If You’re Not Part of the Problem, You’re Probably in Denial


I had an intervention with myself yesterday.

I was considering these coffee cutbacks I had taken upon myself (granted, with my best interest in mind) as perhaps a bit too extreme, and I was thinking maybe, just maybe, I should cut myself a little slack.


I showed up at my dealer of choice yesterday, feeling positive. That is until the barista said, with a knowing chuckle, “You’re late today!”

Well, well, well. Why the familiar tone, mon cherie? And who put so much “know” in your chuckle?

Feeling slightly discomfited, I tried to brush it off. AND I was going to get a smoothie instead of a coffee. Baby stepz, right? Everybody knows that smoothies throw a powerful antioxidant-vitamin hook kick to your immune system, especially if you add in a little flax seed and wheat germ and hair and who knows what else. There should be a “don’t ask, don’t smell” policy with smoothies, in my humble experience.

There is nothing innocent about the smoothie
photo courtesy of Flickr and rileyroxx

Anyway, it was a no-go. The place was out of bananas! No smoothies to be had. Not just by waywards on the mend, but by anyone!

Ok. Enter phase II of self-improvement sequence. Hot chocolate. Caffeinated but not nearly as much as an espresso one-two punch to the gullet. So I tried out that choice on our barista. Let’s call her SUPERMEAN.

SUPERMEAN is delighted with my hot cocoa choice. She doesn’t think I could’ve picked better. She’s convinced I’ve made some great decisions in life, but this is by far, the greatest. Good thing I didn’t tell her about the Java Minimization Program.

Anyway, then as I’m leaving, she really laid it on me, in this serenely snide tone, with a chipper “See you tomorrow!”

What the.

How dare she.

There was something so calmly all-knowing about those three little words that I could only sip my heavenly beverage and seethe into my steaming cup. Her tone and words were exactly the kind of cheeriness a drug dealer uses when completing a sale with a junkie. And not even a respectable junkie, but rather a junkie with bloated self-worth who’s suffering from delusions of trying to turn over a new (tea?) leaf.


Anyway, that was enough to convince me I have a problem. But of course, the best way to wean yourself off the brown ambrosia is, of course, to couple it with sleep deprivation and lots of it.

What better way to combat lowering your dosage of uppers than with a militaristic regimen of fatigue and insomnia?!

So to put it lightly, things have been a little off lately.

I had a minor panic attack when I had to tell the people at lunch to remake my pizza with green peppers instead of pepperoni.

And last night, when a dead fly fell out of one of my bags, I spent quite a bit of time looking up superstitions on dead flies. I also gave the fly a tiny and brief funeral.

I can’t focus on people’s faces when they’re talking.

…plus other assorted goodness, all brought to you by the Society for a Caffeine-Free ‘Parna.

Zombies outside an institution of coffee? How fitting!
photo courtesy of Flickr and atp_tyreseus

Of course, all the coffee drinkers I talk to think I am making a very bad decision, very bad indeed. The way they carry on about it, you’d think I didn’t know what I was doing!

(Haha. Joke’s on me.)

Well, Try Harder Then

(This entry has no focus. I don’t know why I bothered mentioning that this time.)

I. Clothes Make the Man (i.e., the One Who Is Oppressing Us/Me)

Hi, so I realized a lot of people at work dress up (yeah, I just realized now. I was living in last season’s rose-colored bubble until a moment ago). But not in a trying-too-hard way. But rather in an efficient and color-coordinated way. I am always impressed by their wanton yet measured style.

I often end up sharing the elevator with one of these fine specimens, and I think “Why me?” and then I just stare at the panel of floor buttons for the entire ride rather than the snazzy buttons on whatever productive assemblage they’ve managed to pull together.

It’s hard to talk to someone who’s much better-dressed than you are without it turning into a quasitragedy of manners. You can only use the I-dress-for-comfort plea so much while halfheartedly fingering the ratty sleeve of your for-bedroom-only sweatshirt (you know, the one with “No Coffee? No Thank You” stained on it in peeling puffy paint) that somehow made it into the light of day.

Ok, I get it. I should have put more thought into my outfit.
photo courtesy of Flickr and mbtrama

I’ve tried taking the stairs instead but I realize I run up between levels all zig-zaggy like a harrumphing hooligan. Woe to those who may bump into me because collision is inevitable. I look at my feet and tend to stomp when on an incline.

II. Cleanliness Is Next to Evolution

So I try and take comfort in other aspects of work life such as having a clean desk space.

Do I succeed in this endeavor? No, of course not. Failure is the order of the day.

My desk is always covered in dust. I don’t know why. I don’t know where it comes from. But I do know no one else has this phantom dust that follows me around in the manner of Pig-Pen.

In fact, all my office furniture is covered in dust. And I wipe it all down every week, but the dust is back a day or two later. I don’t see anyone else with this problem. Heloise, help!

This is insane. I don’t even smoke.
photo courtesy of Flickr and kaeau

III. Financial Blow-out! Market Clearance! Everything Must Go!

Also, I hear our country may be headed into another depression. The more, the merrier, I say! Come join the rest of us mental health enthusiasts on a macrocosmic scale. We’ll read up on 10 Ways to a New, Stress-Free You (as if stress comes without a price) enough times that you’ll be able to debut your laissez-faire self by next summer, give or take a few moon cycles!

I also like how all the analysts talk about Wall Street (suits) versus Main Street (the commonfolk). Main Street sounds like a place where there are parades and ice cream trucks. Wall Street sounds like a place where there are charades and bailouts and rundowns and kickbacks and smacktalk.

Sometimes I forget that people make up Wall Street. It’s easier to think of it all as a giant robot with platinum grillz who is wearing a blue button-down shirt with a white collar (who sold the first one of those, I wonder).

Next stop, Treasure Island!
photo courtesy of Flickr and epicharmus

Does anyone else also still imagine large sums of money as only existing in briefcases carried by trenchcoats at midnight and/or in burlap sacks with dollar bills on the outside? I know there are also liquid assets but those just remind me of melting bars of gold. Take a nostalgic dive in Uncle Scwooge’s money bin!!!

In the meantime, start prepping the bunker. First order of purchase: bunker beds.