Successful people…can do laundry

A successful person wakes up in the morning at the start of a bright, fresh day. They stretch with the sun, look outside, and sigh as the warmth and light washes over them. 

First on the to-do list?  Laundry. But for them this is not a chore, they do not need to scour the floor trying to discern between the clean clothes and the dirty. They have a hamper, with all the worn clothes in it. 

In preparation, they eat granola and fruit, brush their teeth then hop into their running shoes and coordinated jogging suite. If they’re doing laundry, goshdarnit, they might as well make it an event!

That's when they throw their laundry bag over one shoulder and jog to the laundry mat down the street (really successful adults have washing machines, but that’s another story). 

While waiting for their clothes, they do laps around the neighborhood.

250 calories lighter and clothes freshly cleaned, they jog back home and enjoy the rest of their day feeling both accomplished and really all right with the world.

I…end up with moist, wrinkly clothes that I was better off not washing in the first place

I had to do laundry last weekend. I knew this because I was down to my last pair of skanky white granny panties.

Clothes were all over the floor, including the pants I had removed where I stood and were still upright, inviting me to jump back into them at a moment’s notice. Convenient! 

It pained me to disrupt this obviously superior system, but I did so for the sake of everyone who had to be around me. 

I put the clothes in my hamper/laundry basket and headed to the laundry mat with my boyfriend. 

We put everything in a machine and left, exercising our power of freedom while other suckers wasted away waiting for their clothes to dry.

High on rebellion when we returned, I was all smiles until I noticed that there were none of my clothes where my clothes had been.

Panicking, I imagined the myriad of ways in which my clothes were being pet and rocked like a baby by an insane clothes-stealing maniac. 

But then I spotted them. Someone had TAKEN THEM OUT. This was better, but I was still really pissed that some stranger had their hands all over my stuff.

For this, I treated the perpetrator to a passive aggressive rant. This consisted of me turning to my boyfriend in her near vicinity and loudly saying, “I’m really pissed!”

She didn't flinch and he just kind of stood there then announced he had to leave for work. This meant I was stuck drying everything. Not my forté. I’m terrified to the point of paranoia of my clothes shrinking, due to the fact that I have a longer than average torso and belly shirts happen to not be my thing.

I stuck my hand in and everything felt hot and dry so I figured enough was enough. As I was leaving, a sudden torrential downpour outside made for a both foreboding and ironic sign.

When I got home I immediately wanted to put on sweatpants. It is not in my nature to wear real clothes at any part of the day in which it's not absolutely necessary.

But when I reached for them, they were not the warm, comfortably ill-fitting sweatpants I wanted them to be. Instead, they were a moist, crumply mess.

Heart sinking, I felt the rest of the clothes. All wet – including my boyfriend’s.

The worst possible thing I could imagine at that moment was returning to the laundry mat, so I hastily begun to hang up everything on any surface I could find and turned the heat on high.

But this did nothing, and hours later the moistness remained like a sopping mark of failure on my life.

When my boyfriend came home, he looked at all the hanging wet clothes around him and then at me.

Lying in bed, I just kind of looked back.

“I’ll go dry them,” he said.

Thanks, boyfriend!

Successful people…have cute first crush stories

I...have this:

It was just another regular day at preschool. My class was sitting in a circle on the carpet like we did every morning. Being shy, my favorite thing to do in those predicaments was to play with my toes. Focusing on something else entirely allows one to create an air of nonchalance and self-importance.

It was while concentrating intently on wiggling my left pinkie toe independently from the others that I suddenly felt the urge to look up.

That’s when I saw him.

Aaron.

How had I never noticed this glorious man-baby before? His dazzling sexually ambiguous haircut gleamed golden in the florescent light.

I had a sudden pang of yearning deep in the pit in my stomach, one that that would not let me stop staring at every opportunity. In the sand he was ethereal. On the swings he flew with the grace of angel breath on the wind. Peeing on the carpet? Pure magic.

I HAD to have him as my snack table buddy.

Snack table was a Montessori- like attempt at teaching sharing and friendship. One could not sit at the table alone and always had to have a buddy to share snack, athough no more than one buddy at a time was allowed.

If I could only trap him there and keep him against his will for the entirety of snack time, he would surely fall as madly in love with me as I was with him.

