The Lazy Bliss of Subscription Services

Here is a brief list of the items to which I subscribe:

• Billie Razors (every 3 months)
• Quip toothbrush (every 3 months)
• L'Oreal Medium Rose Blonde hair dye (every 6 weeks)
• L'Oreal Age Perfect Day Cream (monthly)
• L'Oreal Revitalift Night Cream (monthly)
• Lubriderm Daily Moisturizer Body Lotion (monthly)*
• Bert's Bees Makeup Removing Face Wipes (monthly)
• St. Ives Radiant Skin Body Wash, 6  bottles (bimonthly)
• Listerine Ultraclean Oral Care Antiseptic Mouthwash (bimonthly)
• ArtNaturals Organic Moroccan Argan Oil Shampoo and Conditioner Set (bimonthly)
• Lady Speed Stick Antiperspirant Deoderant, pack of six (every 4 months)

Oh, my friends, there is something so soothing about never running out of deodorant - never having that moment where you blindly pop the top off, being to apply and suffer the plastic scraping up your tender underarm. You don't have to make a CVS run today. You never have to make a CVS run again. Amazon is there for you, friends. I'm Doctor Faustus, Bezos is Mephistopheles and my sweatless, scentless armpits are my 24 years.

The following is a true story: 18 years ago I saw a pretty good production of Mother Courage and have, in the intervening years, frequently pondered how I would get my upper lip de-moustachioed once the wars come.

Intellectually, I know Mother Courage didn't give a shit about the state of her upper lip. But... still...

I'm not all that particularly well-groomed. I work from home and so most days, I don't bother with makeup and keep my hair in a ponytail or bun. But the basic maintenance stuff - the care and keeping of me? How will I manage once the apocalypse comes?

I think about very important things!

In these dark, parlous times, there's just something comforting about having these products all lined up in a row in my tiny little upstairs hall closet. Sometimes I just stand in front of it and look at the St. Ives and the Lady Speed Stick all lined up next to each other and feel so relaxed.

I think I need to add floss to my Amazon Subscribe and Save. Oh! And tampons!

These are magical times we live in. Not sure what kind of magic... but magical nonetheless.

* This is a lot of moisturizer. I know. I cannot abide dry skin. I know there are people who get out of the shower, towel off and then just get dressed and I do not understand what even is your life. Lotion  is wonderful! Get some!

Deep Sighs and Eye Rolls in Toronto's Pearson

Backstory: two days of meetings with reluctant Canadians. Readers, your beloved American corporate traveling blogger is pooped to the poop.

I am in Toronto Pearson. I arrived four hours before my flight was to take off. I was second on the standby list for the earlier flight. The AA gate lady said "You just have to wait." So I waited with two other weary, hopeful would-be stand by flyers. The AA gate lady kept taking calls and discussing the dire situation of some guaranteed flyers with a delayed connection. She kept repeating: "I don't think they're going to make it." Hope reared up in the chests of three weary travelers.

Right before the door closed, one of the three of us waiting got standby. She told the other two of us "Sorry. It's full now."

Oh my god, AA Lady! What sick games are you playing?! There was only ever one seat remaining? Your "they're" on the calls referenced one person not a few, And I don't think you were being respectful of a gender non-binary passenger. I think you were fucking with us! Evil woman!

You held our dreams of an early arrival in the palm of your hand and you toyed with us!

Respect.

So I wandered through Duty-Free. Here's the thing about brief work trips to Canada. You get all the little inconveniences of being in another country (your money don't work, your cell phone don't work), but it doesn't feel any different than any other Anywheresville, (North) America. Sure, there's an occasional "aboat." But mostly, we're cut from the same cloth.

This is probably deeply offensive to Canadians. I would apologize only I didn't make the earlier flight and am not feeling inclined to regional sensitivity.

So I wondered through Duty-Free where I learned that my math skills are not equal to the task of combatting sticker-shock at Canadian prices. You want SEVENTY dollars for that?! I know it's only *clicks tab to google currency converter* $51 in my money, but it sounds like SEVENTY DOLLARS!

