Three Minutes To Becoming A Dumber You
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Published on Monday, January 29, 2007 at 10:00 AM. 
Lindsay: "Your cologne smells like fresh dirt."
Coworker: "What?" Sniffs himself.
Lindsay: "Dirt. Like, fresh earth. And maybe corn on the cob."
Coworker: "It does not!"
Lindsay: "Yes, it really does. It's not a bad smell. But it really does smell a lot like an ear of corn that has just had its husks removed."
Coworker: "What are you talking about?" Lengthy discussion about corn on the cob ensues. Coworker admits to being unclear as to what constitutes corn on the cob. Discussion ends. "I still don't think it smells anything like corn."
Lindsay: "Obviously, you're not well-acquainted with the smell of freshly shucked corn."
Coworker: "What?" Sniffs himself.
Lindsay: "Dirt. Like, fresh earth. And maybe corn on the cob."
Coworker: "It does not!"
Lindsay: "Yes, it really does. It's not a bad smell. But it really does smell a lot like an ear of corn that has just had its husks removed."
Coworker: "What are you talking about?" Lengthy discussion about corn on the cob ensues. Coworker admits to being unclear as to what constitutes corn on the cob. Discussion ends. "I still don't think it smells anything like corn."
Lindsay: "Obviously, you're not well-acquainted with the smell of freshly shucked corn."
The Landlord had some dental work done last Tuesday, and it was apparently causing him a bit of discomfort yesterday while at work. He was discussing the pain with a coworker, who responded by asking, "Do you believe in the healing power of Jesus Christ? Because if you do, I'll say a prayer for you tonight."
Ever the diplomat, The Landlord thanked her kindly. She then asked if perhaps he had time right then to say a prayer.
"Well," he began, "I'm kind of busy right now. And also, I hope that God has some bigger fucking issues on his plate than my teeth."
Okay, so he didn't say the last part. But he said it to me in the retelling, and insisted that I include it verbatim in this story. I think God will be angry with The Landlord though, and will smite him by causing all of his teeth to fall out. Which is fine by me, because I believe in the healing power of laughter.
Ever the diplomat, The Landlord thanked her kindly. She then asked if perhaps he had time right then to say a prayer.
"Well," he began, "I'm kind of busy right now. And also, I hope that God has some bigger fucking issues on his plate than my teeth."
Okay, so he didn't say the last part. But he said it to me in the retelling, and insisted that I include it verbatim in this story. I think God will be angry with The Landlord though, and will smite him by causing all of his teeth to fall out. Which is fine by me, because I believe in the healing power of laughter.
We are a small company. There are fewer than ten of us in the office, which means that the addition of my presence last month should have been somewhat noticeable. I see you at least every other day, we've sat in a luncheon together, and been introduced twice.
I think you should know who I am.
But for some reason, you don't. When you see me around work, you get a blank look on your face, as if I'm perhaps just stopping by to sell something. I get the impression that if we were alone together in the office at night, you'd call security because you thought I was an unauthorized intruder.
As a result, I have been drinking the cans of Diet Mountain Dew that you keep in the office refrigerator. I generally prefer my Diet Mountain Dew in bottles because I think it tastes better, but the added sweetness of stealing your sodas more than compensates. I hope you don't mind, but even if you do, I'm not concerned. You'll never suspect me. After all, you'd have to know my name for that and, well, we both know where you stand on that one.
Cheers,
Lindsay
I think you should know who I am.
But for some reason, you don't. When you see me around work, you get a blank look on your face, as if I'm perhaps just stopping by to sell something. I get the impression that if we were alone together in the office at night, you'd call security because you thought I was an unauthorized intruder.
As a result, I have been drinking the cans of Diet Mountain Dew that you keep in the office refrigerator. I generally prefer my Diet Mountain Dew in bottles because I think it tastes better, but the added sweetness of stealing your sodas more than compensates. I hope you don't mind, but even if you do, I'm not concerned. You'll never suspect me. After all, you'd have to know my name for that and, well, we both know where you stand on that one.