I yearned after this dream for many days (hours) until finally, I got my chance at true love.

I was minding my own business, playing idly with an abacus during free play when God smiled upon me, as does happen when one plays with an abacus.

“Aaron’s at the snack table and needs a buddy, Inez. Why don’t you go over there and sit with him?”

The voice from the air was Janett. It was hard to tell her apart from the other teachers, Janet and Lanett.  Their big, free-flowing 80’s-tastic haircuts merged into one giant bouffant-donning superwoman of a memory.

I plunked myself down across from him at the little plastic blue table.

Staring unblinkingly at him through my centimeters thick Bambi frames, I unceremoniously stuffed a piece of celery into my mouth. The chewing was loud and my mouth open, but I wasn’t about to let anything distract me. I would stare him down until he loved me.

He ran away.

The nuances of courtship still escape me.

Successful people…have dinner parties

They look through their iPhones and pick out several successful-people friends to invite over. Sometimes, they send out INVITATIONS IN ADVANCE – again, I am putting the most unbelievable things I'm listing in all caps.

In extreme cases, those invitations are INDIVIDUALLY HANDMADE.

The host then CLEANS for the upcoming party, GOES TO THE STORE and BUYS INGREDIENTS for a meal they will MAKE FROM SCRATCH. KNOWING THE RECIPE BY HEART, THEY MAKE IT IN 30 MINUTES WITHOUT BURNING ANYTHING and MANAGE TO KEEP THE KITCHEN COMPLETELY IN TACT.

They do all this while donning an apron that really brings out the color of their eyes.

Then the guests show up and exclaim: “It smells delicious in here! Here’s my also homemade dish crafted with winks, smiles, and the sincere hope for your wellbeing and that of the world’s!”

Then they all sit down at an expertly coordinated table complete with exquisitely made table clothes and MATCHING CUTLERY.

“Look at this expertly coordinated table complete with exquisitely made table cloths and matching cutlery!” they say. And, “This food is just BEYOND.”

To which the host replies: “Thanks so much. The food took me no time at all and I made the placemats myself from recycled baby seal fur.”


I…served someone water who came to my apartment once. 

It went something like this: They came into my apartment (which smelled faintly of rotting broccoli since I had some rotting broccoli).

They then stated how their absolute least favorite food in the world is broccoli as they proceeded to take some stuff off a dining room chair so that they could sit down.

I was too lazy to do the same, so I just stood there and looked at them in silence.

They looked back.

Continuing to stare, I began to grate cheese to eat straight from the grater.

After a few awkwardly meaningful looks were exchanged, I panicked and OFFERED THEM WATER. To my dismay, they accepted.

There was more silence.

It was then that I realized what they were waiting for. They expected ME TO GET THEM A GLASS and PUT WATER IN IT FOR THEM. Already too committed, I grabbed a glass, filled it with tap water and gave it to them.

They drank it.

I have refused to let them – or anyone else really – in my stinky apartment since.

P.S. Believe it or not, I was actually invited to a real-life honest-to-goodness dinner party once. I brought a frozen cheesecake.

The end.

Successful people...can have a decent Memorial Day Weekend

Successful people LOVE three-day weekends. This is because they embark on excursions with either their significant other and dog, or with “the girls.”

If it's the former, camping is a likely choice. They'll lay out under the sky, stare at the stars, and warm by a fire that they built with two sticks and the blessings of Hephaestos, God of Fire.

They'll bond with each other and nature, really feeling the earth beneath their feet and wind beneath their wings. They'll stop and smell the roses, bound with their dog across an open field, and truly understand the meaning of life.

If it's a "girls' weekend", shit will get a little crazy. Not really crazy, mind you. Just sort of. This trip will most likely take place in Palm Springs, since it doesn't have the same stigma as Vegas and none of the Wayne Newton.

All “the girls” will lie out by the hotel pool and order a drink such as a Hibiscus Mai Tai-licious (you're welcome, some rum company). While they sip, they’ll stare over their sunglasses at passing men and giggle, “We're SO bad!” and “Samuél can never know!”

As the night goes on, they'll go shopping, get pedis, have dinner, then get ready for a night out – all while continuing to drink. Then they'll go to the club and say things like, “We're the hottest bitches in here!” and “Drink up, slut! Don't waste!”

