Tag Archives: Humor

Deep Inside the Hell Bowels of Sephora

3 Jul

Yesterday, I ventured into the dark, grimy bowels of Sephora to whip my sad and scrappy makeup bag into something socially acceptable.

If you have a penis, you should know that Sephora is an upscale makeup store.  You’re welcome.

I don’t like Sephora.  I try to avoid going there as much as possible.  While the makeup itself is enough to make me orgasm on entry, I simply can’t stand the black suit saleswomen getting up in my grill about whether I’m using a good primer before I put on my foundation. I don’t like their insinuation that I should use the makeup they like to use, and I don’t like the pressure of being talked to. 

Also, all of them sort of look like whore clowns.

Sephora Beauty Store Opening

Exhibit A: Sample Whore Clown. Photo by "br1dotcom". Click to check out their Flickr Photostream, which also features some ridiculously adorable pictures of a French Bulldog.

I’ve been trying to avoid shopping in Sephora for a long time now and as a result have bounced around to several different department store makeup brands trying to find things that stop small children from screaming bloody horror when they see my face and that stay on all day long.

My face has needs.  Real needs.

I would avoid the store entirely and shop online, but I can only do that to refill something I already know I like.  I can’t ever get a new color or a new brand because without the luxury of sampling, there’s no way to know if the super expensive makeup I’m about to buy is actually going to bring me any sort of shallow, material happiness.

Seeing as how I used to work at Victoria’s Secret – the ultimate in black suit pressure saleswomen – you’d think I’d be able to the Sephora challenge.  But I can’t.  I’m just awful at it.  I spend most of my time discreetly moving from one color to another without looking like I’m actually interested in what I’m looking at.  A face that shows interest is a face that shows weakness.   So I casually swipe a bit of a sample onto my finger, mosey over to the mirror, and try to look casual about painting my face.  It’s quick and odd – like when I try to check my armpits for a suspicious odor.  I pretend I’m doing something else altogether, but the trained eye is incredibly aware.  

My casual ruse was almost foiled by my inability to locate the disposal bin for the samples.  I had all the eye shadow sticks, square wipes, and gloss applicators I could possibly hope for but not one single trash can in sight.    Everything blends in there.  It’s all black, white, and bright lights.  People shouldn’t even be allowed to drive for at least 15 minutes after they leave.

So, unable to find a garbage can for all the pieces of used makeup wipes in my hands and with each of my fingers entirely coated in a different makeup color from my ‘casual swiping’ as I moseyed by the products, I resolved to continue to feign disinterest and certainty and promptly shoved all the wipes into my purse.  Heaven forbid I ask where the garbage can is and get asked what kind of airbrush foundation I’m using. 

In case you’re interested, the answer is none – airbrushed makeup is for whore clowns.

I eventually emerged from the innards of the elitist makeup shop with my mental sanity (almost entirely) in tact.  I also somehow acquired twice as many products and I initially entered for.  Which is a bit of a quandary, seeing as how not a single person approached me during my browse.  

I would have felt badly about my terrible display of self-control if I hadn’t gotten a free sample of mascara that blew my mind and a free bottle of super yummy-smelling body wash because it’s my birthday month.  Those little bits of pleasure made the price tag of my purchases not even noticeable until I got home, at which time I wallowed in self-despair.  I tried to make myself feel better by painting my face with my new makeup, but it mixed my tears to produce a sort of awkward-girl-upset-that-she’s-not-prom-queen look.

I’m now one day past my initial buyer’s regret and the feeling is not subsiding.  I should have known better.  I should have stayed away.   But hey – lesson learned.  …Again.  Shop Sephora online or don’t shop it at all.   It looks like I’ll be replacing my makeup with the same exact colors and brands for several years to come.  

I’ll need some time to muster up the strength again. ♣

Today’s RAK: Mailing a thoughtful gift to someone I’ve only just met for an hour.

