Zugenia's Procrastination Salon

I present the text of the letter I just mailed to Bank of America:

Dear Bank of America,

I wish to close my checking and savings accounts, #------------, immediately. My decision not to bank with Bank of America any longer is due entirely to the bank’s policies of excessive overdraft fees and shady deposit timing. My online account information currently shows that I accrued two $35 fees yesterday because a couple charges posted more quickly than an electronic deposit, and another $35 fee pending as a direct result of the $70 in fees. This is not the first time I have been caught in this bank’s endless spiral of fees, but it will be the last. In the past I have spoken with customer service representatives on the phone who were able to credit bank fees back to me in exactly these circumstances. This time, I spoke with a representative who would not credit them back (I know she is required to say it is “not the bank’s policy,” but since I have received such courtesies in the past, I know “bank policy” is completely arbitrary), and who, in addition, suggested that the reason I accrued these fees is because I am not intelligent enough to count. I suppose I’ve put up with being screwed by your company in the past, but I will not be both screwed and insulted. I am done with you.

I want you to close my account and send me written confirmation, as well as a check for any remaining funds. I will not come in to do this in person as I have absolutely no desire to have any association with your company whatsoever. I am forwarding this letter to both my local branch and the national headquarters. If you wish to communicate with me on this matter, I will put you in touch with my lawyer.

Sincerely,
Lady Z

In addition to my $105, they owe me a goddamn afternoon.

Dear Whoever's In Charge,

I would like to discuss the awkward position in which you have placed me as an educator and scholar of American ethnic literature. Specifically, I would like to know whose idea it was to adopt the term "tossed salad" to describe a certain recreational activity, and why you allowed this coinage to catch on. This was a bad decision for several reasons. First of all, it doesn't make any sense. That particular phenomenon in no way resembles a "tossed salad" from any possible perspective. A tossed salad is leafy and crisp and doused in vinaigrette or possibly ranch dressing. Sometimes you find a cherry tomato or a crouton. The so-called "tossed salad" involves none of these things. Or maybe it does, and I'm aging myself by not being able to imagine how this is possible. If that is the case, I prefer to be ignorant.

Okay, I can imagine how vinaigrette or possibly ranch dressing might be involved, but like I said, I'd really rather not.

Secondly, and more importantly for my professional purposes, by allowing this term currency in the contemporary American lexicon, you have enabled the occurrance of such scenes as the following in my daily life.

Setting: My Asian American Literature class

[The class is discussing R. Zamora Linmark's Rolling the R's, which, incidentally, is a totally fantastic book that everyone should read. A student refers to a moment in the text that counters the image of America as a "melting pot" with the image of Hawai'i as a "volcano." I move to the chalkboard to offer a visual representation of how the volcano inverts and upsets the melting pot.]

Me: Now, you may recall that earlier in the semester we discussed the concept of the "melting pot" as a model of American diversity, and some of the critiques of that model.

Students: [Blank, somewhat sleepy stares.]

Me: For example, some proponents of multiculturalism in the late 20th century suggested that America was less of a "melting pot" than a "tossed salad." Which, unfortunately, is also the term for a certain other thing, which is dirty, so I won't explicate. But that's not what I'm talking about.

Students: [Big, wide-eyed, very awake stares.]

Me: What? You do know what a "tossed salad" is, right?

Students: [A few weak, frightened nods. Mostly more staring.]

Me: Good, because I'm not going to tell you. That's not my job.

Student: Is this really happening?

Me: Apparently it is. Look, I just want you to know that I know what is coming out of my mouth. It's not my fault. Now, back to the issue. First there was the "melting pot," then then there was the "tossed salad."

Student: You're not going to draw that, are you?

Me: No.

