorry.

Just add that to the list of things that are just going piss my father off when he gets sprung from the joint. (Note: In this case, I still do mean the hospital!)

We were on the air last night, but it wasn’t our best effort. Through very little fault of our own. A trip that should have taken 3.5 hours at the most stretched to five. By the time I got in the door, I wasn’t even in the right frame of mind to get in a groove. I was just tired with a brain of oatmeal. I’ve never been in a nearly-100 mile long traffic jam, so in many regards, that was a first that should be celebrated.

I just hope I don’t experience it again anytime soon.

Oh, and PepCo — suck it. To charge me $327 for just more than a month of electricity is wrong. You should burn in hell. There’s no way we’re using that much electricity (which leads me to believe there’s something gravely wrong with our thermostat). Even if we ran a full 50,000-watt tower off the deck to broadcast a radio signal, we’d use NOWHERE CLOSE TO THAT MUCH ELECTRICITY. It’s two humans who go to bed at 9 p.m. and two cats.

Growing up, my family of four, running every available TV and appliance in the house, never used that much electricity.

Maybe it’s not a coincidence I just got the “fill out your timesheets for your paycheck” e-mail. A small ray of good fortune!

Dear Nation’s Capital Tourist

Hey, there. I couldn’t help but notice your AAA guidebook, visor and fanny pack when you got on the train this morning. Welcome to Washington. There’s a lot to see and do here, but as someone who’s been a Metro commuter for all of 40 days, I feel like I could offer you some helpful advice.

Now, before you accuse me of being another elitist city-slicker, let me be up front with you. I’m a white bread cracker from Buttcrack, America. I was born — and raised — in a town of 6,000 people. There are more people ON THIS BLOCK in downtown DC than in my entire hometown.

But, I digress. That’s not what my letter to you is about.

Yesterday, at the end of another 10-hour day, I experienced the catalyst for this letter. I boarded my train at McPherson Square just before 6:30 p.m. All was quiet, even through the transfer at L’Enfant Plaza. Hell, my luck was so good yesterday I didn’t even wait for a train — it was waiting on me when I got to the upper platform.

A batch of your kind got on my train at Gallery Place. I call them “your kind” because in addition to parental fanny packs and the like, there were three children in tow. (Time out: Before anybody accuses me of hating children, I don’t. I love children. Especially well-behaved children.) These parents committed the first cardinal sin of letting their children sit nowhere near them. (Thanks. Thanks for that.) Secondly, it’s important to remember that at 6:45 p.m., almost everybody on the train is going home from work and almost everybody’s been at work 10 hours or more.

1. This would NOT be the appropriate place for a singing contest between the three children, but that’s what they did. The entire way to Greenbelt. Catterwalling song after song in a “Name That Tune” style of competition for 35 minutes. When the 12-year-old son decided that getting defeated by his younger sisters was unacceptable, he would scream “NEW GAME!!!! NEW GAME!!!” at the top of his lungs.

Here’s a helpful hint to parents: Nobody thinks your kids in a singing contest in an enclosed area is cute. Nobody.

At any rate, I didn’t appreciate the nasty look from Mom when I suggested Snowflake play “The Quiet Game.” Hey, he said he wanted a new game. I was helping.

2. Those green arrows on the Metro turnstiles are NOT just clever decoration. They mean, “Hey! You! Walk through ME.” No matter how many times you try to insert your Metro day pass in the “red” side, it won’t work.

3. Blocking the escalators — especially during rush hour — is bad form. You just piss commuters off that way. Especially if you’re carting around a roller bag.

4. Sidewalks are “common use” areas. Lots of people move around quickly and use them. Expanding your map to “poster size” and dead stopping is frowned upon.

5. Yes. It’s our right to charge you $2 for a bottle of water. Welcome to Washington.

This certainly isn’t an all-inclusive list, but it should get you through the holiday weekend pretty smoothly. I know you’ve not ventured far outside of Kenosha, but I never lived anywhere but West Virginia and I get it. Come ON … if someone from West Virginia can get it right off the bat, you certainly can.

Come back. Just stay out of my way at 8:30 a.m.

Love,
Jacque