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I Should Buy Myself a Cake.

2 Jul

It appears I’ve neglected to acknowledge something here.

I have passed the halfway point, folks.  I’m over the edge.   I’m over 50% finished with the postaday2011 challenge.

Marathon Cheverny, 200 metroren faltan

Apparently, I'm likening this man running a marathon to me writing my blog. I am the man - lonely, tired, and pressing toward the finish. And apparently with only a few scattered, somewhat-paying-attention attendees. Photo by "Eneko Astigarraga". Click to check out his Flickr Photostream.

Typically, I’d celebrate such an occasion  by looking back over the last 180-something posts and picking out my favorite ones.  But unfortunately, I flipped through my 2nd quarter accomplishments only to find that I have written nothing I can be more excited about than the favorite posts I already acknowledge in my one-third celebration.

Personally, that realization saddens me.  What if my best posts were written back in the day when I had seven subscribers? 

Yes, I used to only have seven subscribers.  You know who you are.

I could reflect on things I’ve improved on in all this time that I’ve made sweet, sweet love to my blog, but that’s pretty boring for you.  Who really cares if I schedule out my Lollipop Tuesdays beforehand now or if I feel a lot more comfortable detaching myself from my writing journal and just posting whatever is on my mind?  Who really wants to know if I have a graphic artist working on a super awesome header image for me or if I’m going to cover a Lollipop Tuesday event this month that involves a media pass and crossing several state borders?

No one, that’s who.

So instead of rolling out a big celebratory post where I chronicle my achievements, set out my future plans, and thank everyone for their part in this monstrosity, I suppose I’ll simply acknowledge the passing of the first half and march onward toward the next.  

After all – I’m 180-something posts in and I still can’t manage to consistently post before 12:00pm on Saturdays.  

Maybe I’ll manage that by the 3/4 celebration. ♣

Today’s RAK: A little research for a stressed friend.

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Spontaneous Combustion: A New Social Policy

1 Jul

Okay.  It’s time that I address a longstanding problem in society.

This might be awkward at first, but it’s the tough conversations that really inspire change in folks.  So take your time, open your mind, and approach the following concept with patience and acceptance.

Repeating the last lines of a story in several different ways does not make it funnier. 

I see people making this mistake all the time. It is painful for everyone around them and it personally makes me consider the repercussions of incurring severe head trauma on another human being.  There is little in this world as thoroughly annoying and shut-your-face worthy as repeating the plot line of an unfunny story over and over in slightly different ways, expecting to milk a laugh.

You know what I’m talking about.  Everyone knows someone like this.  They tend to show up in higher numbers in offices, schools, and overeager parties.  They tell you some amusing anecdote about their kid or their husband or some run-in they had with a lady at a grocery store.  Or – worse – they tried to memorize a joke for the sake of socializing and tell it in public to try to make friends.  And once you realize the story is over, you also realize they’re the only ones laughing while you’re left fixated on a piece of food stuck in their laughing, chattering teeth.

This is one of my toughest moments in my socially awkward anxiety.  

I don’t like to fake laugh.  To be honest, I’d prefer to never reveal that I’m amused by other people at all, for fear they mistake it for a desire to socialize.   On occasion I will have to endure such a situation where a modest, seemingly authentic pity laugh is in order.    I like to think of it as a touch-and-go operation.  I’ll breeze past the part where you expect me to laugh in a story and we’ll move on to the next subject.  

Touch and go.

When someone keeps repeating the last few lines of something over and over, getting louder and laughing harder at themselves each time – that’s when I can’t do the touch-and-go.  Instead I have to stare at them and try to smile through my teeth without them reading it as a grimace.  I’m waiting for the pain to be over.  I’m waiting for that moment when they realize it isn’t funny or they laugh themselves to death or they spontaneously combust.  I haven’t been lucky enough to have the latter happen yet.  In fact, that’s a great rule.  If you try to milk a laugh where a laugh is not due, you will burst forth in a fury of flames and hellfire. 