If a man dare respond to the excessive staring and approach one, the chosen girl will angrily tell him to back off and exclaim to the others, “OMG, what was he THINKING? I'm taken, why can't he tell that by the manner in which I'm acting? My personal space bubble is PERSONAL!”

The weekend will end with approx. 2.5 of the women puking and/or understanding the true meaning of life.


I...get a sinus infection

I woke up on Saturday with a head full of promise and a heart full of sincerity.

This was going to be the best day. A day of all days. It was the start of my 3-day weekend, and even though I had no plans, I felt some would surely fall into my lap.

A BBQ perhaps? Not that I knew anyone having one, but I was positive that a pudgy bluebird would show up at my window any minute with a teeny invitation tied to his teeny bird leg. “Cute!” I'd exclaim. “Sure, I'll go! I can't wait...”

And that's when I felt it. The feeling that my face had been stomped on by an elephant, hit by a prizefighter and – to add insult to injury – rammed repeatedly by a face-sized rhinoceros.

I got up, hoping that vertical-ness would be a distraction from the pain. It did not. I drank water and hoped really hard, but apparently I kind of scrunch up my nose when I hope, and that did not do good things for my nose pain.

I knew I needed medication, and decided to not waste any time procuring some. As added motivation, I received the following text from a friend: “Reggae festival today, bitch!”

When I called the doc's office, they had the PA on staff get in touch with me. She called from her private cell phone and couldn't order me a prescription for another few hours until she was in front of a computer.

Undoubtedly, she was on a boat somewhere off the coast of Maine being über successful.

Inez, Success Ruiner!

As I crawled into bed mid-day and my boyfriend set off to swim somewhere in the hotness, I gave up inside. I was just too bad at that day.

In the evening and after I got my antibiotics, we ended up eating leftovers at his parents' house and playing an hours-long round of Encyclopedia Book Trivia.

For those of you not familiar with Encyclopedia Book Trivia, it is a rousing game that starts when someone begins looking up something in an encyclopedia for no apparent reason – screw you, Internet! – then proceeds to read random questions from that book against everyone's will.

The good news is that since there's a book per letter, you can be pretty sure what the answer will start with.

Turns out “mfire” is Indeed. Not. A. Word.

Quest for a life-changing discovery, complete.

Successful people...are successful

Successful people. You know them. They are those adults who have somehow miraculously developed into just that.

They can do things such as take care of themselves and get along with others. They also have their own special set of social interactions that display these traits to the world. Like a peacock sporting it’s ability to throw a mean dinner party or its always cheery outlook on life, instead of colorful tail feathers.

They're easy to spot. Their hair is effortlessly lustrous, they COOK FOR OTHER PEOPLE – I have put in capitals all of the most unbelievable things that I’m listing – they keep immaculate places to live and manage to not only acquire objects they need to fill that space but have matching, well-designed décor that they make themselves with their very own two hands, extreme blessings and mud.

They say things like, “This lobster bisque with chili hollandaise sauce and ginger mango snaps that I have BROUGHT FOR LUNCH was a breeze to make. Allow me to repeat the entire recipe to you right now that I assume you will remember it in your mind, seeing as you don’t have a pen and obviously have the cooking abilities of a five star chef that are required to make it!” and “Yoga has changed my life. I know everyone says that, but it really has!”

They love excursions and take day trips. They RUN IN THE MORNING BEFORE WORK. They “push back” on things that don’t go their way at that work. They leave uplifting away messages on their AIM that really make you think. I could go on, but the point is that I am not one of these people.

I watch them on a daily basis, trying to harness their power.

But the fact is that it doesn’t matter how many intermittent yoga classes I take, I still can’t touch my toes. And even though I cooked pasta with sauce that one time (I even HEATED THE SAUCE) I was left feeling bitter that I had to MAKE IT in the first place.

In this blog, I will record my attempts at infiltrating their world — from the mildly successful to the incredibly miserable failures, both past and present.

As I do, I’m sure some of you successful people will want to chime in. Feel free to, even if it is from your iPhone while “GRABBING EVENING DRINKS WITH CO-WORKERS.” Ugh.