Things for Work Procrastination

Phil, this one goes out to you…

1. World’s Most Blinged Gadgets. Yeah, add some crystals and you can charge $3K.

2. The teapot used to say, “Slut” on it. Can’t decide if I like that more or not.

3. Partial face transplants: take half of Jessica Simpson and add it to Paris Hilton. Kind of freaky.

4. Strangest animals in the world. Some are truly odd looking.

5. A candle votive that might actually be appropriate for the annual December “camping” trip.

6. Headhoods. Hahahahahhahhahaha! The hoodie has evolved.

7. Random pretty things for my desk at work.

8. Mama Mia! In Spanish. I think.

9. I’ve always wanted a terrarium.

10. The London skyline now and in 2012. Scroll to the right to really see it. Or go down into the thread to see the labeled version.

11. Monkey suicide? How many more monkeys must die?

12. A clock that keeps really good time.

13. Bloons! It’s fun. It’s addictive. It makes a great popping noise. I love this game.

The Mailman and Me

I have this thing about mail. Basically, it’s that I don’t send it. I’ve come to realize this throughout the last few weeks as each morning, I’ve passed a Congrats You Got Knocked Up card intended for one of my sorority sisters that I’ve not seen in years but keep in touch with via MySpace and yearly holiday cards. Each day on my way out the door I see that purple envelope and I mean to pick it up, to take it to the mailbox and to entrust it to the fine folks at the US Postal Service, but I don’t. The card has been sitting on my kitchen table — complete with illegible handwritten congratulatory note, address and postage — since August 4. I know this because this afternoon, I came across the MySpace comment where I found out she was pregnant and I requested her updated address so I could send the stupid card. At this rate, the card is going to be obsolete and the Congrats On Your New Squalling Bundle Of Joy card will go out for the kid’s first birthday.

Initially, I thought I just had a thing about mailing cards. I would come by the inability to mail those honestly. My mother is notorious in our family circle for failure to get any celebratory card into a mailbox. It’s become a running joke that each Thanksgiving, when her nieces, nephews and the daughter who does not live within card-hand-delivery-range gather, she gives cash to each individual to cover birthdays, Christmas and any miscellaneous graduations. Most years, the money is in cards are actually in envelopes which are addressed and stamped but were never mailed. Keep in mind, the mailbox is literally outside the front door, attached to the house. And my mom can put other things into the mailbox, just not cards. I think it’s a neurosis against cards. And clearly one which I inherited.

However, I think my problem has developed into a more acute form. Lately, I’ve noticed that my anti-mailing tendencies extend not only to cards but also to thank you notes, bills, and law school alumni survey answers. Oh, and rebates. I’ve recently lost $20 that could have otherwise gone to the shoe fund by failure to connect envelop with drop slot. Drat.

But why would I mail anything? I swear mail has become an obsolete form of communication. I can pay my bills online and my bank actually likes me better if I do. They give me gift cards if I do stuff online and not by mail. Plus, I can send e-cards, and they come with music and spell check and read receipts. The Place of Lawyerly Things pays me electronically and I can get the pay stub from the intranet. The only thing I actually like to get in the mail are coupons for the local pizza joint and that gastronomic wonder that is commonly referred to as Noodles. Heck, if mail is obsolete, so are cheques. I write one a month to my landlord. And even then, I would pay him electronically if he was so equipped. Still, I don’t even mail the rent. Tom the Landlord is the kindly sort and prefers the personal pick up of his his rent. Each month, on the Special Rent Date, I tape a check in a plain envelope to my backdoor and Tom picks it up. No stamp, no postal carrier, not mailbox. No mail.