So hear ye, hear ye.   We’ve been warned on a massive and public scale.  There will be absolutely no tolerance for milking laughs repeatedly and awkwardly where laughs are not due.   Violators will be subject to corrective action to include but not be limited to spontaneous combustion.

thejackieblog.com: addressing social anxieties one violent death at a time. ♣

Spontaneous Combustion

Image by "jervetson". Click to check out their Flickr Photostream.

 

 
Today’s RAK: Paid the parking garage ticket for two ladies.

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You Could Be a Winner!

30 Jun

Sometimes when candy wrappers tell me I could be a winner, I believe them.

Of course, I believe other things, too.  I believe soda caps, kiosks at malls, raffles for giveaways at local stores as well.  It’s just that I seem to interact with candy wrappers most often.

Truth.

Come on – you do it too.   You may not do it all the time, but you’ve sat there with nothing to do one time and asked your friend to type it in, or you’ve wandered online just to see what it’s about.  Right?  RIGHT?  Did you maybe read this post because you thought the title would bring you the slight promise of reward?   Because I have to admit that sometimes I sit around and wonder what it would be like to be the person who came home one day, opened up a bottle of soda and freaked the hell out because she just won $100,000.  Or if I seriously got to be whisked off for a vacation someday.  Or what about a new car that I only have to pay the taxes and associated fees on?  That last one would be kind of a bummer at first and difficult to manage on such short notice, but still TOTALLY AWESOME.

I’m not as terrible as I used to be.

Companies putting a code on their products that force you to go to their websites to enter a code was a clever move.  At first it made me really upset because I’m not going to go through all that nonsense.  My suspension of disbelief lasts about 3 seconds.  Unless I can lift up a flap, twist a cap, or look in a box that fast, the feeling that perhaps I have the golden ticket is far gone.  But over time I grew to appreciate it because now I have a reason not to want to pursue the ridiculous notion that I could be in Hawaii next week because of a Butterfinger.

I’ve entered a few online codes in my day – you know…just to see – but clicking a mouse can’t replace that feeling of true hope I sometimes had right before I peeled open a candy wrapper to find out I was actually just a big fat loser.

It said try again but it didn’t really mean it.  It knew I wouldn’t ever win.

It knew.

Maybe it will hit me when I don’t suspect it.  Maybe something totally awesome and random is going to happen to me and it will be when I’m not peeking under wrappers and labels and lids.   Or maybe hoping something will happen when I don’t suspect it is just as bad hoping for something in the first place.

I think I need to give it up.  The golden ticket isn’t coming around any time soon – just a bunch of advertising and little “you lose” messages to make me feel badly about myself.

Thank goodness for Dove chocolates. ♣

092708: Into the Dark

Photo by "owlpacino". Click to check out their Flickr PhotoStream.

Today’s RAK: Working alongside a friend til their  job is done and asking nothing in return.

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Jackie and the Awesome, Terrific, Very Good, Super Great Day

29 Jun

I won yesterday.   I won all day long.  I won at everything.

There are days when I feel like I suck at the world.  I suck at breathing, at talking, at thinking – all of it down the pooper.  And on those days I think about what it might be like if it were reversed and instead of everything being awful, everything would be super awesome.

Yesterday, it happened. 

I woke up a little late, but managed to get showered and decent in time to be at work two minutes early.  I walked two miles.  I got a lot done at work.  My day blinked by so quickly that I actually stayed late because I didn’t really mind.  When Dave picked me up from work, he asked me what I’d like to have for dinner and I realized that I’d gotten a lot done already this week and I might be able to enjoy myself for the evening.  

