To Whom it May Concern (Part Deux)

To the French Guy Sitting Across From Me at Starbucks:

Hi. I don't know you, and you don't know me, which is why I think it was very cool of you to motion me and my brother over to your table and offer us a seat last Sunday, seeing as how all the other tables in the establishment were taken and pretty much filled, and all we could do was sort of stand around with our trays, looking like lost 4-year-olds as we impatiently waited for our (very late) cousin to show up.

So down we sat. You went about sipping your latte, chatting on the phone to your French friend about meeting up later at Baiyoke to check out the BKK skyline while I went about picking up my fork and knife, ready to dig into my chocolate croissant. All was great! All was grand! Bon appetite and all that.

Until I went and began wrestling with my croissant, that is. And the word wrestle is so very apropos here, seeing as how it took a great deal of atrophied muscle to tear apart a nice bite-sized piece, only to watch in abject horror as a huge chunk of it went flying.

Yah, flying. As in across the table and ONTO YOUR LAP.

But you were very nice about it. So, so nice. All you did was pluck it off your lap, drop it onto the table, smile, and carry on with your conversation en Francais AS IF NOTHING HAD HAPPENED AT ALL.

Someone else also acted like nothing had happened, opting instead to feign keen interest in his caramel frappacino and stare at me all confused, as though he'd never seen me before in his entire life even though we share the same last name, not to mention a lot of the same genetic DNA. Pfft.

You have no idea how grateful I am for this; how grateful I am that you didn't laugh at the way my face was heating up like Thailand during an April heat wave, or the way I was trying to frantically brush the stray croissant crumbs aside as if by doing so could hide the fact that I'd just sent a huge chunk of croissant FLYING ACROSS THE TABLE AND ONTO YOUR LAP.

So, thanks. I know I used to moan and bitch about all things Francais in high school, but I totally take it back now. Vraiment, mon ami. J'aime la France!!!

And by the way, in the future, when it comes to Starbucks, I am seriously sticking to the java and staying away from the chocolate croissants from now on. I've stomached a few dry croissants in my time, but AIRBORNE ones, too?

NOT FOR ME, merci beaucoup.

Gratefully yours,
Lynn

~*~
To Ajahn ******:

Please know that it wasn't you your students were laughing at in class today. On the contrary, it was your audio-visuals.

You see, I understand that audio-visuals are very important to the entire learning process and all, but you honestly didn't think 80 not-quite-fully-mature-even-though-we-totally-think-we-are students would be able to watch an animation of an ejaculating penis without laughing just a little, did you?

Oh.

You did?

Whoops.

We did try to focus on what you were saying -- really, we did -- but as mature as we'd like to think we are, you pretty much lost us as after the twenty-third loop of the, um, animated member. I was never very good at geometry, but even I know that the angle on that thing was, well, pretty impressive. Not to mention energetic. I know it was all the good work of pixels and graphics, but it looked more like the work of some digital Viagra. Tee hee.

Still, about the audio-visuls? Yeah, we totally appreciate the sentiment. Really, we do.

But you might want to reconsider the animated penis for next year's class. That is, if you don't want to spend a good ten minutes trying to get everyone to stop laughing.

Just a thought.

Sincerely yours,
Lynn

~*~
To My Mom's Friend:

I know you're addicted to plastic surgery, you having been a former Miss Thailand runner-up way -- and I mean WAAAAY -- back in the day, but there really is a point when enough is enough.

What point would that be, you ask? Well, when you start to resemble the love child of Michael Jackson and Joan Rivers, well, then that's pretty much when you know you have to step away from the operating table lest you be forced to wear a mask and live out the rest of your days in the sewers of the Opera Populaire a la a much beloved Phantom.

And I'll have you know I'm not kidding about that part about the mask. I mean, I really don't think it was all that big of a coincidence that you and my mom's friend's 1-year-old daughter started crying when she saw you. All the adults quickly dismissed this as moodiness and crankiness...

But I knew the truth.

I knew why she was REALLY crying.

You might have been holding her oh so gently in your tender and very loving arms, but dude, it really doesn't matter. Because, I mean, the face? It's so got to go. Kids are very much in touch with their primordial fight-or-flight instinct; the very same instinct that saved our cavemen and cavewomen ancestors from fates worse than death many a century ago. And that kid's instinct? It was telling her to flee. Oh boy, was it telling her to flee. AS FAST AS HER LITTLE LEGS COULD CARRY HER.