Cheers,
Lindsay
After a stressful day yesterday, the Landlord, Matty, and I gathered around the fireplace to relax and burn the Landlord's piles of old, unopened mail. The fire was a welcome addition to our normally freezing basement, and it was great to sit back and enjoy the night as the fake credit cards, plasticized promotional mailers, and glossy envelope inserts burned brightly. While the peaceful stupor that overcame me may have actually been a reaction to the toxic fumes, I'm not going to complain. I'll take my happiness anyway I can get it.
A typical workday is four hundred and eighty minutes long. However, for the sake of being reasonable, we can say that the average window of time during which employees would arrive at work each morning is one hundred and twenty minutes. The wait for an elevator in my building is roughly one minute. That means I have an estimated 0.83% chance of riding the elevator at the same time as one of my bosses in the morning.
So with odds like these, can somebody please explain why I repeatedly find myself trapped in the elevator with my boss as I'm coming in late to work? It never happens when I'm on time. It never happens when I'm carrying a stack of important documents. It only happens when I am running at least thirty minutes late and visibly toting my recently purchased Starbucks (although that is actually almost every day of the week). There is nothing as painful as dashing into the elevator with proof that I made a stop on the way in despite my tardiness, only to discover my boss waiting stoically in the corner. The only thing that makes it more enjoyable is if the doors try to close on me, or if I've remembered to bring my enormous "FIRE ME, I'M A SLACKER" sign.
Before you argue that my boss was late obviously late as well and therefore should be understanding, let me point out that I work for a small company, so when I say "boss" I really mean one of the two women who own the company. Their tardiness does not count - they could show up at noon, wearing flannel duck pajamas and waving forties, and I wouldn't be able to say anything. Except maybe to ask for a sip.
The obvious answer is that I could just start getting to work on time and avoid this situation entirely, but let's be realistic here. If there's one thing at which I consistently excel, it's being late. Let's not mess with perfection.
So with odds like these, can somebody please explain why I repeatedly find myself trapped in the elevator with my boss as I'm coming in late to work? It never happens when I'm on time. It never happens when I'm carrying a stack of important documents. It only happens when I am running at least thirty minutes late and visibly toting my recently purchased Starbucks (although that is actually almost every day of the week). There is nothing as painful as dashing into the elevator with proof that I made a stop on the way in despite my tardiness, only to discover my boss waiting stoically in the corner. The only thing that makes it more enjoyable is if the doors try to close on me, or if I've remembered to bring my enormous "FIRE ME, I'M A SLACKER" sign.
Before you argue that my boss was late obviously late as well and therefore should be understanding, let me point out that I work for a small company, so when I say "boss" I really mean one of the two women who own the company. Their tardiness does not count - they could show up at noon, wearing flannel duck pajamas and waving forties, and I wouldn't be able to say anything. Except maybe to ask for a sip.
The obvious answer is that I could just start getting to work on time and avoid this situation entirely, but let's be realistic here. If there's one thing at which I consistently excel, it's being late. Let's not mess with perfection.
It actually doesn't look that different in this picture; I think the darkness of my
After three hours of work, three different treatment processes, $140 worth of services (including tip), and $42 worth of new shampoo and conditioner, the best my two male roommates could say is, "Did you get a haircut or something?"
And that was after I shouted, "Look at my damn head! SOMETHING IS DIFFERENT."
In case you're wondering (and I'm certain the suspense is practically killing you), I went from Marilyn Manson With Carrot Top Roots to My, Doesn't Your Hair Look Naturally Sun-Streaked (If You Live On Mercury). I'll post pictures at some point.
And that was after I shouted, "Look at my damn head! SOMETHING IS DIFFERENT."
In case you're wondering (and I'm certain the suspense is practically killing you), I went from Marilyn Manson With Carrot Top Roots to My, Doesn't Your Hair Look Naturally Sun-Streaked (If You Live On Mercury). I'll post pictures at some point.
And the iron fist of justice rests again.
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Published on Monday, January 15, 2007 at 11:36 AM.
My mother picked me up from work last Friday and drove with me to Philadelphia for the weekend. While we did plan to spend time shopping, bonding, and wandering around the city, my foremost reason for this trip was that silly little trespassing charge I'd mentioned back in October. (Oops.) In order to have that charge dismissed and expunged entirely, I had to attend a three hour behavior class on Saturday morning.