All day I was in an awesome mood.  Nothing was a big deal, nothing made me freak out, and nothing made me stressed.  I handled my fashion-cape-wearing boss with ease and quickly tended to things that I could have let go until stress built around them.  I made some  good progress on several stressful projects and somehow things that were huge pains in my life worked themselves out on their own.  And to top the day off, when I checked my email last night, I was greeted with a confirmation for my approved ‘Media Pass’ to a ridiculous event I was hoping to attend for free on the grounds that I’m covering it for my blog.  Access granted – operation intense Lollipop Tuesday is in the works.

It.  was. awesome.

And then I got to thinking about how I should probably soak this day up because I can’t even imagine the hell karma that will pour down on me tomorrow as a result of it.  Or the week after.  Or whenever.  But somewhere, there’s quite a storm a’brewin.

And that’s totally fine.  Because if super terrible days mean that sometimes I can have a super awesome day like this, I’m all in.

Bring on the storm. ♣

Today’s RAK: writing a letter to someone who could use receiving one.

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An Evening (in Hell) with the Scrabble Club

28 Jun

I feel like I’ve had a lot of intense moments in my life to date.  But  none so far can match the incredibly intense moment when I told the head of the Scrabble club that I was going home early.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday folks.

This week, I found my adventure by flipping through the classifieds in my local paper.  There, I found an ad for the city’s Scrabble Club chapter.   I’m sorry – Competitive Scrabble Club Chapter.

That word makes all the difference in the world.

I was really hanging on tightly to the part in the newspaper ad that said “Beginners Welcome.”   When the head of the local chapter (let’s call him Socrates) responded to my inquiry, he reported an average attendance of 15, with ages ranging from 13-85.    I was pretty comfortable with the idea of playing anyone at the very bottom or the very top of that statistic, and since I’m an ex English major who does pretty well around the kitchen table and family, I thought I could at least avoid embarrassment.

I was sorely mistaken.

When I first arrived I was greeted by Socrates, who started started running down the official tournament rules.  He handed me  a cheat sheet with all the 3-letter and 2-letter words in the English language, common words to dump vowels with, and a list of common Bingos (when you clear your rack).  He was wearing a Scrabble Champion t-shirt (legit, probably won in the 70’s).

After he had rattled off all the standard tournament rules, I was informed that as a special treat for being a first-time guest I could have an extra 5 minutes on my clock.

I’m sorry – what?

Apparently, competitive Scrabble is timed.  You get 25 minutes altogether, which ticks down during your turn.  When you’ve completed totaling your tiles, you announce your score for the round and hit the buzzer to switch to your opponent’s timer.

For someone who just learned what a Bingo was and didn’t even know ten of the 2-letter words, a timer is a frightening thing.

I got paired with a sweet, older woman named Connie.  Connie was very pleasant to me, but she was also incredibly serious about the game of Scrabble.  She had special professional grade tiles that could not be used for sneaky handed bag cheating.  

That’s a term I made up for when someone dips in the bag and feels the letters to know which ones to pick.  

She asked if I had my own board and I said I had the game at home.  She asked if it was a turntable (no) and if I had the brown, wooden, cheater letters (yes).  She was sorely disappointed.  Connie had her own hand-sewn bag to slip over the board at the end of the game that poured the letters into it.  The drawstring featured her name, spelled out in individually sewn buttons.

I did not.

I kept even with her score for about 6 rounds.   After that, it was all downhill.  By the time the game finished, she had doubled my score.  Somewhere in between the lines were 4 triple-word scores that she managed to reach with my help, and several 40-point plays featuring only 2 letters from her rack.

I’ve never felt so stupid in all my life.

As it turns out, I don’t really know how to play Scrabble.  I thought Scrabble was about making big words, connecting them to other words, and holding out for a Triple Word Score.  What Scrabble is actually about is getting scores of 500 and over by wedging a word directly beside another word and matching up a series of 2-letter-words up and down the word you play.   It’s about saving F’s and H’s and putting them in an unsuspecting corner that reaps enormous multi-word benefits.

At several points that evening, I looked at the board and not even knowing if it was safe to put an “s” on the end of something because I realized I have no idea what that word is.