So then I wandered to a bar (shocking) where I learned that at Toronto's Pearson the only bourbon you can get is Knob Creek (YOU WANT $24 for one double bourbon!!).  Which was better than in the terrible Hilton Garden Inn in Vaughan, OT, where they only had Maker's Mark and did not even have the good manners to feel bad about that. Maker's Mark is terrible fucking bourbon and if you drink it you should feel bad about yourself. I said it. Fight me. Go to the island of people who buy overpriced bad booze and hang out with a bunch of senselessly smug Grey Goose drinkers.

So I sat at this bar and ordered a Knob Creek (double. Don't judge me. I DIDN'T GET ON THE EARLIER FLIGHT!) and a glass of ice water. The 60-something lady bartender returned with the bourbon but not the iced water and I said "Can I get that iced water?" And she engaged in the world's most inadvertent deep sigh and eyeroll and said "I know. I'm just getting it."

Did I get my dander up?! You bet I did! I (silently... never piss off the bartender) got my dander up and engaged in an internal diatribe railing against that inadvertent deep sigh and eyeroll.

Dander determinedly still up, I decided that since I had all this time to kill, I should probably do some work*. I opened my laptop, logged onto a VPN and then an RDP session at which point a Windows OS had the rank AUDACITY to ask me for a password.

Obviously, I let loose a deep sigh and an inadvertent eyeroll.

And now I feel a deep kinship with this bartender.

The world is fucking exhausting and people (and operating systems) are always requiring us to be polite in the face of dumb things and we really all just deserve to sit on comfortable couches and watch endless reruns of Schitt's Creek while drinking lovely cocktails and, I don't know, probably snuggling a cat or a cute little dog or something and instead we just have to keep smiling through all this nonsense!

I really thought I'd slide into the second half of my life as a lady who offered wisdom and kindness.  I pictured myself a disseminator of pearls of wisdom, hugs and auntuncular (THERE IS NO FEMALE EQUIVALENT TO AVUNCULAR GODDAMMIT PATRIARCHY!) enthusiasm. I may still be that lady.

But I cannot stop myself from the deep sighs and the eyerolls. I have earned them.

Also, Woodford Reserve which should be available at every airport bar in North America!

Goddammit, Toronto's Pearson!

*I did not do any work. Instead I wrote in this dumb blog. It's way more fun.

David Byrne Thinks I'm Doing Fine, right?

I have a pretty good job. I work from home which means the days when I wear a bra are outnumbered by the days when I do not, which is amazing. Also, I like most of the people I work with; they're nice and funny and smart and come up with clever and interesting ways to do get the work done and to keep the ship moving. It's nice.

But it's still corporate America. It's still all that shit. It's still emails and calls with people who think that sounding less human makes you sound more professional; it's still the bleak, nagging, constant awareness that the men (always men) a few professional tiers above me are barely aware I exist beyond whatever potential I have to increase or decrease a bottom line.

And so, no matter how much fun I have with my colleagues, no matter what little successes I enjoy, on the daily, I'll find myself poring over a string of text in a log file or entering my 90th minute on a conference call and suddenly...

I like to think there are people out there enjoying professional lives in which they, also on the daily, stop and think "Yes. This. This is exactly what I'm meant to be doing." But I also know that even if you have the most fabulous career... even if you're an alpaca farmer or a dolphin trainer or an astronaut... you still have moments like:

And I think that's just life. Or maybe it's the middle of life? There was a time when I got a huge gas out of business cards and meetings and feeling like a grown-up. That was fun. But then, at some point, I can't help feeling like a banal cog in a boring wheel and I'm sure I'd be a huge disappointment to the kid you used to be.

Sigh. That's probably not true. I have a nice life. I have a great family and a good salary; I'm healthy and fairly strong and, this really cannot be overstated, often go DAYS without having to put a bra on. Still, I'm curious, how do you handle the existential dread? The feeing you missed that left turn at Albuquerque? Right now I'm watching Stop Making Sense with my daughter and a glass of pretty decent red wine. It's working. It's mostly working.