The class was more fun than I could ever have imagined. There were probably about two hundred other scholars in attendance, and I believe that at least 80% of them were probably Harvard graduates or at least Yale alums. Most of my classmates seemed to have a minimal understanding of hygiene, as evidenced by the odor in the room that left me wondering if I was at risk for some rare form of lung cancer, but they were probably just too busy worrying about astrophysics or organic chemistry to remember to wash regularly. My favorite comrade was the gentleman seated behind me who bounced his leg up and down for almost an hour, causing his synthetic leather sneakers to squeak squeak squeak until I nearly lost my mind. You like making that fun sound? That's great; I like burning your leg off with a blow torch.
The class was led by a woman who was definitely a dictator in a previous life, and who began the lecture by screaming, "Okay, stop talking now, take your hats off, and sit up shtraight. Sit up shtraight! THAT MEANS YOU, YES, YOU! SIT UP SHTRAIGHT!" Funny, I'd never noticed the "h" at the beginning of straight, but thank goodness she set me shtraight.
The entirety of the class was spent listening to her ramble about crimes, behavior, drugs, and punishments. Some of what she said was actually interesting and compelling, but she repeated every major point at least fifteen times, leaving me to start imagining ways I could die of disinterest right in my chair without her noticing and ejecting me without a refund. My favorite line of the class was when she showed us horrifically unattractive mug shots of a woman and said, "When this woman was little, I'll bet she never said that she wanted to grow up to be a crack ho." Don't speak so soon, lady, some of us like to dream big.
Fortunately the class ended early, although not before concluding with a speech about the importance of getting one's GED. The lesson I took from the whole experience is that if I'm going to trespass defiantly, I should probably do so in an area where the average criminal bathes more frequently. I'd just like to end with a little note to the officers at the jail who mocked me ceaselessly for being concerned about the sanitary status of the squad car and my cell. For your information, the teacher of my class said the reason she wouldn't want to go to jail is because it is filthy and they never clean the payphones there. See? I was right to be concerned. And here you thought I should have been more concerned about being a criminal.
The class, however, was only one small part of an otherwise excellent weekend. My mother and I tried two delicious restaurants, hiked around the city despite the constant drizzle, and shopped in a variety of eclectic stores. We also saw "Hurricane On The Bayou" at the IMAX theater, an absolutely phenomenal show with breathtaking effects. It was quite possibly the most amazing IMAX I've ever seen, and was only improved by the fact that during the dramatic scenes featuring footage of raging Hurricane Katrina, my mother let out a vociferous snore and notified everyone nearby that she was sound asleep.
We also did a bit of sightseeing. My mother is the type who likes to experience the culture of a city by visiting museums and shows, so I suggested a visit to the famous Mutter Museum of medical oddities. Who needs stuffy art galleries when you can see distended colons, wax models of syphilis chancres, and conjoined twin fetuses floating in preserving fluids? I highly suggest you plan a visit if given the opportunity, although perhaps not right before dinner.
We skipped the Liberty Bell (Mom's assessment: "I've seen it before, and it was rather disappointing. I mean, it's a bell. With a crack in it."), introduced my mother to the wonder that is Wa Wa, and got honked at by no less than ten other city drivers (people in Philly apparently do not appreciate hesitation). We also had a lot of mother-daughter bonding time; she learned that I eat constantly and scratch my dry skin incessantly, and I learned that she hates the purse I got her for Christmas four years ago (rightfully so) and that she certainly knows how to enjoy a city properly. With drinks in our hands.
Thanks for a wonderful time, Mom. Just for you, I will try to avoid getting arrested again. I don't make guarantees like that for just anyone.
The class was more fun than I could ever have imagined. There were probably about two hundred other scholars in attendance, and I believe that at least 80% of them were probably Harvard graduates or at least Yale alums. Most of my classmates seemed to have a minimal understanding of hygiene, as evidenced by the odor in the room that left me wondering if I was at risk for some rare form of lung cancer, but they were probably just too busy worrying about astrophysics or organic chemistry to remember to wash regularly. My favorite comrade was the gentleman seated behind me who bounced his leg up and down for almost an hour, causing his synthetic leather sneakers to squeak squeak squeak until I nearly lost my mind. You like making that fun sound? That's great; I like burning your leg off with a blow torch.