So after Connie gave me a painful whoopin’, I decided I would head out.  They had an odd number of people with me there anyway and I thought I was doing everyone a favor.  After all, they have one of the top 500 ranked players in the nation in that room – I’m sure she wanted to get a bit of playing time in.

Socrates was very upset by the suggestion that I would head out.  “Leaving early” they dubbed it.  Apparently, they stick around for 3 games.  Because “people who love Scrabble stay”.  I felt incredibly pressured, but equally miserable and decided there was no way I was going to let a crotchety old Scrabble champion tell me what to do.

…So I kindly let him know that I wasn’t aware that I would be playing 3 games in a row and I thought I could use a good deal of studying.  

He was very, very disappointed in me and asked me if I wanted to stay on the email distribution list. I said yes.

Why did I say yes?  Why didn’t I just say I didn’t like it and they were really high-pressure for such relaxing-looking old folks.  I had absolutely no intentions of returning to Socrates’ condo for another whoopin’.  The experience was one of the most incredibly stressful ones of my entire life.

At least, until I write an email to Socrates saying I’m breaking up with the Scrabble Club. 

Lord, give me strength. ♣

 

Today’s RAK:  At the end of the day, held the elevator for a ridiculous amount of time so that a random woman could get on without waiting.  She was my most appreciative RAK victim yet.

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The Angst of a Mid-20’s Non-Adult

27 Jun

 

 

 

Loser

Not quite an L. Photo by Lenore Edman. Click to check out her Flickr Photostream.

I’m tired of being an adult.

Really, I am.  I know: blah blah blah you’re still young, you haven’t even started, just wait til you (insert crappy adult stuff here).

I’m still sick of it.

The only reason I do grown up things is because I have to or I have panic attacks.  I go to work, pay bills, clean the apartment, get the oil changed, go to the grocery store, and open a savings account.  Those things take up most of my time in life.   And I’d venture to say about 90% of the time, all those things piss me off.

They piss you off too.  Don’t lie.  You’re getting ready for work every day but what you’re thinking inside your head about all the other, more important, more pleasant things you could be doing.   I certainly am.  While I’m talking on the phone at work, I’m usually doodling a picture of myself stabbing my ear with a pen repeatedly until I die.

Or flowers.  Sometimes I draw flowers.

I started working when I was 16.  Kmart, if you’re curious.  I was Employee of the Month because I’m a super nerdy overachiever and the only thing to aspire to when you’re working the register is the highest rings per minute.  Every day was a race.  And I rocked it like a nerdy nerd.

I also wrote an essay likening my supervisor to the devil and described the feeling of my soul slowly rotting while I was at work.

It won first place in a contest at my high school.

Later I moved into the position of car dealership receptionist, then some Victoria’s Secret (and no, I don’t know why they hired me), some overnight stock clerk at Sam’s Club, some scene shop work, and some more receptionist work.  And now the Executive Assistant thing.  And you know what? My favorite part of all that was when I was laid off for two months.

That was the bees knees.

I have to find a way to pay bills and seem like an adult without really being one.  This whole ‘get a day job to pay for things while doing what I like but doesn’t pay at night’ thing is exhausting.  Well maybe exhausting isn’t quite the right word.

Soul-sucking.  That’s it. 

I suppose the best thing I could do is be a teacher.  I kind of have to go back to school to get my master’s for that.  I’d be more likely to get hired with a doctorate.   But once I have it, I can have summers off again.  Summers! Entire summers! I could work like it’s part of my life instead of all of it.

Is it wrong to go into a line of work solely for the amount of time you won’t spend at it?

Maybe I can just get all my work angst out in a book.  Yeah.  Maybe I’ll write a book.  Heck, after 2011 who knows what I’ll do with my extra hour-or-more-a-day that I don’t have to write a post.  2012 could be the year of the book.   It can be all about the angst of the mid-20’s non-adult.  Specifically through the eyes of an Executive Assistant like myself, who works for a woman who wears fashion capes to work.   And then I can get published and get paid to write satire.