Washing Machine Heaven

For over a year, I’ve been without in-apartment laundry facilities. On more than one occasion, this has caused me to wear something either a bit smelly or kind of ugly. When faced with a clean outfit shortage, one has to make due. And yes, Mom, I’m sure that was not really helping my dating life. Anyway, with no washer and dryer, I’ve had to compile all my dirty clothes for an all-day laundryfests at Chez Parental. It was always a huge pain involving the transport, cleaning, and folding of at least 8 very full loads. If I was feeling feisty, there could be even more if I actually swashed every sock, bra, pair of undies, and light colored T-shirt I owned into separate, delicate loads as per the official washing instructions. If I pushed the dirty clothes situation much past three weeks, I would generally be forced to strategically plan my underwear use. Once, when things got really bad, I resorted to hand-washing the unmentionables in order to last another week. The downfall to this plan became apparent when Bionic Kitty and Number Two started to jump from the bathroom vanity to the shower pole in order to knock down the drying undies. Apparently wet cotton is the place for cats to sleep in the dead of summer. I learned the hard way that getting cat hair out by hand-washing is not easy. Eventually, I just had to admit defeat and live with a scratchy butt until I could once again use real laundry facilities.

Recently, I got a new-to-me washer and dryer. In the week leading up to the install, I was having fantasies about buying Tide at the grocery store and causally running into the Maytag Repair Man (the young one) in the detergent aisle and… But I digress. I’ve got the washer and dryer. I’ve got clean bedding. I’ve got all clean clothes except the pair of undies I’m currently sitting in. Yep, only these are dirty. Yes, Mom, I know this is probably not hygienic. But the point is only my undies are dirty and I was able to wash everything else. At home. In my basement. Using all the static cling sheets I wanted.

It is a happy day.

Baby, Baby

I saw my best friend over the weekend. She’s reproducing and it scares the living bejimmies out of me. How am I old enough to know people who can have husbands, let alone be mixing DNA? Granted, we are closer to 30 than 25, but it still throws me off kilter to realize it’s Baby Time.

A few years after college, there was a two year window which I’ve repressed from my memory. It was filled with horrible sateen dresses and finding Plus Ones and purchasing mixing bowls at Williams Sonoma. When I actually admit this time of my life occurred, I refer to it as The Butt Bow Period. Everybody seemed to be getting married and I have the closet full of ugly bridesmaid dresses to prove it. I hated this time because I was still in student mode, attending graduate school and learning how to do Lawyerly Things, but my friends had actual incomes from actual jobs and could afford actual things like cars and rent and food. If the financial disparity weren’t bad enough, they where embarking on the next phase of their lives and were becoming Adults. Suddenly, they weren’t interested in going out with The Girls, but instead they wore suits and were Getting Serious and their idea of fun was hanging out with Him. And then, they got these gorgeous rings and big parties and expected me to wear teal with a butt bow the size of Antarctica. It’s safe to say this is a social period of my life I prefer to forget. Yeah, I get it now and I understand the desire to stay home with Him. But at the time, I wasn’t emotionally there and didn’t want to be serious with anybody, let alone get married. In the last few years, I’ve become truly happy for my married friends, but only the friends who remain single really seem to know what it’s like to still be standing on this side of the single fence. To watch as people settle comfortably into their Married Lives and to watch their worlds change and priorities shift while you are still struggling in Singledom can be hard at times. In the last year, I’ve finally started to adjust to the possibility that I might be single for a long time, and maybe forever, while most of my friends have their permanent Plus Ones. I was there, I was mentally OK with it. Really. Then, boom! Baby Time pops up from nowhere and my mental peace gets blown all to hell.

Having lived through The Butt Bow Period, I understood that it was logical for a Baby Time to follow. But so soon? Really? I misguidedly thought this was supposed to be eight or nine years post-wedding. Not three or four. This is not what I was mentally prepared for. I always figured that if I got lucky and met a great guy in the next three or four years, I might be able to catch up or something. Plus, I could have my career, too. Heck, what happened to having a career before you had a baby? Isn’t our generation supposed to be the one where we earn impressive job titles before we spawn? My sense of priority seems to be out of alignment with the masses of my peers. To add to the indiginity, I am just financially recovering from the wedding gifts and now I have to shop for more stuff in pastels. Perhaps I should be grateful I don’t have to wear it this time. Regardless, I’ve struggled for weeks to wrap my head around this sudden need my friends have to ensure the continuation of the human race. And in theory, it is nice. But I still wish somebody would explain it to me. I can smile and nod and be happy for my friends, but I don’t get it.