God David Byrne was such a fabulous weirdo.

But Why are the Big Stories?

I click over to The Chicago Tribune on the daily because, frankly, no one is better at weather than Tom Skilling. I'm pretty sure Tom Skilling doesn't so much report on the weather as he controls it (magic!). Back in the old Streeter's days, my lunchtime crowd was often made up of construction dudes who would demand that I turn on the WGN news so they could check with "SkilletHead" about the weather. "Skillethead is always right," they told me. They were not wrong.

Fun fact: Tom Skilling is Jeffrey Skilling's brother. If you don't know who Jeffrey Skilling is, congratulations on forgetting about the Bush years - but seriously, you should remember the Bush years because they were terrible and instructive of how Trump is a symptom of the evils inflicted on this country and the world at large by movement conservatism and getting rid of him will not fix everything; in fact, it won't fix much of anything. We have to do it, but don't kid yourself that a Trunp-free America will soon be anywhere near what America had oughta be.

(Man, it'll be nice, though, to see the back of the lying loudmouth tacky tacky tacky old racist misogynist. Pick your candidates, volunteer, knock on doors. Engage.)

Anyhoo - back to the Trib. They also have good food critics and theater critics and some good OpEd writers. But I refuse to subscribe to them because they endorsed Gary Johnson in 2016. Gary Who? Gary Not Hillary Clinton, I'm sure, was all the hoary old conservatives manning (word choice intentional) the Trib editorial board cared about.

So they get no money of mine; but I do return, on the daily, to find out what old SkilletHead says is comin' down the weather pike or what Chris Jones thinks about whatever play I might be checking out. And I always start on the front page.

The Trib has been flogging two stories on that front page for what feels like forever (this is how time works now). One of them is the Jussie Smollett thing. We'd all be better off letting Jussie Smollett fade into obscurity. I believed him when the story first broke. Turns out he was lying. But this doesn't mean there isn't a huge surge in right-wing violence in America. It doesn't mean the CPD is suddenly a paragon of professionalism and public service. It feels less substantial as a celebrity scandal than the Varsity Blues thing.

Their other story du jour is that terrible, TERRIBLE story about the Crystal Lake couple that murdered their 5 year old son. That is such a tragic, horrifying, upsetting story. But I also don't get why it remains front page news. Those two should die in jail - what more is there to say about it? I guess there's an argument that the bigger story is how the system failed that little boy - but it sure does feel like the paper is trotting out the pictures of those two monsters for us to gawk at and feel superior to (lord, is a lower bar possible?).

Earlier today, I clicked over to the Trib on my way to find out if it'd be raining tomorrow (it will) and saw a breaking news post about William Barr deciding to skip the House Judiciary Hearing. "Can he just do that?" I wondered. But I had some work to do and figured I'd come back to that later.

When I went back, I had to scroll past two stories about Jussie Smollett before I got to one about Bill Barr.

... This Moment of Clarity

This blog title brought to you by Jay-Z, Danger Mouse and The Beatles. Do you remember The Grey Album? How great was that album? Back in the old days of Pindar, we had this server where folks would share music and someone uploaded The Grey Album which I in turn burned to a CD which I then later downloaded to my iPod and listened to it over and over and over again. The Grey Album is so great.

Until two or three minutes ago, I thought The Grey Album was lost to me forever since that server and that CD and my iPod are all long gone, daddy, gone but then I remembered there was an internet. Sometimes I forget. But there is an internet and nothing ever goes away from the internet so I am currently listening to The Grey Album.

I should probably keep on with a theme here and talk about the ethics of all of this but I spend so much time worried about the ethics of things and Jay-Z and the Beatles and Danger Mouse are all fine. They're fine. Well, a couple of the Beatles are dead and I really haven't heard much from Danger Mouse in a while, but according to Wikipedia this is because I am old and out of touch and not because he is not enjoying a fulsome, rewarding career (I may have put some words in Wikipedia's mouth there).

