Friday, September 9, 2011

I need a personal assistant.

Not the pretentious, "go pick up my dry-cleaning" personal assistant, but rather the personal assistant who acts as a conscience when no one else is watching.

Today, for example, I'm supposed to be snapping photos of random piles of stuff around the house in order to potentially avoid the previously-mentioned garage sale.  I said to myself, "Gee, self---"  Wait.  That came out sounding like Wally Cleaver.

I said to myself, "Listen, self.  If you can list the big-ticket items on Craigslist and get them gone by Sunday evening, then there is really no point to having a garage sale, right?"

On paper, this sounded great.  In reality, however, I did pull up Craigslist in order to remind myself to snap those photos, but instead perused Sarasota County's Farm and Garden section, sending an email to a lady about some Ameraucana chickens.

Kind of the same, but different.

If I had a personal assistant, he or she (or perhaps androgyny would work best here) would tap me on the shoulder and give me that same look my mom used to give me when I'd get antsy in church.

(You all know THAT LOOK.  Don't kid yourselves.)

I wouldn't take advantage of my personal assistant.  Oh, no.  I'd never trick my personal assistant into folding my laundry, or unloading my dishwasher.  No, I'd just ask that when she/he saw me heading toward the couch with a red bowl of cheese puffs in one hand and my Nook under my other arm, he/she would give me that same, know-it-all look.  I'd slink back to folding the laundry, muttering under my breath at how stupid my personal assistant looks in that stupid hat.

I MIGHT have my personal assistant look up some research on the internet.  I MIGHT.  A few days ago, I was at Aidan's bus stop talking to my neighbor.  She had been unable to reach her father-in-law in Venezuela, and was beginning to get worried.  Being East Coast and all, I asked her, "What's the time difference there?  What are they, like, three hours behind us?"

She shook her head.  "No," she replied.  "They are a half an hour behind us."

A HALF AN HOUR??  I thought time zones went by HOURS?

This is the kind of thing I MIGHT have my personal assistant research.

I don't know, though.  Is my personal assistant smarmy?  Would she/he start fucking with me in an attempt to make me look like a fool should I ever go on Jeopardy?

"This planet, rich in molten lava, was first discovered in 1799, when Pope John Lennon the 1st invented the telegraph."



I've got this one in the motherfucking BAG.  "What is Uranium?"

The audience collectively snickers, my personal assistant just KNOWING how much I hate snickers.  Stupid Alex Trebec would be all, "No, I'm sorry," and then he'd probably rush home and tell his wife what an asshole I am.  He'd probably put that video right on YouTube.  Stupid YouTube.

Forget it.  I'm fine where I am.

I've gotta run.  Time to fold the laundry.  Damn you, Craigslist.