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I’ll stand up later.

By conversations, hazards to my well-being, holiday fun, not ruling at life, technological enigmas No Comments

My back hurts, so I went to get a pedicure yesterday at lunch just to sit in the massage chair, and that felt awesome. While I was there, I read this article about how people are shortening their life expectancies by sitting on their asses all day, which I can totally relate to right now because my freaking back has been killing me the past week or so. I’m not sure if it’s from sitting down all day, but I’m positive it’s not from performing any strenuous exercise because I certainly haven’t made any time for that recently.

The article went on to explain that people are suffering from serious neck injuries from looking down at their phones for prolonged periods of time. Interesting. Not really. If someone is dumb enough to look down at their phone until they feel like someone is  stabbing them in the neck (as stated in said article), that person might deserve to spend a few days in bed looking at the ceiling, pondering the meaning of life. (Real life, not battery life.)

One reason I don’t look down at my phone all day is that I know for a fact that my phone is not smarter than me. Sorry, Google. The Android is a nifty piece of work, but it’s not smarter than me. Neither is your e-mail service for that matter.

Take this, for instance.

The page at https://mail.google.com says: Did you mean to attach files? You wrote “is attached” in your message, but there are no files attached. Send anyway?

Lisa responds: Get a grip, Google. There was a time when people used terminology like the word “attached” to describe something other than digital files linked to an e-mail. Some of us who exercise the full extent of our vocabularies on a regular basis continue to use the word to describe tangible objects, such as the sleeves of this Halloween costume being attached to the vest. Stop reading my f-ing mail, you nosy pain-in-the-ass. And, yes, I want to send anyway. If I didn’t want to send, I wouldn’t have clicked the “send” button, genius.

Another reason I don’t look down at my phone all day is that I know for a fact I cannot walk in a straight line, especially if I am not paying attention to where I’m going. Since I’m already losing precious minutes of life expectancy by working at a desk and staring at a computer, I should at least try not to get run over, you know?

Anyway, I can’t say that I learned much from the article. The article recommended that every hour you get up from your desk and walk around, but isn’t that a given? I mean if you’re drinking your recommended six t0 eight glasses of water per day, shouldn’t you technically need to get up and walk somewhere every hour or so?  (By the way, it’s also recommended that you floss once a day, wear your seat belt, and quit smoking — in case you hadn’t heard.)

I think it’s pretty much common sense that you should sit, stand and lay down in equal increments every day. So that means once leave the office after an eight-hour work day, I should walk around for eight hours straight, and then go to bed, right?

Nah. That can’t be right. Then when would I watch Gossip Girl?

I would say that means I should walk on a treadmill while I watch Gossip Girl, but the thing is…even though the TV screen is larger than the phone, I doubt staring at it would really be much different than the phone while I’m walking, so it’s possible that I would fall off the treadmill, resulting in further injury to my back.

Or not. But I can’t afford a treadmill anyway — no money, no space. Actually, I do have a little money, but I’d rather spend that on a purse. Or a Halloween costume.

In the meantime, I’m going to go relax slowly, but surely kill myself by attaching myself to the couch and rotting my brain with some quality television programming.

This crazy trip has got me feelin’: achy
And I’m singin’ along to: Can’t Go Back Now – The Weepies

AP Stylebook Faux Pas

By breaking news, conversations, political views One Comment

Lisa: "Why is this dumb newspaper referring to the president of the United States as ‘Mr. Obama’?"

J: "What newspaper?"

Lisa: (Scrolls to the top of the page.) "The New York Times."

I bet the AP Stylebook would also be pretty upset with me if I were a journalist and I broadcast my personal opinion about people who are responsible for oil spills. I think someone who is responsible for an oil spill should be taken up in a helicopter over the body of water that person has played a part in destroying, wearing extremely flammable clothing, set on fire, and pushed out the side to plummet to the surface and drown in his mess. Just a thought.

Unfortunately, it’s not as easy to blame one person for causing an oil spill as it is for blaming one person for, say, creating some pathetic excuse for a car bomb out of gasoline and fertilizer, wasting the time (and money) of an entire city’s law enforcement officials. Perhaps we could toss that person into the oil spill instead.

In the meantime, Facebook is trying to make me publicly endorse stupid television shows, hobbies, former places of employment and my hometown in one of it’s never-ending attempts to become profitable.

Idiots.

Not So Minty Fresh

By conversations, food, not ruling at life One Comment

I’m so happy that it’s finally getting warm outside. I love springtime. Yesterday it was so nice out that my co-worker and I decided to have lunch outside. We hit up the Chick-fil-a drive thru and then crashed some stay-at-home moms’ play dates at the park in front of the Bow Creek Rec Center. It was a little chilly sitting at a picnic table in the shade, so I inhaled my chicken sandwich, tossed my bag in the trash, and assumed a position in the sun while M finished her lunch. We chatted about this and that until the sound of crinkling candy wrapper distracted me from our conversation.

"What the hell is that?" I demanded.

"It’s the little mint they toss in the bottom of your Chick-fil-a bag," M said.

"They give you a mint?" I asked.

"You’ve never had one? Yeah! It’s a mint. It’s good."

I stood, baffled, gaping stupidly at the trash can in dismay. I seriously considered for a long moment whether or not I could reach down into it without the sleeve of my shirt actually touching any part of the trash can. I doubted it, but I tip-toed over to take a quick peek inside…just to be sure.

"Damn," I said, straightening up as M tossed her Chick-fil-a bag into the trash, laughing hysterically.

"You’re something else," she said. "Classy."

"Whatever," I retorted. "I’m freaking awesome. You’re laughing aren’t you? Hmm.  I thought so."

Mintless, I turned toward the car, and we headed back to work.