So no, it's not my fault, it's your fault that this is the kind of thing that happens to me when I'm simply trying to educate the youth. And, frankly, I would like to know how you're going to make it up to me.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,
Lady Z

Dear iTunes Music Store,

If someone had asked me, at any point until this evening, if I would pay my hard-earned money to watch the same crappy network programs I can watch for free on TV—would I, in other words, pay actual money for the freedom to watch (on my computer, whenever I want) shows that I don't really want to watch (anywhere, ever)—I would have said no. Clearly, you knew this was not true, which is why you now sell crappy network programs for $1.99 a pop on the internet. You have ruined my life and stripped me of the last vestiges of my self-respect.

Sincerely,
Lady Z

P.S. Please get CSI.

Dear Leukemia and Lymphoma Society,

I write to ask you to reconsider the name of your upcoming Leukemia Cup Regatta. It sounds like a fun event, all lobster and sailing, very New England, and undoubtedly for a more than worthy cause. But there is something deeply disturbing about the idea of winning a "Leukemia Cup." It is inadvertently gross in its odd conjunction of the festive and the cancerous. It's like, Hey, I won a ... Leukemia Cup. Ew. I admit, I had a little too much to drink last night (I recently finished my Ph.D., you see) and it's been a deathly humid 98 degrees in my apartment for the last several days, so my distress this morning wasn't entirely the fault of the Leukemia Cup Regatta ad I saw on tv, but it was certainly a contributing factor.

Now that I think about it, you might consider renaming your society as well. You might recruit more members, which I support.

Keep up the good work, and happy sailing.

Sincerely,
Lady Z

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Dear Guy Who Hit on Me at the Graduate Center Bar Last Night,

This letter is not to apologize for swiftly leaving the premises after you excused yourself to have a cigarette even though my nod to your "I'll be right back" might have implied that I would still be there when you returned. I am not sorry because you are a little too slick and masculine for my taste, and I believe I left you plenty of time to find another lady to chat up, perhaps even one whose boyfriend was not sitting at the table with her while you did so. Actually, I write to let you know that I was really quite struck by your little conversational maneuver, in which you made a big show of knowing nothing about eighteenth-century British literature, presumably to make me feel really smart and well-educated, as if my writing a dissertation on the subject wouldn't make me feel smart and educated enough, and then whipped out the big "The eighteenth-century was the age of the epistolary novel, was it not?" Now, there was no chance that this move was going to get you into my pants, and I don't mean to suggest that it could, but it did leave me wondering all night and into the morning whether you've been carrying around the term "epistolary" since college, waiting to run into a woman in a bar who works on eighteenth-century literature, and now that you have, if you feel proud of your preparedness. I do not mean to be snide. In fact, I am quite impressed by your prescience. It just doesn't get me horny.

Better luck next time,
Lady Z

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Dear The Killers,

I think your song "Somebody Told Me" totally rocks, even though it was something of a hipster anthem when it hit the airwaves, and now it's the kind of thing hipsters claim not to like anymore, like The Strokes or the Green Party, so they look like they're living in the moment, and because they're so lame they never have any idea what's cool at all, even when they accidentally become fans of something that really is cool, like your song. Am I making myself clear? I had a little too much to drink last night. But your song just came on and it was awesome. I just wanted to let you know.

Rock on,
Lady Z

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Dear Brain,

I'm a little sorry that when you urged me to go home last night in the haze of a pleasant and not unhealthy buzz, I ignored you and insisted on stopping at Andrea's for a last round (or two) of Johnny Walker. But the thing is, I'll only finish a dissertation once in my life, so this was kind of a special occasion. I won't make a habit of it.

I understand that, given past examples of my behavior, you have little reason to believe that last statement. But you know what? Unless you can devise a way of transplanting yourself into a holier vessel than I, you're stuck with me, so you might as well get used to it. I've been letting you run the show practically all summer, with all your "eighteenth-century literature this" and "eighteenth-century literature that," and, frankly, it was about time you got doused in a bit of warm scotch. So I'm not really very sorry after all.

Please don't hold this against me. I'm going to need your services again starting tomorrow.

Love,
Me

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Dear Weather,

You are the suckiest suck that ever sucked. I hate you.

Lady Z