And now Best Friend is one of those in the Baby Time. She’s at that funny stage where you can’t really tell she’s pregnant. Instead, her stomach is just starting to show and she looks more like she ate too many Oreos recently. Every time we were walking, I stole covert glances at her stomach. I found it amazing that something could fit in there besides Chipotle and a bladder. And as we sat talking, I realized it has been almost 10 years since we’ve met. I have watched her go from shy, nervous freshman in college to confident, polished Super Mom To Be. With a Kate Spade diaper-bag, an SUV, and an endless supply of binkies. Best Friend is going to be raising a kid. Our future, our hope, somebody who is going to live to see the year 2083. Maybe a future President or the next Kurt Cobain or tomorrow’s version of Sally Ride. And suddenly, I feel small and humble and incredibly immature. Funny what kind of personal crisis a poop machine that’s not even born yet can cause.

The Future of Our Country

It’s not looking bright, folks. Nope, not at all.

Case in point.

Thanks, Greg!

How to Make Me Go Ouch…

These people need to lay off the ‘roids and obsessive lifting of each other.

Happenings

In the last month…

1. I bought Number Two a dog bone. Yes, she’s a cat. I was told that this might re-channel her from her newfound love of chewing things like furniture legs, empty wine bottles, bed spreads, that sort of thing. So, I made one of my friends drive me to Target where I spent $2.99 plus tax on the smallest size of those gross, white chewy hide dog bone things that I swear smell like baked bean farts. It has since sat on the living room floor. Two whole days of not being touched, not being chewed. I even tried rubbing cat nip and, later, tuna juices on it. That was a nasal experience that I wish I could forget. Anyway, the bone is still is on the living room floor, stinking up the place with its tuna meets slobbery doggie aroma. And today I notice that Number Two had chewed on a picture frame. What’s with my cats? Could somebody please explain?

2. A position in Chicago opened up with the office where I do Lawyerly Things. Moving pros and cons are currently weighing heavily on the mental landscape. It is attractive because, among other reasons, I could see myself as a Girl In The City. I would be a Fabulous GITC. Sort of like Carrie but with cheaper shoes and a bigger booty. But, wow. Leaving? I finally ate at all the Chipotles within 20 miles. To start over again…

3. I renewed my subscription to US Weekly. Who was I kidding? I went two weeks without it and I thought I’d lost a limb. During these Turbulent Trials of Britney, it is my Bible.

4. I watched Seasons One to Four of Smallville. The brain rot continues unabated. Would they just kill off Lana all ready?

5. There was some more testing to determine why I’m having problems these days. The long and short is that I am pretty much a smarty pants and the tester really shouldn’t ask me to give examples of a ballad. My sentence: “Every Rose Has Its Thorn was a master example of the Power Ballad.”

6. My face has rebelled against the combination of excessive Skittle consumption and humid weather. I’ve acquired some sort of mini-chicken poxish pimple thing that has focused on my chin, forehead and nose. And my mother wonders why I am still single…

7. I now refuse to drink water. At first, it was only water from the tap. I figured it had something to do with Ohio’s water table and bottled was safte. Then, I learned the problem was more widespread. It extended into neighboring states and even other continents. I have 18 friends who are pregnant and there are three women at work about to pop any day now. The only common factors (besides marital snookie) is that they drink water and breathe air. I can’t give up the latter, so I’m attributing it to the former. Viva Diet Coke!

8. 20 more days until I can drive. The thought of driving again is almost as good as the previously mentioned snookie.

9. I discovered ABBA. Bliss.

10. Bionic Kitty has not succeeded in killing herself this month. Although she made a good attempt last week when I was bringing in groceries. In a moment of physical activity unlike anything she’s engaged in in months, she sprinted between my legs, attempting to make it to the Great Outdoors. I’m happy to report that the entire watermelon that I dropped on her head while trying to stop her did not faze her at all. Still, it did stop her Braveheart moment.