The class was led by a woman who was definitely a dictator in a previous life, and who began the lecture by screaming, "Okay, stop talking now, take your hats off, and sit up shtraight. Sit up shtraight! THAT MEANS YOU, YES, YOU! SIT UP SHTRAIGHT!" Funny, I'd never noticed the "h" at the beginning of straight, but thank goodness she set me shtraight.
The entirety of the class was spent listening to her ramble about crimes, behavior, drugs, and punishments. Some of what she said was actually interesting and compelling, but she repeated every major point at least fifteen times, leaving me to start imagining ways I could die of disinterest right in my chair without her noticing and ejecting me without a refund. My favorite line of the class was when she showed us horrifically unattractive mug shots of a woman and said, "When this woman was little, I'll bet she never said that she wanted to grow up to be a crack ho." Don't speak so soon, lady, some of us like to dream big.
Fortunately the class ended early, although not before concluding with a speech about the importance of getting one's GED. The lesson I took from the whole experience is that if I'm going to trespass defiantly, I should probably do so in an area where the average criminal bathes more frequently. I'd just like to end with a little note to the officers at the jail who mocked me ceaselessly for being concerned about the sanitary status of the squad car and my cell. For your information, the teacher of my class said the reason she wouldn't want to go to jail is because it is filthy and they never clean the payphones there. See? I was right to be concerned. And here you thought I should have been more concerned about being a criminal.
The class, however, was only one small part of an otherwise excellent weekend. My mother and I tried two delicious restaurants, hiked around the city despite the constant drizzle, and shopped in a variety of eclectic stores. We also saw "Hurricane On The Bayou" at the IMAX theater, an absolutely phenomenal show with breathtaking effects. It was quite possibly the most amazing IMAX I've ever seen, and was only improved by the fact that during the dramatic scenes featuring footage of raging Hurricane Katrina, my mother let out a vociferous snore and notified everyone nearby that she was sound asleep.
We also did a bit of sightseeing. My mother is the type who likes to experience the culture of a city by visiting museums and shows, so I suggested a visit to the famous Mutter Museum of medical oddities. Who needs stuffy art galleries when you can see distended colons, wax models of syphilis chancres, and conjoined twin fetuses floating in preserving fluids? I highly suggest you plan a visit if given the opportunity, although perhaps not right before dinner.
We skipped the Liberty Bell (Mom's assessment: "I've seen it before, and it was rather disappointing. I mean, it's a bell. With a crack in it."), introduced my mother to the wonder that is Wa Wa, and got honked at by no less than ten other city drivers (people in Philly apparently do not appreciate hesitation). We also had a lot of mother-daughter bonding time; she learned that I eat constantly and scratch my dry skin incessantly, and I learned that she hates the purse I got her for Christmas four years ago (rightfully so) and that she certainly knows how to enjoy a city properly. With drinks in our hands.
Thanks for a wonderful time, Mom. Just for you, I will try to avoid getting arrested again. I don't make guarantees like that for just anyone.
I know you told me that I was welcome to eat some of your cookies, but I need to tell you that whenever you leave your office to go to the bathroom or out to lunch, I sneak in and steal large handfuls of them. And then I stuff them in my mouth and go back for more, all while listening carefully for your return. Soon you will have no more cookies left, but if it makes you feel better, I'll probably be more upset than you.
Also, that person who ate all of the chocolate out of the communal dish? That was me too. I just thought you ought to know.
Sincerely,
Poor Hungry Me
Also, that person who ate all of the chocolate out of the communal dish? That was me too. I just thought you ought to know.
Sincerely,
Poor Hungry Me
Ever since I was little, I have always loved those little conversation heart candies sold around Valentine's Day (ingredients: sugar, chemicals to hold sugar together, chemicals to add color, chemicals to speed tooth decay). I think I am the only person on the planet who can say that I truly enjoy their taste, which is a combination of savory chemicals and sweet chalk, and I look forward to them all year. Yesterday marked my first purchase of conversation hearts in 2007, an occasion that apparently surprised the cashier at CVS, who remarked, "Starting early this year?" I did not bother to explain that if they'd had the Valentine's Day candy on display back in August, I would have started stocking up then.
