Yesterday while unraveling my extension cord, I got to thinking. Get your mind out of the gutter. I was getting ready to use that evil lawn care tool – the Weedeater. What you are thinking about uses batteries. Otherwise, I would go crazy during a black out. Although I carefully wind up my extension cord after every use, I still end up spending at least ten minutes unraveling it and spreading it out, or I end up all tangled up while trimming. OK, that did sound a little dirty.
Anyway, that ten minutes could be spent doing something more useful, and before you suggest a gas powered Weedeater, I don’t like the idea of hanging an internal combustion engine off my shoulder and storing it in a shed that is only feet from two very large, space shuttle sized propane tanks. That is why my lawnmower is a reel mower with no engine. I already have a thirty-year-old station wagon that could spontaneously combust at any moment, I don’t need to worry about lawn care equipment as well. I once lent my extension cord to a neighbor back when I lived in Dutch Village in Newport News, and he returned it all tangled up. How inconsiderate. This is why I don’t like lending people my things. They do not take care of their stuff the way I do. Yes, I know, my mother rushed my potty training, and all of you are paying the price for it.
As I was saying before I interrupted myself, that ten minutes spreading out my chord could be put to better use. I am known for my time management skills. I can get more done by 10:00 am on a Friday morning than most can get done in an entire weekend, so I am bothered by those things in life that take up valuable time. I work two jobs, run a home-based business, write a column for a magazine, edit a newsletter for a car club, write this stupid blog for which I don’t get paid, and I am working on a book, yet I still find myself with time to clean, organize closets and cabinets, do laundry, wash and detail my cars, and do lawn work. Nana used to say I was busier than a blue-assed fly. I still don’t know what that means.
The cicadas are returning after a seventeen year hiatus, and in a day or two, they have to come out of the ground, learn how to fly, find a mate, have wild fly-like sex, enjoy a post-coitus meal, land on a leaf and die, leaving a shell that would make a fabulous earring. Once ground temperature reaches sixty-four degrees and they emerge, I will check to see if they have blue asses because they are busy.
There are a lot of things in life that take up time. For instance, eating. I have not missed a meal since 1962, which is why my safe word is “dinner.” I am like a panda. I eat all day long, I have sex once a year, and I usually don’t do it correctly.
Anyone who has had the pleasure of dining with me notices that I eat like a prisoner. I clean my plate before Manfred from cell-block B can come over and dump my tray over my head, then drag me back to his cage for wild fly-like sex. Thank God, I am a law abiding citizen. I always say I am too pretty for prison. Not to mention that I attract the crazies, so sit back and imagine that for a while.
Don’t worry, I’ll wait. Yeah, prison sex – everyone’s fantasy from straight guys wanting to be a guard in an all-female prison to gay guys wanting to be a guard when Jeff Stryker is incarcerated. That is until you think about how long the usual sentence lasts and you realize this is one fantasy that goes on and on and on.
Back to food. Yes, I eat fast. I have been known to clean my plate before the waiter finishes serving everyone at the table, and that is when it is just two of us. If you do dine with me, and you are a slow eater, be prepared to hear me say, “Are you going to eat that?” If you don’t answer quickly enough, my fork will be stabbing whatever that is on your plate. I once had dinner with Ed’s sister, and she didn’t eat her broccoli, so I used my fork, like a gentleman of course, and took one floret. She about went ballistic. This surprised me because I thought she was Jewish. If you eat dinner with a Jewish person, be prepared to have him take a bite of your meal before he takes a bite of his. Seriously, I am more concerned with what you ordered than I am with mine because that means I can taste something else from the menu.
My father used to cough on his brother’s food when he was a kid, so he could have a double portion. I have yet to reach those classy heights.
Another thing that takes up a lot of valuable time is sleep. I don’t nap. I have never been able to nap. When I try to nap, all I think about is all the things I could be cleaning and folding. Then I get up and clean or fold something. You have been warned if you ever take a nap with me while naked. Think about it.
Years ago, I read David Brenner’s autobiography, Soft Pretzels with Mustard. Did you know he has made more talk show appearances than anyone in history? Do you even know who he is? Did you know he has been engaged to Tai Babilonia for eight years? Do you know who she is? In his book, he talked about how he only slept for three hours a night because he hated wasting time in bed. I tried this. First thing I found out was if you call your friends at three in the morning to see if they want to go grab a bite at a diner, they get a little annoyed. These were the days before cell phones and caller ID, so ringers usually weren’t turned off. The second thing I learned was that no one can live off three hours of sleep a night. For the one and only time in my life, I took a nap. Unfortunately, I was also driving. No one was hurt, and there was no damage to the car, which is surprising since I was about seven hundred feet into that corn field when I woke up. Have you ever tried to drive out of a corn field quickly while being chased by an angry farmer on a combine?
The one thing that takes up too much time is going to the bathroom, especially the paperwork. I dated a guy who only evacuated his bowels once a week. Thank God I was never around when that happened. But seriously, once a week? Obviously, he was not Jewish. Eight-seven percent of the people who have irritable bowel syndrome are Jewish. The other thirteen percent are converts.
I go at least three times a day, usually five. I know, too much information, but I calculated how much time I spend in the bathroom. At fifteen minutes a trip, and five a day, that is 1,368,750 minutes, which works out to 22,812 hours or 950 days. Half that time is spent wiping my ass, so I have spent 475 days or 1.3 years wiping my ass. How many of you work in an office where they have the John Wayne toilet paper? The kind that is rough as hell and won’t take shit off anyone. You can double your wiping time, unless you do what I do – carry a bag of baby wipes with you every time you go. I am not kidding.
Every time I have one of those evacuation orders that requires extra paper work, all I keep repeating to myself is, “I don’t have time for this! I don’t have time for this!” Now that I realize I have spent 1.3 years with my hand back there cleaning the remnants of yet another prisonlike meal, I am even more annoyed.
Do you know what I could have accomplished in 1.3 years?
Has anyone invented a portable bidet? Can they install a bidet in a mobile home?
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