Since all of the parties involved in The Grey Album who still walk the earth seem to be fine, I'll instead tell you about this Jay-Z-esque moment of clarity I had today. It was amazing. Listen up:

I had a frustrating morning professionally. They happen. I sent an email expressing frustration which was received poorly and the fellow who had the poor reception made sure to CC some people who are routinely mad at me on the castigating response so everyone could focus on how I'm an asshole rather than the problem. This is my interpretation. You can't have it. It's mine.

I was angry. But I was also worried and upset that people were mad at me.

Shortly after, I went to walk the dogs and to ruminate on this. Almost as soon as I was out the door, the anger was completely unseated by the worry and upset and I was braced to spend the walk (and most of the rest of the day and much of the night) consumed with "you stupid bitch" regret and desperate mental gymnastics trying to conjure up a way to make everyone not mad at me. Instead, all of the sudden, somewhere between Bunker's and Ginger's poops, this thought flew into my brain: I don't really have to care that these people are mad at me. I just like that decided not to accommodate my practically pathological need to be liked.

See, I have a lifelong problem with needing people to like me.

Lookit: I am a woman who is well aware of all the ways in which I am goddamn fucking replete in character flaws. I have a whole bunch of 'em and I could quite easily delineate them to you (sometimes it's how I get myself to sleep). I have many of these because I am a human person and we all have a host of 'em. If we didn't have a host of character flaws, no one would like us because we'd be robots and not cool interesting robots like in Westworld or Battlestar Galactica. Boring ones like the ones who took all the factory jobs like a bunch of dickhead robots.

So there are a lot of ways that I don't mind being a normal flawed human person. But this fear of offense, this need to be liked, is really not great, Bob.

And because I've been this way for so long, I've sort of accepted that I yam who I yam and stopped trying to stop trying to make sure everyone likes me.

And then, just like that, I decided "there's not really a whole goddamn lot I can do about this so I'm just going to move on." And then, you know what, I moved on.

What do you think about that? 

I know, Jay-Z. It's pretty great!

Ghostbusters, For Some Reason

I told myself that post my fabulous vacation that I would knuckle down and continue with my Daily Rule of Fours. This is the thing wherein I try, every day, to actually accomplish something in each of the following areas:

• Domestic
• Physical
• Professional
• Creative

(You guys visit my increasingly rare posts in search of bland visionboard style life style advice, right?)

I do pretty well with the first three. I like my morning visits to the gym and I can't stand for my house to be untidy and, well, they make me do stuff at work. But the fourth one is taxing my limited energy sources. I would really like to finish a work day around 6:00 or 7:00, have a glass of wine and read a book and then read a little more in the tub and then watch some TV (there's just so much) and then go to bed.

God I love bed. Don't you? Isn't it just the best place ever?

Anyway, I'm going to blather on here in an attempt to be a little creative today. This counts! I am creating a blog post!

Sometimes I think about Ghostbusters. As one does. But not about the stuff you're probably thinking of. Do you remember the scene where Sigourney Weaver comes into her apartment and she's wearing aerobics kit and she's carrying a single bag of groceries and it's a dark out and it's in New York City?

That scene was so aspirational for me! I imagined being a cool big city person and I'd go to aerobics and then come home and get ready to go out and I was pretty sure that there wasn't actually an ancient Sumerian god named Juul who would thwart whatever glamorous evening plans I have.

(Look, I know the god's name wasn't Juul. I know what a Juul is. I live with a teenager, for god's sake I'm also not sure that Grool? Quool? Zool? It was Zool, right? Zull? was Sumarian. But if I got any of that right, I'm pretty impressed since I haven't seen Ghostbusters since the 80s)

Now I am like every trite, cliched middle-aged dumbass internet mommy blogger type person because the idea of going out after a work day? When there's a hot bath and a good book and all that TV and my bed just right there?

Madness.

But a particularly disappointing madness.

I want to want to finish work and then go to aerobics (I kinda miss aerobics) and then bring a single bag of groceries (eggs, milk and a six pack of coke, if I recall correctly) and then put on some cool dress and then go out for the evening and look like Sigourney Weaver and not get assaulted and then turned into a dog by an ancient Babylonian (Sumerian was right, wasn't it) god.

