Dear United States of America,
While I was living in Mexico, you wooed me back to your shores with promises of safety, prosperity, and never-ending Nutter Butters. While you’ve followed through on the safety and prosperity bit (and yes, the never-ending NBs), there are a few smaller promises that I don’t feel you’ve fulfilled.
*Unceasing power!” you bragged.
“High-speed internet, right at your fingertips!” you gloated.
“No critters!” you exclaimed.
Well, I’m here to tell you that these promises have fallen short of my expectations.
During my first week of work I was up late reading when suddenly ZOOMF! The power went out. (Yes, that’s the sound the power makes when it goes out. Don’t question it.) I was sitting in the cinder-block basement putting phone numbers into my cell phone when the house plummeted into darkness. And thank god, because if the phone hadn’t been in my hand I might still be trapped down there.
In Mexico the power went out regularly, but at least it came back within an hour (assuming it was a technical problem and not a lack of paying the bill) but YOU, USA, you made us wait almost an entire DAY before the power went on. Unacceptable.
Same with the high-speed internet. I used to dream of the day when I returned to the US and could play Bejeweled at the speed at which it was intended–I mean, of the day when my searches for important and time-sensitive articles zipped through the intertubes at speeds that send your heartrate zinging. Yeah, that. Within a week of losing power for an ENTIRE DAY, our internet (and phone) connection was cut–also for an entire day. What’s with that?
And finally, the critters. I’d grown accustomed to opening my cupboards with trepidation, never knowing when a two-inch cockroach might land on my head (or arms, or feet, or food that I’d just prepared and was sitting on the counter). Chasing jumping spiders and squashing ants with my fingers had become part of my daily routine, but I never expected I’d need those skills in the land of plenty.
The basement where I’m residing is filled–FILLED!–with scary spiders that blend into the wall so I think they’re holes. Just when I convince myself that the holes aren’t out to get me, they race across the floor at mach speed (or pretty damn close) their beady eyes focused on my extremities. I have a hard time squishing things that might leave a mark (ants are hollow inside so they don’t count) so this constant barrage of crunchy, gooey things needs to stop. (My dad would also like to add his two cents here as he doesn’t appreciate being dragged into the basement to kill the spiders I trap with shoe box lids and save for him. Also , it’s his birthday today so this would be a lovely gift.)
In closing, I believe my stay here in your land of spacious skies would be more satisfying if you could please follow through on your promises so that my greatest concern is what CD to listen to while cruising past your amber waves of grain.
*Please, for the love of all that is good in the land of fruited plains, understand that I’m teasing. But I really would appreciate it if someone could do something about these spiders.