Maybe then I can have summers off. ♣

Today’s RAK:  Plugging meters on the busiest street in the neighborhood at lunchtime.

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The Tree of Life: A Courtesy Warning

26 Jun

I have to admit: the only reason I walked into the movie theater last night to see The Tree of Life is because the preview was beautiful.

It didn’t tell me anything whatsoever, but it was beautiful.  I gathered something or other about the American Dream, something or other about Brad Pitt playing an abusive father, and Sean Penn wandering outside of it all.  That’s about all I got.

I suppose I take it for granted that if a preview is gorgeous and mysterious, that the mystery will be a pleasant surprise when it is revealed to me.  I somehow think that I can trust the preview.  That it won’t show me anything in an attempt to lure me in.  That it won’t make me sit in the movie theater, debating whether or not I should leave.

My trust has been betrayed.

Last night I sat, staring at the screen and feeling like I’d been duped.  I didn’t know what I was looking at, what I suppose to get out of  it, or why someone would want me to sit through it.    It started out kind of normal, but after ten minutes all bets were off.  Suddenly I was staring at strange, abstract images and a voice was whispering to me.  

For ten minutes.

And once that was over, I got a visual walk-through on evolution.  No lines, no narrative, just scattered whispers.   And a lot of intense opera music.  After the fifteenth minute of trying to wrap my brain around this forest of confusion, I let out a small, uncontrollable giggle.

Right there in front of everyone.

Now in a typical movie, I’m sure I would have been shushed.  But two girls behind me had lost their patience long before me, and the couple in front of me were whispering to each other about what the hell was going on.   In fact, after ten minutes of staring at what looked like a computer screensaver, I started to think that perhaps the movie was just one big joke and somewhere, someone was waiting for one of us to stand up and shout “WHAT THE #*(% IS THIS?!”  

I made up my mind to brace and grimace through the movie just when a teenage girl came sprinting up the aisle from the from of the theater.  She raced to the back of the room and out the door, where, once it was closed behind her, she let out the loudest, most hysterical laugh you can imagine.

Apparently I wasn’t the only one wrestling with hilarity.

Don’t get me wrong – there is a part of this movie that I appreciate.  I tried very hard to wrap my head around the movie and to think through why it was laid out this way.   I got the whole sensory images thing.   I admit that there were certain sections that entirely grasped the sense of childlike innocence and real growth that happens in life, and that’s pretty impressive.  And I even reached so far as to see the points the movie was trying to make about how life is so much bigger than one event and the cyclical nature of, well, nature.

But I have my limits.

And so since I found this movie to be generally quite preposterous, and because I felt somewhat duped, I feel inclined to break it down for you.  You know, just in case you got lured in by the preview.  

Truth.

This really isn’t a joke.  I wish it were.

You’re welcome. ♣

Today’s RAK: Baked goods. For everyone.

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The Unsung Glories of Fat Loss

25 Jun
Fat Albert in the NC State Fair Sideshow

Photo by Jo Anna Barber. Click the image to check out her Flickr Photostream.

I think the best part about losing weight is that my legs no longer rub together when I walk.

It’s true.  I’m just saying.  It’s true.

I started thinking that maybe I could begin to break down my weight loss goals into small, measurable goals such as this.  After all, the thing that made me want to lose weight in the first place was the sudden realization that I could push all my spare tire fat to the front of my body and hold it there in my hands.

When you can hold your fat in your hands, you should probably take action.

And so I did.  I can no longer hold said fat in said hands.  And the legs aren’t chubby enough to rub together while I go about my errands for the day.   And since this seems to be an effective tactic, I think I’ll keep it up.  After all, it requires me to admit humiliating and fatty things about myself, get angry at those things, and then change them and celebrate the victory.  How could it fail?

