So, by way of introduction, I originally wrote this post for the One-Word Blog LinkUp. I loved it. I was off, spending my commute on my phone, getting the ideas down in Google Docs instead of doing my class reading like I was supposed to.
This is what happens when I’m reading my email on my phone while standing at the bus stop with the wind making my eyes tear up and dreaming of my bed at 6:27 a.m.
I was all ready to go live and noticed at the last minute that the word wasn’t really; it was reality. But…I like this post. Really. And I already had it written before I noticed my mistake.
So much for the linkup. But here it is anyway.
That one button in my coat. This is the world’s toughest button. Every other button on this coat, and I mean every single one, has come off at least once. At least. Do a simple thing like slide the button through the hole to take my coat off, and end up chasing said button under the length of three train seats. Except this one button. The one that’s part of the epaulet on the left shoulder, that is constantly being tugged at and jerked on by my bag, no lightweight thing, as along with the usual handbag paraphernalia it is also generally stuffed with everything from my Kindle to my namaste crystal to a couple of textbooks and an apple, maybe a bottle of tea, always an umbrella. That one button just rides it out, no matter how many times I lug my bag on and off my shoulder or how many times it slides down as I walk. All my other buttons should be taking button lessons. Whoever sewed that shoulder button on should be making parachutes and saddles. Really.
Do people really serve things on trays? I read this in books all the time, that our heroine, or the suspect, or whoever, brought the guest coffee or tea on a tray, with cookies and sugar and creamer and spoons and real napkins. Beyond room service and the hospital I have never in my life been served coffee, tea or anything else on a tray. Am I just not going to the right people’s houses? I’ve never served other people this way, either. Maybe I had a substandard upbringing since my parents didn’t teach me this. I don’t even own such a tray. And who actually has cookies lying around in case a guest stops by? You open the cookies and they’re gone, that’s it, that’s how cookies work. But maybe I don’t know this for certain. I make it a point to never drop in on people. I also don’t have police officers and private detectives and amateur sleuths stopping by all the time looking for the secret watchamacallit I don’t even know I have and threatening to arrest me or kill me. I’m not sure I would really like that kind of life, but they have some really pretty trays at Pier 1.
Wearing tights as pants. I would think this was a no brainer. Maybe it IS a no brainer. Where can your brain be if you’re walking around in public in an undergarment, complete with control top and reinforced crotch, and you think you’re fully dressed? I almost officially qualify as old, the kind of old who thinks career wear with bare legs in the office is trashy, but even I get the concept of leggings and yoga pants. But. Tights are not leggings, tights are not fitness wear, tights are not pants. Tights are colored pantyhose. Go put some pants on. You look like a simpleton. Really.
Autocorrect. Really? Where do you come up with this stuff, phone? Does anyone actually use the words “enzyme” or “steed” or “Bulgaria” in a text conversation? I’ve got green money that says the word “does” gets used a lot more often than “duress,” phone. You don’t need fancy words like that, phone. I can manually enter the less common words if I have to, phone. And how come you won’t learn swear words, no matter how many times I type them and tell you that no, I don’t mean “shirt” or “shut” or “sir”? My toddlers had far better vocabulary acquisition skills than you do, phone. Just straighten up. Really.
And speaking of my phone — Google Docs! Now I can write blog posts while I’m walking down the street! A use for my fancy phone vocabulary! All I need now is to clean out my handbag. Really.
The Breakfast Club gif: Totally poached, thank you, YouTube