But I don't want to do any of that. I want thick socks, a good book, a hot bath and to catch up on HBO's Barry.

I wonder if I'd be as fascinating as Sigourney Weaver if I'd settled in big city New York rather than big city Chicago?

I dunno. I'm tired.

Last thought: I never wanted to go out with Venkman. I was always definitely a Spengler girl. How cute was young Harold Ramis?

(I felt like this blog was missing a gif)

Post January Resolutions

Guess what! This won't be about racism or race or politics! This is an entirely frivolous post which is perfect for Rachel gifs!  I'm gonna work through all the Friends over the next month or so That'll be a fun little project!

About a month ago, fresh in the post-Christmas swing-of-things, I made two declarations because I am a person who makes declarations now. Deal with it. My first declaration was that 2019 was going to be the year of Giving People A Break. That guy who cuts me off in traffic might be in a huge rush because his wife is pregnant. That person at work who sent the rude email might have just gotten chewed out by his boss. My daughter is sarcastic at me because she is 15! Let's give people a break! Right, Rachel?

Look, I get your skepticism. The world is complicated and difficult and maybe we don't make excuses for terrible people. So I don't care what happened to Mitch McConnell. That guy can continue to fuck right the fuck off.

But while I was making Declarations (I've decided to go on ahead and capitalize Declarations. I feel like that's warranted), I also declared this month Not Buying Stupid Shit January.

Buying stupid shit makes me feel like I have some control over the future. I may not know how I'm going to pay for Laney to go to college or whether or not climate change has us irrevocably fucked. But this Thing will make some other Thing OK:

I dunno, Rach. I think I deserve a promotion to Head Buyer.

But, money is money and waste is waste and we should all probably buy less stupid shit. So let's take to Amazon and see how I did through Don't Buy Stupid Shit January:

January 5

I made bread on January 4th and that went pretty well so I decided to buy a sifter. It was $6.36 and I used it when I made some killer biscuits last weekend. I declare this... I mean, I Declare this: not that stupid.

January 18

Did you see how long I went without buying anything stupid? How impressed are you? I'm VERY impressed with myself. Now, what did I buy on January 18th:

360 biodegradable poop bags for $15.99. Gurl, that is 100% not stupid. That's the definition of a wise purchase. I am a good and virtuous person who picks up the dog poop in biodegradable bags which she buys in bulk in order to maximize cost efficiency. Winner! 

January 21

Only three days. Less good. What did I buy?

Great. Now all you bitches know my bra size. Whatever. But, here's the thing, I had two good bras and one of them died on a work trip. Just fell apart. Underwire everywhere. I was going to buy another new bra at Soma or someplace good, but instead I bought the cheap one, which is... fine. You may wonder why a grown woman only has two bras. I work from home, motherfuckers. I am able to eschew the daily bra! So, I have two bras; I exhausted one and then replaced it on the cheap. I am KILLING Don't Buy Stupid Shit January! 

Feb 1

Look, these are "shipped" dates not "bought" dates. I bought this in January.

Basic pet maintenance. I'm still the very best at Don't Buy Stupid Shit January! 

Feb 1

Uh oh. There are two coming tomorrow?

This is empirically a little stupid. But it's only $13 of stupid and my neighbor has one and he loves it and there was also a Medium post that recommended it to me via email, describing it as the Best Tech Purchase of 2018 and so they're definitely spying on me. Still, only $13. But also... a little stupid:

February 4

Did I buy something stupid today? On the last day of Don't Buy Stupid Shit January? Did I entirely fold and buy something I almost definitely do not need and which is also sort of stupid?

STRAIGHT TO THE GIF!!!

You know what, Rachel? You don't need to judge me. It was less than $25 AND IT HAS POCKETS! (How, do you think, do pockets work in a scarf?) If I love it you're all gonna feel real stupid for judging me for buying something stupid on the last day of Don't Buy Stupid Shit January.

