open letters

Dear Olympics,
Are you trying to turn me into a sleep deprived, weeps-at-the-sight-of-athletes-moms sort of a person? If so, you are succeeding. I would hold this against you, maybe threaten not to watch you religiously but, it turns out I am incapable of resisting your charms. Also, Olympics? You need to get out of my head. On Saturday night, I seriously considered going for a late night jog only to glance at the clock and realize it was 12:41AM. There are so many things that are wrong about that last sentence, namely that I thought about going for a jog for fun. Ugh. I'm done talking to you, at least until 7:30PM when I'll plop myself on the couch and start making kissy faces at the T.V. See you then! Oh wait, I'm angry with you. I will see you then, maybe. - Sarah


Dear Michael Phelps,
Can you please move into my apartment and just walk around with your shirt off? Also, since I think lisps are ADORABLE, you should feel free to say things like "Schara, I jusht misshed you so much today." (sidebar: has no-one else noticed this in listening to his interviews? Does it take one reformed lisper to hear it in the voice of another?)

Back to the subject of YOU, Michael, in exchange for your shirtlessness I will make you waffles and promise not to get angry when you eat all my snacks. Because according to Bob Costas, in addition to being an athletic wunderkind, you are also a human trash compactor. I'm ok with that, but if you touch the Cool Whip, so help me Michael, I will be forced to require that you walk around in a Speedo. Xxxes and ohhhs - Sarah