Wanted: funny thoughts, a pro-bono personal assistant, chocolate, and uncomplicated relationships

There are few things in life that make me cringe more than the thought of become a statistic. When I first started blogging, I found numerous data taunting the fail rate of new bloggers, many discontinuing the habit after mere months. Undeterred, I pressed on, fully confident in my ability to defy those odds. Slowly, I went from posting daily to a few times a week, to once a week, to a new pathetic low of EIGHTEEN days without a blog post.

That does not mean I haven’t forgotten about my lovely blog over the course of the last EIGHTEEN days. In fact, I have had nothing but great intentions to write. Actually finding the time to do it and acquiring a clear enough mind to do so intelligibly has been the challenge. On second thought, if I am waiting for a clear mind and intelligibility, we might as well all give up now, right?

Frankly, you don’t want to listen to me right now anyway. I’m overworked, sleep deprived, knee deep in unfulfilled obligations, needing some quality friend time, and having a hard time being my positive, cheerful, optimistic self. AS IF. Okay, better stated, I’m crankier than normal and trying to make sure I don’t drop any of the 3 million balls I’m currently juggling, all while trying to refrain from punching people in the face. I am mentality picturing the blogging entries that could have filled these past EIGHTEEN days and feeling relieved for the art of self-control.

But you didn’t come hear to read about that, did you. Heck, I couldn’t be witty if you bribed me with front row Jack Johnson tickets right now. Aren’t you glad you stopped by?

However, I do still exist and that has to count for something, right?

Me: Version 3.0

Is it possible to wake-up an entirely different person?

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve come upon the realization that I actually like to cook. More impressively, I’m not half bad at it. Yeah, I know, absolutely incomprehensible. Apparently it has been the bad attitude, lack of planning, distaste of washing dishes, and absence of time that have stood in my way all of this time.

Over the past two weeks, Kate and I have perfected two variations of granola. We’ve also managed to miraculously create a kick-ass roasted red pepper hummus. On another night we made oatmeal-wheat-banana pancakes. Shockingly fan-freaking-tastic. I’ve also become a sheer genius at making swiss oats; if there were a swiss oat making competition, I would certainly be medal worthy. Queen of the oats.

However, I didn’t realize quite how out of control I was until today at work when I told a coworker that I had ordered a pizza peel and 5 quart dough bucket to make some artisan bread this weekend. Her head promptly rotated 180 degrees; she exited my office and inspected the door just to confirm that she had entered the correct office.

I simply cannot explain this transformation. The domestic fairy must have visited in my sleep. I am hoping next time the patience fairy, Banana Republic fairy, anti-procrastination fairy, or extra-hours-in-the-day fairy shows up instead.

I’d love to know what fairy is needed at your house …

Strike a pose

Last month, we were required to get our professional pictures taken for work. The organization I work for thought it was essential for the management team to have their mug shots on our website and for each of us to have our shot to use for press releases and such. I had a hard time paying attention to the rest of the message, I sort of blacked out after “pictures taken.”

There is nothing less compatible with me than getting my picture taken professionally. In almost every studio shot I’ve ever been unfortunate enough to see of myself, I look about as relaxed and comfortable as someone with a stick lodged firmly between their cheeks. For good measure, I swear I develop some sort of exaggerated tourette’s syndrome and my facial features start jockeying for most distorted. My lip curls, my eye squints, my nose starts running away from my face, or some freaky combination of the above occur. A photograph not even a mother could love.

When we showed up at the studio on the day of the pictures, I looked the photographer square in the face and said, “You have no idea what you are up against here, but you better do I good job.” I didn’t know he took me seriously until I realized that he took about 25 shots of me and about 10 of each of the others in the group. Yes, it took TWENTY-FIVE shots to make me look decent. No, I don’t mean 25 of those kind of shots, although that would certainly help.

Earlier this week our proofs arrived at the office. I hoped they might spontaneously combust before my eyes were subjected to such torture, but they didn’t. And believe me, there was torture, about 24 images of pure torture. However, one came through to save the day and the life of the photographer at the studio. Not perfect, but considering what he had to work with, at least acceptable. I can live with it and can now begin to repair the damage done to my heart by this entire fiasco. Do they offer workers compensation for such ordeals?



As my colleagues looked at my picture, they unanimously agreed that, “It’s a nice picture, but it just doesn’t have enough attitude.”

No shit, I said, “I look so sweet, innocent, and friendly, I didn’t even recognize myself.”