You guys have any thoughts on what I should Declare for February? Maybe Don't Eat Stupid Shit? I'm taking recommendations, but don't be a-holes about it. It's still Give People A Break 2019!!!!

Ooh, excellent idea, Rachel! I Declare next month Bring Back Dope 80s Slang February. Who's in?!

Another One for My White People!

Hello, my fellow white people! I come at you from my very own living room where the heat is working and I am watching Friends. I've been thinking about Ross a lot lately. Ross was terrible, right? But David Schwimmer was hilarious. I do enjoy this show. Despite all of the way it's problematic, Friends is still pretty great.

That said, if the lack of PoC and alllllllll the gay panic are too much for you, here is a handy mechanism for employing your white privilege in a very specific way:

Sadly, I'm going to have to step away from Friends for a moment to talk about something uncomfortable. Race. More specifically, racism.

I've been hearing a lot that you can't call all Trump supporters racists. It's just dumb! And Rude! Here's Chris Cillizza on the topic:

I had to trawl through his Twitter to find that. I can't stand Chris Cillizza. I'll be in this mode for the next 20 minutes:

I've heard it from Jake Tapper and Joe Scarborough and my own Facebook feed. Look, I don't think 47% of white Americans are racist! That's nuts. I think 99.9% of white Americans are racist. It's kind of hard to avoid when you've been told your whole goddamn life that you are the Normal and everyone else is the Not. We have been socialized to white supremacy in this country. We like to think of white supremacy and racism as white hoods and folks hollering the n-word. But it's so much more pervasive and insidious than that.

Think of the movies you've watched and the TV shows you've been into. Think about how you feel when you're the only white person in the room. Think about how rarely that's happened! Think about it. Really. Challenge yourself to be as honest as you can.

 

See, racism doesn't begin and end with white hoods and the n-word. That stuff is out there (and more so than it used to be due to Dear Leader). But racism is also that casual surprise that someone is smart, that casual suspicion that someone is scary, that pervasive belief that people who are not white have racial identities, but people who are white just have identities. Stuff like that.

We need to stop being defensive about racism. We really really really have to stop thinking that an accusation of racism against a white person is on par, somehow, with the victimization of black and brown people BY racism. We need to accept the culpability that all white people have in how white supremacy remains the Way Things Are in America. We need to stop using terms like "racially charged" and stop pretending things like birtherism or "Build The Wall" or "Low IQ" or any of it is NOT what it definitely is. And, yes, that fucking hat. If you put it on, you've made your choice. 

In the end, racism is a white person problem to solve. And if we continue to put white feelings at the center of the debate, we'll never get there. Ever. So if you find yourself feeling reflexively defensive in the face of an accusation of racism?

It'd be nice to think we were better than we were. We're not. The election of Donald Trump, a man who put out a full page ad in the New York Times demanding the execution of five teenage boys for a crime they did not commit and who has never once apologized for that, proves we are not. And the fact that no one - not Joe Scarborough or Jake Tapper or Chris Cillizza or any offended white journalist - demands a response from him about this shows how brilliantly insidious this whole thing is.

It's incumbent upon us to be anti-racist. To constantly fight against our own racism, the insidious ways that the white supremacy we've been socialized to informs our thoughts and actions. And to be better, man. We have GOT to be better. 

I leave you with this. Because it slays me. Friends is funny. Fight me.

Work and Death

A man I've worked with for many years died a few days ago - very young and very unexpectedly. And when I got the news that he died, I felt so sad because he was a warm, gentle, kind person and I'd always really liked him. I liked him but I didn't really know him all that well. He was someone I saw once a year at our user groups and someone with whom I had occasional conference calls. But those calls and conferences did span out over years and years.

These working relationships are strange things, aren't they? I was super close with my colleagues at the bar where I worked in my 20s and then really dear friends with the folks I worked with at my current place in my 30s. Shoot, I consider myself pretty close to the people I work with now, even if we really only ever socialize on business trips.

But then there are all those people whom you interact with from day-to-day - people you know how to make laugh and who make you laugh, people with known foibles that irritate or amuse you, people you go to for help, or know how to workaround when they're not helping. But these people aren't your friends and if they move on professionally, you might wish them well, but then will likely never speak to them again, except maybe on Facebook.

