After an hour of chemical triage last night, my kitchen sink drain is still as slow as a Bush brain cell. But at least it now has the fresh scent of bleach.
My attempts at self-manicuring
In an unexplainable fit of homosexuality, I bought a six-in-one nail buffer ("two surfaces for shaping and four surfaces for buffing!") yesterday. I guess I wanted to have manicure-fresh hands for tomorrow's photo shoot without all the bleeding that a real manicure produces. So this morning I started hacking away at my fingernails, and now that I'm sitting at work checking out my handiwork, I'm finding weird ridges and little cross-hatch scars all over my nails. And now my buffing mishaps will be preserved for all eternity in the pages of Chicago Magazine. The horror!
The Home Depot's marketing department
One of the beautiful things about all that personal data that's out there for marketing departments to exploit and citizens to irrationally fear is that it prevents you from getting things you absolutely won't buy. It's why I don't get coupons for feminine hygiene products in the mail and Antonin Scalia doesn't get invitations to circuit parties. But someone has to let Home Depot in on the secret. My nine-digit zip code alone tells every marker in the world that I live in a highrise in a very population-dense neighborhood of Chicago -- and by extension that there is a very poor likelihood that I have a garden and that there is near absolute certainty that I don't own or use a garden hose. So what did Home Depot send me this weekend? A coupon for a hose extender for watering my garden.