When you start to really have to pee during the keynote speaker’s address at your niece’s induction into the Adastra National Honor Society

so you run to the bathroom the moment he’s done talking but then you discover that all the auditorium doors locked behind you and you have to watch your niece walk across the stage—and the rest of the induction ceremony—through the window in the lobby door.

This is my last will and testament before I do shoulder presses with only one barbell clip

WHAT KIND OF GYM RUNS OUT OF BARBELL CLIPS?

More importantly, WHAT KIND OF DIPSHIT GYM MEMBERS MISPLACE BARBELL CLIPS IN ODD NUMBERS?

My ablution station may or may not on purpose be assembled in coordinated spectrums of blues and whites

Look what I got the Little Lady for Mother’s Day!

(And by “Little Lady” I mean Bitch Kitty because she tracks her damn Little Lady litter all over the basement family room and I’m too lazy to haul the vacuum cleaner down and back up the stairs so we now have a downstairs vacuum cleaner and I’m quite frankly all but giddy about it.)

The New Yorker + punctuation + mothers + education + gay stuff + manufactured holidays = THE PERFECT MOTHER’S (in my case) DAY POST!

The good news is I finally unearthed my TV from the vast warehouseness of my storage unit

The other good news is the remote is right here ... in ... one ... of ... these ... boxes ...

MISS! BRIDGET! IS! VISITING!

She mortally sucks at looking toward the camera for selfies, so I tried setting up a selfie before calling her and snapping the selfie as she came to me. But she also mortally sucks at not being blurry. So I must now formulate a Plan C ...

Three things I’ve done tonight:

1. Photographed a tree:

2. Split a hosta:

3. Purchased a gorgeous new tablesetting and grippy placemat for Bitch Kitty to replace the ratty old plastic bowl she kept pushing next to the litter box and presumably filling with poop dust every time she buried a treasure:

Seems legit

I assume he had a separate team of caftan wranglers though; those things are a bitch to fold.

Remember when republicans were all about individual "states' rights" when they wanted to control the denial of gay marriages?

They seem to have conveniently abandoned that philosophy now that they want to control the denial of personal autonomy.

First-in-the-morning doctor appointment >

mole scraping > car appointment > three doughnuts while I waited to hear that the car guy couldn’t help me > referral to a different car specialist > estimate and new car appointment set for tomorrow > failed attempt at tying a bow tie in my car > fancy luncheon with lovely people > but first I had to stop in the bathroom and tie my bow tie like a civilized person > nagging headache > more desserts > work > teleconference presentation > untied bow tie because my fat neck was choking in it > still with the nagging headache > return stuff at Target > drop stuff off at Goodwill > drop of bag of expired medications at the police station > yes, that’s a thing > still have a fucking headache > cued lines for an off-book rehearsal > finally home > rakish untied-bow-tie selfie > GODDAMN FUCKING HEADACHE > bed.

Goodbye, unsightly thing on my wrist!

I’m talking about the huge scabby mole, which just got scraped—which, I’m sorry, is just as icky as it sounds—and is being sent off to an undisclosed location filled with people who spend lots of time looking at mole scrapings—which, I’m sorry, would be a terrible name for a band—and we’re all eagerly waiting to hear their determinations—which, I’m sorry, had better not be delivered in band song.

I’m not, for the record, talking about the huge pink bump, which is called a pisiform (which is a weak band name), which is defined as a “knobbly, sesamoid bone” (which is a clumsy band name), which in my case has anyways been so exaggerated in size that it’s made it uncomfortable to wear a watch or a gladiator wrist cuff (WHICH I CALL DIBS ON AS A BAND NAME).

FORTY WHOPPING FIVE DOLLARS

So way back in my old life in Chicago, I was working out with a top-tier (read: exponentially most expensive) trainer at a mega-trendy (read: exponentially most expensive) gym in the Loop (read: a few blocks from my office, which is why I was coughing up exponentially so much money). I met with my trainer at 6:30 am three days a week and worked out on my own at the same time two days a week, which meant I maintained a rigorous schedule of planning ahead, meal prep, gym-bag clothes packing and disciplined sleep every weekday. Plus I kept emergency backup food in my freezer and emergency backup clothes in my gym bag. Just in case.

But.

Despite all my extremely conscientious, extremely disciplined, extremely successful planning and packing over the course of four-plus years, there was one sweaty morning I unpacked my bag at the gym and discovered to my horror that I hadn’t packed any work clothes. Not. A. Stitch. And it was 7:30 am on a weekday in the Loop, which meant there were absolutely no places open to buy clothes anywhere for the next few hours.

But.

My mega-trendy gym DID have a mega-trendy (read: exponentially most expensive) little (read: tiny, shitty selection of merchandise) boutique in its lobby, which also wasn’t going to be open for the next few hours. But the woman at the nearby check-in desk heard my tale of woe and took pity on me and found a key to open up the mega-trendy (read: exponentially most expensive) boutique so I could find something reasonably priced (read: HAHAHA!) that I could buy and wear to work.

The bad news: There was nothing in the entire boutique that said “white-collar desk job.”

The good news: My white-collar desk job had a pretty flexible, non-collar-of-any-color-obligating dress code when we weren’t meeting with clients.

The bad news: There was nothing in the entire boutique that said “less than a mortgage payment.”

The good news: My gym shorts weren’t TOO sweaty and I did have emergency backup clean underwear and I figured could probably get away with spending one day at work dressed like I’d just run a marathon.

Long story short: This T-shirt cost me FORTY WHOPPING FIVE DOLLARS. And while it got me through a mega-casual workday, it actually fits like a cheap-ass five-dollar shirt to this day and I should just get rid of it but IT COST ME FORTY WHOPPING FIVE DOLLARS.

So I feel like I still have to keep it in my shirt rotation. Because FORTY WHOPPING FIVE DOLLARS.

los·er /ˈlo͞ozər/ (noun):

a person or thing that loses or has lost something

Discuss

I think I’m having a personal renaissance

I just opened the first bar of a four pack of "refreshingly clean" Lever 2000 Aloe & Cucumber Bar Soap this morning

It smelled vaguely as fresh as a frolicsome summer's morn when I tried to sniff it through the packaging at Target, but when it finally actually touched my skin it unleashed a disquietingly chemical effluvium of neither aloe nor cucumber nor fresh nor frolicsome nor summer.

I apologize in advance if I smell like plastic salad for the foreseeable future.

Oh, hi

Remember when President Obama was VILIFIED for:

• Arugula
• Flag pin
• Tan suit
• Mustard
• Chewing gum
• Private schools
• Healthy eating initiatives
• Michelle's bare arms
• Being black
• Oops! Did I just say being black?
• Overcoming a proudly obstructionist Congress to provide affordable healthcare for millions of Americans
• Being black

When you clean out your spice cupboard and discover you’ve accidentally been running an opium den