It's a weird fact of life, isn't it? How many people you'll know without really knowing.

A connection is a connection, though. These corporate relationships are, by definition, transactional, but they don't have to be only transactional. You can, you know, like people; appreciate the fact that you get to spend a little time with them, enjoy their company and give them a break when they fuck up or annoy you. Connect.

I mean, don't be weird about it. Corporate America is filled with weirdo pitfalls. Stay the hell out of those. But also, be kind. Maybe kindness mitigates the emptiness in corporate America just a little.

Seriously, though, don't be weird. And RIP to Brent. He was such a nice person.

The Fours

Every year I fall for the sucker bet of Resolutions. I was more sanguine about this in the past. But I was more sanguine about a lot of things in the past. I'm in the throes of perimenopause and Trump is president and I'm running on a patience deficit. Right now I'm annoyed that Google isn't recognizing perimenopause as a real word. What the hell, Google? I bet if perimenopause were a guy thing you'd recognize it as a real word and some actual treatment for it would exist AND be covered by every insurance plan.

Am I being paranoid? Perhaps Fairuza Balk from the seminal 90s movie The Craft could answer for me.

God, I loved that movie. Fairuza Balk is so 2018 mood up there, isn't she? Let's do another one. Fairuza Balk as 2019 mood:

AND WITH MY RIGHTEOUS FEMININE WRATH, I THUS RENDER WALKING, SUBTLE MAKEUP AND PLEASANT DEMEANOR OBSOLETE.

Back to, sigh, resolutions. I made one. I have this thing about the Fours. In which I deem a day successful wherein I have some accomplishment in one of the following four areas, annotated with how I have done today, which is Jan 2, AKA a day when most people are managing to stick to their resolutions.

1. Physical. I went to the gym today, dammit. I did a weight-lifting cycle wherein each particular muscle could be considered adequately worked out if I needed to make a weird face to get to the end of a set of 10. The weird face rule is mine. It is not endorsed by any medical professionals. But you're welcome to it. I'd also like to do something about this flat, white 49 yr old ass somewhere in 2019. But, I really think genetics are against me on this one.

2. Domestic. Gurl. I did laundry and washed the dog. Sure, I may have paid a lady to do the bulk of the housecleaning today. But it counts. Washing the dog is a pain in my rapidly deteriorating ovaries. I mean, not literally, But I'm all for "ovary" replacing "balls" in all cliches because female reproductive organs are mighty and balls are weak and the fact that we keep letting men pretend that "balls" (which are FAMOUSLY tender and easy to injure) means "strong" is responsible for at least 37% of the patriarchy.

3.  Professional. Ugh. This is my least favorite because my job involves a lot of spreadsheets these days. I'm not saying there's not a real sense of accomplishment that comes with wrangling a series of disparate tasks and responsibilities, making other people's day go a little more smoothly, etc; but if I had a time machine I might go back and be someone who takes care of people. I like people (can't you tell from my dulcet, perimenopausal ((ITS A WORD, GOOGLE!)) tone?). And I like taking care of people. Corporate America offers good healthcare and good money (which is how I can afford to pay a lady to clean my house) - but it can feel empty, can't it? Anyway, I got to InBox 0 today. That's an accomplishment, especially after a long break.

4. Creative. I'd like to give myself a break and say that playing the piano or reading counts. But I don't think it does. I think I need to write things down to really exercise my creative muscle. And I would very much, this year, like to write stories. Not that these giffy collections of attempted hilarity aren't creative exercises. But it would be better to tell a story, I think. I just feel story-depleted. Is this a side effect of perimenopause? Does perimenopause cause a deficit of patience, your period to go haywire and story depletion? Someone should warn a gal.

Anyway, I resolve in 2019 to try and hit The Four every day. To write stories and work on my body and keep my professional and personal houses in order.

Of course, if I could find three other like-minded ladies it may render all of this moot., Hit me up if you're into it, but I get to be Fairuza Balk!