GIULIANNA LALOMIO
Chief Copy Editor
Dearest Samantha,
I write to you expressing the never-ending difficulties of living with the opposite gender.
I, of course, refer to sharing a space with my wonderful, yet frustratingly very man, boyfriend. Yes, there is a larger underlying problem that I am getting to, but I must not leave a word unsaid. I willingly choose to be with a man despite the possibilities that many women wonder about the easier existence that comes with choosing a woman. Women understand women. They have similar habits, similar thought processes, and far, far less hair.
Although my own hair has clogged many a drain and left so many expressions of art on the shower wall, the shedding of a man’s hair is something that should be studied nearly as much as finding the cure for cancer. In addition to the never-ending season of the shedding dog, one more thing must be understood. Why on earth can a woman step out of the shower, dry off, and walk to her changing area all without a drop of water hitting the floor?
My boyfriend, we shall call him Kristoff, steps out of the shower and, before he has time to even think about reaching for the towel, has already soaked through the bath mat. Then, after “drying off,” he leaves a trail of massive wet prints all the way to the dresser. These puddles are unfathomably large, and I have fallen prey to their slippery ways more times than I can count on a hand. Alas, this letter isn’t simply a blank page for me to spill my frustrations onto. Well, I suppose it actually is. Yet, we haven’t even gotten to the big potatoes of the issue at hand: the Towel War.
After a year and a half of living with Kristoff—yes, believe me, I know, quite scandalous—I have been unable to rid him of one of the most awful bad habits: utilizing my towel. I cannot even begin to explain the rage. Therefore, the best solution I can think of sounds quite fun. Though I am a lady, I do resort to violence when my words don’t cut as deep as a sword. I could beat him with my slipper the next time I see an appalling black hair on my perfectly clean towel. Goodness knows I have to deal with enough of his beard hairs in the sink and the trail of his short, crescent-shaped hairs leading into and out of the shower. Plus, besides the hair, my beautiful towel goes from smelling of roses and sunshine to Degree deodorant and wet dog. If you want to see me in a sour mood, drench my towel and give me no other options on the towel bar. Beating him with a slipper does sound effective, as violence typically is, and along with some shrill shrieking and perhaps a few vulgar words it could be effective; alas, I doubt my frustrations will make it through his selective hearing. Oh! Maybe I could find some kind of itch powder…
Another solution to this rather sour pickle could be a bit simpler. I suppose for his sake he would appreciate that no violence would be required—phooey—but some spare change would. Perhaps I could go to the store and buy pink and blue towels since one of his arguments is, “I thought yours was the girly one.” Now, when he comes up with this excuse, I have to bite my tongue. Allow me to paint a picture. We collectively have a white towel, a green towel, a blue towel, two gray towels, a white towel with red stripes, and a checkered towel with white, orange, and red squares. Now, since I know you have a reasonable mind, which towels would you consider to be most appealing to a woman? Exactly! Whichever one is clean. I rarely have the luxury of a full drawer of fresh towels because it is uncommon for all of our laundry to be clean. Not that I’m pointing fingers. Gracious me. I’m just saying, there is no situation in which I would risk having to fend off rodents or bats in the revolting basement just so that I might have a clean sock. This could all be solved if I donated our mismatched array of towels and, as I mentioned, purchased two colors. I cannot see this solution being unsuccessful in any way, yet I’m not sure I want to spend my life savings on some threadbare Mainstays or two of Martha Stewart’s “everyday soft” for forty dollars. With that, it seems that violence and over-consumerism aren’t the choice for me.
That leaves us with my one last brilliant idea. My favorite store for buying anything at a reasonable price. The One Dollar and Twenty-Five Cent Tree. Inflation has awarded me with exciting new names for all of the stores in my village. Shop-n’-Save? Try Shop-n’-Rob. Tops, Friendly Markets? More like Shots, Unfriendly Markets, because after seeing my receipt, I wish I could afford to become an alcoholic. Although the Dollar Tree has a very deceiving name, just like Five Below, it has the items I need for my most practical, non-violent, and affordable option. Removable letter wall stickers. I could not give a rat’s behind if they shimmer and are shaped like My Little Pony butts; they would solve all of my problems. If I stuck our initials on the wall above the towel bar, poof, the towel wars would end. And they say women aren’t fit to be president because they’d be starting hormonal wars. I shall bring this idea to Kristoff and see what he thinks of my magnificent plan. I do believe he may appreciate not getting bruised by a slipper or becoming broke on new towels.
Well, I dare say this letter became far too long-winded, and I barely have enough room to give you a good final closing to this catastrophe. I do sincerely hope you never move in with a man, or if you do, please see to it that you marry him first. They are much easier to persuade then. Divorce and all. With that, dearest Samantha, I bid you a wonderful week, and may all of your towels be dry and smell like laundry soap. I’m so glad I found a perfect solution to the towel wars. Perhaps I should start keeping track of all the ridiculous rants I go on; it might make a good short story one day.
All my love,
Anna