Little has changed about these candies since I started eating them in grade school, with the exception of the phrases written on each heart. My memories of early conversation heart phrases include such sweet sentiments at "BE MINE" and "YOU'RE CUTE" and "I LOVE YOU". But things have changed, and now the hearts are more pushy! and edgy! and technologically aware! You can now find "UR HOT" and "NO WAY" and "EMAIL ME" in your standard bag, in addition to the old standbys. And that's fine, really, because I like to know that my candy is trendy.
But I have to draw the line somewhere, and that line was drawn as I drove to work today eating my conversation hearts. I came upon ones that said "FAX ME", "YES DEAR", "GO FISH", and "LOVE ME". Fax me? Is that somehow supposed to be sexy? I can understand perhaps calling, emailing, or text messaging a prospective love interest, but faxing? What am I going to do, fax you a note asking you to dinner? Or fax you racy pictures of me wearing nothing but office supplies? And then there's "YES DEAR", quite possibly the most dull, downtrodden, depressing phrase ever. People don't reply "yes dear" when asked out for a hot date or when invited to try something racy in bed; people say "yes dear" when instructed to take out the garbage. I don't even know what "GO FISH" is supposed to mean, but if a guy told me to go fish, I'd probably think he found me to be repulsive. Finally, "LOVE ME"? What is that, the heart that desperate women glue all over themselves before hiding in their crush's closet? Why not just have one that says "I'M DESPERATE AND LONELY. YOU'LL DO."?
In that spirit, I've created some new suggestions for conversation hearts.
Great Conversation Heart Ideas That Would Unfortunately Not Make The Cut:
- WELL HUNG
- STALKER
- GOT CRABS
- GOLD DIGGER
- WHAT'S THAT?
- ROOFIE
- HIRE ME
- IS IT IN?
- HAHAHA
- $200/HR
- PLEASE BATHE
- LET'S PORK
- S&M FAN
- STD FREE
- THAT'S IT?
- YOU'RE EASY
- BABY DADDY
- TOO HAIRY
- NOT TONIGHT
Got any additional suggestions?
Little has changed about these candies since I started eating them in grade school, with the exception of the phrases written on each heart. My memories of early conversation heart phrases include such sweet sentiments at "BE MINE" and "YOU'RE CUTE" and "I LOVE YOU". But things have changed, and now the hearts are more pushy! and edgy! and technologically aware! You can now find "UR HOT" and "NO WAY" and "EMAIL ME" in your standard bag, in addition to the old standbys. And that's fine, really, because I like to know that my candy is trendy.
But I have to draw the line somewhere, and that line was drawn as I drove to work today eating my conversation hearts. I came upon ones that said "FAX ME", "YES DEAR", "GO FISH", and "LOVE ME". Fax me? Is that somehow supposed to be sexy? I can understand perhaps calling, emailing, or text messaging a prospective love interest, but faxing? What am I going to do, fax you a note asking you to dinner? Or fax you racy pictures of me wearing nothing but office supplies? And then there's "YES DEAR", quite possibly the most dull, downtrodden, depressing phrase ever. People don't reply "yes dear" when asked out for a hot date or when invited to try something racy in bed; people say "yes dear" when instructed to take out the garbage. I don't even know what "GO FISH" is supposed to mean, but if a guy told me to go fish, I'd probably think he found me to be repulsive. Finally, "LOVE ME"? What is that, the heart that desperate women glue all over themselves before hiding in their crush's closet? Why not just have one that says "I'M DESPERATE AND LONELY. YOU'LL DO."?
In that spirit, I've created some new suggestions for conversation hearts.
Great Conversation Heart Ideas That Would Unfortunately Not Make The Cut:
- WELL HUNG
- STALKER
- GOT CRABS
- GOLD DIGGER
- WHAT'S THAT?
- ROOFIE
- HIRE ME
- IS IT IN?
