Please Resolve to Stop Annoying Me
This year I’m not making New Years resolutions for myself. Instead, I’ve decided to make resolutions for perpetually annoying people who bother the living Ryan Seacrest out of me. From my kids to the self-absorbed lady at the hair salon, ya’ll need to shape up.
To my acquaintances: No more Christmas cards with brag letters about your European exploits, about following your hunch on an archaeological dig in the Mediterranean and discovering Noah’s Ark, or mission trips to develop sustainable farming techniques in Cabo. And you even met Bob Barker? M’kay.
To cosmetic companies: Don’t change the name of your make-up every three months. When I have two minutes to run into Walgreens for “Surfin’ with Sandy Cheeks” blush, I want to be able to find that particular hue blindfolded for the rest of my life. Those senior execs in the big corner offices couldn’t comprehend the height of my consumer loyalty if I could find what I needed in ten seconds and have ”me” time to peruse “Celebrity Sluts” magazine.
To car dealerships: Stop breaking stuff on my car when I bring it in for unrelated issues. The blinkers started coming on randomly after I took it in for an oil leak. And of course, now the gas tank door won’t pop open because I got a new tire.
To my kids: Stop Instagramming pictures of our family on vacation so all the criminals know we are out of town. Get OFF your phone! And please refrain from telling dad everything I ask you not to.
To the obnoxious lady in the hair salon: Stop bellowing about how you’re going to have bunion surgery. “I won’t be able to walk and my daughter will have to go buy my Virginia Slims, but she’ll probably get the wrong brand because nobody cares about MY needs.” That’s usually the point at which I pull out my flask disguised as a 20-ounce coffee cup which says, “Don’t ask me what’s in my cup and I won’t spread a nasty rumor about your STD.”
To the Austin Powers-looking kiosk barkers at the mall: Do not shag, I mean snag, unsuspecting women, wrap aromatherapy hot pockets around their necks, and massage their shoulders like serial-creepers. If I want a stranger’s hands on me, I’ll pay for it, thank you.
To teachers at kids’ dance studios: Don’t skankify six-year-olds with booty call recital costumes designed by Lady Gaga. Think “Hairspray,” not “Lil’ Hootchie Ho’-down.”
To my “Exercise” friends: Please don’t tout on Facebook that you competed in your tenth Iron Man triathlon and won the age bracket below yours. I could brag that, through sheer will and determination, I’ve gone 22 days without eating a whole bag of Cheetos at one sitting, but I don’t scream that all over Facebook.
I’m getting into this, ya’ll. Now I think I’ll shoot an email with some suggestions for New Years resolutions to Ryan Seacrest.