Isn’t it incredible how much lighter you feel after completing a series of menial tasks? There’s euphoric satisfaction inherent in getting shit done. The less surrounded you are by piles of paper, dirty clothes, and looming debts, the happier you are.
I’m so happy about the stupid and useless tasks I accomplished this week that I feel compelled to write about them.
I began cleaning out my car.
This is huge, because my car almost always borders on filthy. It doesn’t smell - at least, I hope it doesn’t. Still, it’s always littered with old receipts, discarded MapQuest directions, and dirt brought in on people’s shoes. I got rid of the paper and a good portion of the winter grime. Once I get it in for a much overdue oil change, I’m going to get it cleaned. I’m excited about this, almost as excited as I would be if I were about to win a lot of money.
Seriously, that’s how dirty I let my vehicle get.
I did some much-needed grocery shopping. I’ve been dedicated to making healthy lunches, and doing so gets expensive (but still beats out eating at Subway twice a week, financially speaking). Still, I’m always satisfied with my new-found health-consciousness every time I stack up on fruit.
Actually, today marks the fourth occasion on which a co-worker commented on my preference for pineapples and bananas. Those fruits, she claimed, are filled with sugar and will “make me gain weight.”
Repeatedly commenting on people’s food choices is almost always uncalled for. It belongs in the same category as making untoward remarks about someone’s wardrobe to his or her face. Honesty is not always the best policy - in fact, it’s sometimes the worst policy to abide by. Silence, in some cases, is the best (and perhaps only) course of action.
I’m certain that this woman only comes to talk to me in the lunchroom to see what I’m eating. I’m developing a complex, one infused with slight anger and a large helping of indignation.
I managed to take my dog on a successful walk - meaning he walked, on his own, for about half a block. He fought valiantly at first - rolling on the ground, pulling back on his leash, flipping onto his back and refusing to move, etc. He barked and cried and growled and snapped, all to no avail. I’m larger, faster (no, wait - probably not) and smarter than him.
What kind of dog dislikes walks?
Mine, that’s who.
Figures.
I have a roadtrip to prepare for, and I’m incredibly excited.
It’s been awhile since I’ve gone away. In fact, I haven’t had a weekend away from the ordinary since October. That, I suppose, isn’t a long time in the grand scheme of things, but I’m getting tired of the usual surroundings.
The reason for departure revolves around a friend’s ascent into old age - 24 years, to be exact. A birthday party in a far-off (well, actually, not really) land is an exciting thing, mostly because it’s moderately - by my standards at least - exotic. Trips are almost always exciting, especially when you take them with good people.
Needless to say, I’m looking forward to two days of touristy debauchery - not to mention a hotel-stay. I’ve always had a thing for hotels, and until now, have never had the opportunity to have sex in one…
Speaking of sex, an interesting story came to my attention last week.
I was reading Savage Love (as is my weekly ritual), and came across a fake letter written to Dear Abby. The letter detailed a fictitious man’s struggle to deal with a fictitious situation involving sex and mistaken identities.
The writer claimed he was stranded in his parent’s home with his wife and three brothers (all of whom were physically similar to him). His wife, who opted to sleep alone due to a budding cold, came to him the next morning to thank him for the incredible late-night sex.
The problem?
He didn’t have sex with her.
He went on to ask Abby how to confront his brothers, and Abby told him to instead confront his wife - who, she believed, probably knew she was fucking someone else and decided to play innocent outright to mask her guilt.
That advice is, no doubt, ridiculous. Any advice to a question of that nature would be, because a situation like that is never - ever - likely to occur.
One, if someone’s wife or partner were to thank him for sex that he knows he did not partake in, would he say, “you’re welcome” and take his concerns to Dear Abby?
No!
He’d likely stare at his wife in horror and proclaim, aghast, that he definitely didn’t have sex with her that night. Or, initially, he’d express some degree of telling confusion - telling enough to horrify his wife, should she have genuinely believed the man in bed with her to be her husband/boyfriend.
He wouldn’t sit and deliberate for several weeks before contacting - of all people - an anonymous advice columnist. He’d want to find out which brother fucked his wife, and he’d want his wife to know that the mysterious late-night lay had nothing to do with him. He’d no doubt be shocked and appalled at his wife’s apparent inability to recognize the man she’d been sleeping with for several years.
Brothers may share physical characteristics and mannerisms, but they probably don’t share all or most sexual proclivities, and there would have to be a few anatomical differences.
People love to ask advice columnists asinine, made-up questions about absurd sexual situations that involve young, hot people (women, more often than not). Actually, after briefly pursuing a porn store in Amsterdam, it seems that inhumane and degrading sexual situations are endlessly appealing to a decent number of people.
Women with dogs. Women with horses. Women with gardening tools and children’s bath toy, etc.
A symptom of societal sexual retardation?
Perhaps!