- HAHAHA
- $200/HR
- PLEASE BATHE
- LET'S PORK
- S&M FAN
- STD FREE
- THAT'S IT?
- YOU'RE EASY
- BABY DADDY
- TOO HAIRY
- NOT TONIGHT
Got any additional suggestions?
Not Currently Emanating An Air Of Happiness
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Published on Tuesday, January 09, 2007 at 5:24 PM.
"A testimonial to the success of this system is demonstrated by the positive quarterly reviews of our employees who are not only satisfied with their positions but also consider their fellow workers as friends and each of our employees emanates an air of happiness."
This sentence actually appeared in a proposal that was intended for submission to the federal government. It is making my eyes bleed.
This sentence actually appeared in a proposal that was intended for submission to the federal government. It is making my eyes bleed.
Things Not To Say When Your Boss Asks, "Do You Have Enough Work To Keep Yourself Busy?"
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Published on Monday, January 08, 2007 at 4:43 PM.
1. No. When you choose to be this bluntly honest, it immediately sends the message that you have been doing nothing AND not taking the initiative to ask for additional work. It also confirms that all of the time spent starting intently at your laptop has, in fact, been used exclusively to stay abreast of celebrity gossip and designer purse trends.
2. Yes. When you indicate that you are indeed fully-occupied at all times, it tells your boss that you are incompetent/poor with time management, because she knows exactly how much work you have to do and how long it should take, and that it should not be enough to keep you busy. This is also an outright lie, as 96% of each workday is passed by staying abreast of celebrity gossip and designer purse trends.
The best solution is to say exactly what I did, which was absolutely nothing of meaning except a lot of words that came out very quickly and sounded something like, "Well, I had just finished up some major projects and hit a lull but then there is the chance that I'll be starting this other project that will be challenging and time consuming and I'm also working on another thing that I'll have done by the end of the day." By the end, your boss will only be thinking of how to gracefully step out of your office and regain the IQ points that you just shaved off.
2. Yes. When you indicate that you are indeed fully-occupied at all times, it tells your boss that you are incompetent/poor with time management, because she knows exactly how much work you have to do and how long it should take, and that it should not be enough to keep you busy. This is also an outright lie, as 96% of each workday is passed by staying abreast of celebrity gossip and designer purse trends.
The best solution is to say exactly what I did, which was absolutely nothing of meaning except a lot of words that came out very quickly and sounded something like, "Well, I had just finished up some major projects and hit a lull but then there is the chance that I'll be starting this other project that will be challenging and time consuming and I'm also working on another thing that I'll have done by the end of the day." By the end, your boss will only be thinking of how to gracefully step out of your office and regain the IQ points that you just shaved off.
I spend the entire first part of each week getting excited about The O.C. on Thursday nights, and I spend Fridays and the following weekends recovering from the latest drama presented during the weekly episode. People know not to call or try to make plans with me on Thursday nights. People know not to speak or breathe loudly when The O.C. is airing, at the risk of losing an eye or a finger. You might say I have a slight obsession with The O.C.
FOX JUST CANCELLED MY SHOW.
They might as well have cancelled the joy right out of my life.
I know The O.C. is a stupid teenage drama. I know that the target audience is substantially younger than my twenty-two years, and that I am less of a person for loving something so shallow and lame. I know that the show totally jumped the shark this season. I don't care. I love my show; I've laughed through it, I've cried through it, I've obsessed over it, I've scheduled college classes around it to avoid missing a moment. And now the last episode ever is set to air on February 22nd, 2007.
This is the worst day of my life.
FOX JUST CANCELLED MY SHOW.
They might as well have cancelled the joy right out of my life.
I know The O.C. is a stupid teenage drama. I know that the target audience is substantially younger than my twenty-two years, and that I am less of a person for loving something so shallow and lame. I know that the show totally jumped the shark this season. I don't care. I love my show; I've laughed through it, I've cried through it, I've obsessed over it, I've scheduled college classes around it to avoid missing a moment. And now the last episode ever is set to air on February 22nd, 2007.
This is the worst day of my life.