Let’s consider some of my next steps:

  • Wave goodbye and hello without the bottom half of my upper arm waving at a slower rate
  • Wear any pair of pants without a distinction between the fat that makes it into the pants and the fat that pours out the top
  • Eliminate that bra-eating-my-back-fat feeling I sometimes get
  • Bend over in a pair of jeans without my butt crack quietly slipping up and out of them
Of course, there are many goals for after the initial stages that I can’t even fathom right now.  Liberating things like not having to wear cardigans to work in the summertime because I don’t want to look at my arm fat all day.  Or trying on clothes without obsessing over my kangaroo pouch.                                                                                                                                                                                                              
                                                                                                                                                          That’s the pouch of soft, gooey fat in the front of my torso that, if I were a kangaroo, would house a baby kangaroo.  A joey, if you will.  

So here’s to fat loss, and all the small glories I shall experience on the way.  

May I find myself soon unable to harbor a baby kangaroo. ♣

 
 
Today’s RAK:  A little something for a brand new friend.

 

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I, Buddha

24 Jun
Buddha

Me. Kind of. Photo by Tim Niblett. Click to check out his Flickr photostream.

My kitchen now harbors one very small, very sacred patch of earth that brings me sanity: my garbage can.

The other day, I sent David to the store with a list of things I needed “so that I could get things done.”  I did not “get things done” so much as I “sat on the couch and ate ice cream”, but I felt better about my life and he came back with some really interesting stuff.

Tasking Dave with picking up groceries is an intriguing and fragile journey.   It requires frequent phone calls asking for clarification on sizes, brands, and purposes.

Sometimes Dave needs to know exactly what my plans are for an item before he can determine which brand is necessary.

I was on a quest not long ago to make my dad some pickled eggs and sent Dave to the store for said eggs.  Upon reaching the dairy aisle, he immediately placed a phone call to me for clarification on egg size.

It isn’t until times like those that I actually remember that there are different sizes of eggs.   For me, it’s always Grade A – large.    I don’t even know what the “Grade A” is for, but I get it in confidence every single time because somehow, somewhere, I learned that it was the standard. I don’t remember being taught this information; I just know.   I don’t even notice the other sizes of eggs at the store, so much that I act like asking what size I need is a stupid question.

I have to admit that I’m not very good at fielding the grocery questions.  I say I don’t care what kind of whatever he gets but when he brings home something I don’t recognize, I get quite annoyed.   

We’re working through it.

But the other day, Dave brought home a boon in the form of a trash bag.  Apparently, we’re using technology to enhance our trash bags.  These are the things on the forefront of chemist’s and marketers’ minds.    And ever since I’ve eradicated cable from my apartment, I haven’t been getting the commercial updates on their discoveries.    So when Dave brought me home a box of garbage bags that actually stay hugged around the trash can, I peed my pants.  Right there on the floor.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wrestled with my kitchen trash bag sticking my hand in  last night’s leftovers to get it back in working order around the top of the can.  On days when I’ve worked ten hours and have a meeting to go to later that evening, a wonky trash bag is enough to make me lose my screws.

This little material marvel has saved me frustration after frustration.  Every time I go to the trash can, I’m so incredibly relieved by the stress-free experience, that I feel recharged with hope for my future.   I’ll go around and throw things away just to chuckle about how easy it is.

Now I know what you’re thinking – and I did too.  Am I old and boring because a trash bag inspires me with hope for my future?  Or am I sad and pathetic for having something so trivial make such a huge difference?  Or am I just stupid for spending extra money 0n a superbag when I could have just dealt with what was a very minute problem?

That answer is no.  To all those things.  I’ve cut enormous loads of stress off my life with a simple household purchase.

I’m not old; I’m enlightened. ♣ 

Today’s Random Act of Kindness:  Pre-filled all the laundry machines in my building with quarters and smiley face notes 🙂Share

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