But as bad as your rampant plastic surgery is, I have to say my biggest concern involves your headgear. Basically, GET RID OF THE HAT. Yeah, I'm talking about that huge straw hat you were wearing, complete with gauze veil and rainbow-assorted carnations and daisies. I seriously could not believe my eyes. I mean, that might be nice and very fitting for a day at Ascot, but for an 8 PM DINNER AT THE SHERATON???? I mean, what is UP with that?

Because that's just pretty f*cking ridiculous. Not to mention hilarious. You really can't blame the waiter for snickering while taking our order.

Concernedly yours,
Lynn

~*~
To Boyd Kosiyabong:

Wow. Just WOW.

Had I had prior notice that your daughter attended my brother's school, I never would have gawked at you yesterday. Honest. And had I been wearing my glasses -- something that will never happen, since I never wear my glasses outside the house, classroom, or cinema -- I also swear I never would have squinted at you, as if to verify that, wait a minute, did I just see what I THOUGHT I saw???

Because it's not everyday you spot a famous and talented musician while waiting to pick up your brother from drama practice -- NOT, of course, to be mistaken with the plethora of Thai boy band and girl band members who used to attend my high school, and whose musical "talent" I always thought was just slightly suspect.

But besides the squinting and slight gawking, you want to know the really sad thing?

Here it is: it wasn't even you I recognized at first.

No.

It was your daughter.

I remembered her from this.

Guiltily yours,
Lynn

~*~
To the Politician Who Sat at the Same Table as Us at My Parents' Friend's Daughter's Wedding:

I know you think you're the greatest thing since Julius Caesar, but you want to know the truth?

You aren't. You really, really aren't.

Here's a thought: Maybe, instead of bitching and ratting about other politicians behind their backs for the entire duration of the evening, you could suck it up, roll up your sleeves, and ACTUALLY WORK FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE. You know, for the sake of your country and all.

Just a thought.

Oh, and can you PLEASE tell your wife that she really didn't have to freak out and go all Mariah-Carey-on-the-verge-of-breakdown psycho when that waitress accidentally dropped some water on her Balenciaga bag? I mean, really. It was WATER. Not hydrogen peroxide. Although, now that I think about it, hydrogen peroxide wouldn't have been so bad after all...

Besides, it's not like Wifey ever uses her handbags more than once. God forbid she be seen using the same handbag more than once.

Oh, and another thing -- Khun Ying Balenciaga really didn't have to puff up and gloat about the new Chloe Paddington bag she purchased during her recent trip to London. I mean, PLEASE. Big freaking deal. They'll be all over Siam Square by next week.

Selling for a fraction of the price your wife got hers and looking JUST AS GOOD.

HAH.

Smugly yours,
Lynn
~*~
To Jennifer Aniston:

I told myself I wouldn't get sucked into the whole Brangelina hoopla -- me being a serious pop culture addict in need of some serious pop culture therapy -- but I really couldn't help it...

Especially when I heard the latest news about Angelina Jolie being pregnant with your ex-husband's baby!!!!

I was appalled. SHOCKED and APPALLED.

Actually, that's not true. Not true at all, because I so knew that Brad -- a TOTAL rat, even though he was pretty hot in Troy, Legends of the Fall, Meet Joe Black, and, well, OK, pretty much everything else he's ever starred in his entire LIFE -- and Angelina's relationship was anything BUT platonic the second I heard about your separation nearly a year ago. I mean, could he be any more of a rat? Everything from the scandalous W magazine photo shoot last summer to the recent adoption of Angelina's children has just been absolutely heartless. HEARTLESS and CRUEL.

But if it serves as consolation, I want you to know that I personally think Jolie-Pitt is a pretty unfortunate-sounding surname. I mean, Aniston-Pitt sounds so much cooler, don't you think? Yeah, I thought so, too. Plus, no amount of Tomb Raider could ever hold a candle to the awesomeness that was Friends. NONE. I am so on your side, Jen. Really.

I guess all I have left to say is...

Team Aniston For Life!!!

Loyally yours,
Lynn

~*~
Currently Playing: Feel Good Inc by Gorillaz. This song was stuck in my head all day, so imagine how happy I was when it suddenly played on the radio this evening while driving home from class. Don't you love it when that happens?

Currently Reading: The Superficial. I told you I'm a chronic pop culture sufferer. Maybe this makes me shallow, maybe this makes me superficial. I don't care. Take away my Hollywood scandal and I suffer serious withdrawal symptoms.