Cosmo Says That White Nails Are The New Thing; Cosmo Is Wrong
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Published on Wednesday, January 03, 2007 at 10:56 AM.
When I asked my coworker for his opinion, he told me that my nails were hideous and reminiscent of middle school, when people gave themselves manicures with white-out. I then promised to have it removed by tomorrow, to which he asked if we couldn't possibly arrange to have it off by noon today.
I was overcome this afternoon by a craving for a diet soda. Knowing how finicky and fleeting my tastes have been lately, I waited for over an hour before gathering my purse and heading to the deli downstairs. On my way, I stopped in the ladies' room, at which point I realized that what I truly wanted was a Perrier, and that if I didn't get a Perrier soon, I would die.
That urge lasted until I was in the elevator heading downstairs, when I was struck by the desire for nothing at all. I almost turned around and went back upstairs empty-handed, but decided to get a soda and a Perrier anyways, just in case.
By the time I returned to my office, I had purchased nearly every single thing the deli had to offer. I say nearly, because the one thing I didn't buy was the Dove vanilla ice cream bar covered in dark chocolate, which happens to be the single item in the universe that I want right now.
That urge lasted until I was in the elevator heading downstairs, when I was struck by the desire for nothing at all. I almost turned around and went back upstairs empty-handed, but decided to get a soda and a Perrier anyways, just in case.
By the time I returned to my office, I had purchased nearly every single thing the deli had to offer. I say nearly, because the one thing I didn't buy was the Dove vanilla ice cream bar covered in dark chocolate, which happens to be the single item in the universe that I want right now.
1. Curb my rampant road rage. If I've never run you off the road using only my high beams, my middle finger, and a string of four letter words that would make a sailor blush, chances are we've never been on the same road simultaneously. However, when I nearly give a poor old man a heart attack by making him wonder if I'm going to climb through his window and kill him with my spindly arms, it forces me to realize that maybe I should just relax a little.
2. Clip my dog's toenails on a more regular basis. This may seem trivial, but it has been months since his last nail clipping, and his feet look like little porcupines. Before you shout animal abuse, realize that nail clipping is the one thing that turns my normally sweet little puppy into a rabid hyena, and that for every nail I try to clip, I risk losing a finger. He has eighteen toenails, I have ten fingers. You do the math.
3. Eat at least one vegetable a day. Can tea be considered a vegetable? I mean, at one point, those leaves were green. What about chocolate? It's made from beans, right?
4. Learn to do laundry properly. I don't sort my laundry prior to washing it. Dark blue towels, white wool sweaters, cotton sheets, and silk tank tops all go into one load with a heaping scoop of detergent. As a result, all of my clothing starts to look the same...my towels become flat like my jeans, my sweaters pill like my towels, and my whites become suspiciously colorful. And dry clean only? That's just a suggestion. Who says you can't stick a suit in the washing machine?
5. Pay off my credit card by the end of the year. Not a chance. Most people have dreams about winning the lottery or flying or being eaten by a werewolf; I dreamed that I was in the Chanel store buying purses and keychains.
2. Clip my dog's toenails on a more regular basis. This may seem trivial, but it has been months since his last nail clipping, and his feet look like little porcupines. Before you shout animal abuse, realize that nail clipping is the one thing that turns my normally sweet little puppy into a rabid hyena, and that for every nail I try to clip, I risk losing a finger. He has eighteen toenails, I have ten fingers. You do the math.
3. Eat at least one vegetable a day. Can tea be considered a vegetable? I mean, at one point, those leaves were green. What about chocolate? It's made from beans, right?
4. Learn to do laundry properly. I don't sort my laundry prior to washing it. Dark blue towels, white wool sweaters, cotton sheets, and silk tank tops all go into one load with a heaping scoop of detergent. As a result, all of my clothing starts to look the same...my towels become flat like my jeans, my sweaters pill like my towels, and my whites become suspiciously colorful. And dry clean only? That's just a suggestion. Who says you can't stick a suit in the washing machine?
5. Pay off my credit card by the end of the year. Not a chance. Most people have dreams about winning the lottery or flying or being eaten by a werewolf; I dreamed that I was in the Chanel store buying purses and keychains.
