Tag Archives: GTD

Getting to no

I am still SELF-IMPROVING! No, really. I ate a vegetable. I did not smite anyone, even though I felt like it. And just between you and me and the tubes, there are a lot of people who could use a smiting these days! But that is kind of old school, smiting. These days we are “disappointed with the outcome but mindful of your sincere effort.” It is not the fault of the little creatures that they suck.

When kicking it old school, one usedta might cast one’s cares on to the Lord, but today, one casts one’s cares into a series of folders and calendars. The aim is the same: stop worrying about stupid crap. Maybe regrow a leg if you need one, or at least remember to research leg regrowth on the internet. I would like to grow the capacity for human love some day! I hear it is lovely. The internet tells me that my Asperger’s is acting up. It is October: no wonder. A wretched October day! Rhymes with holy. Er, rhymes with getting things so done that they are dead!

Don’t you love it when I rap crazy at you, internet? I have to go call my mortgage company now.


So I took my new H2 to get detailed yesterday. I woke up with a start upon realizing that finger prints from the sales staff potentially lingered, and that simply won’t do. My detailing place staff wears gloves made from the skin of infant eels, as well they should. On a whim, I also decided to have the engine parts system converted so it can run on human blood. It has to be premium blood, but I am sure it will be worth it in cost savings and environmental benefit. I also remembered to stick my “Don’t blame me, i voted for Bush!” sticker on the rear armor panel. That new assault vehicle smell! Nothing like it.

Speaking of nothing, there is nothing in my inbox because I read Getting Things Done. I decided that system was too hard, so I am implementing my own system, Takin’ Care of Business. It is so great! Now I delete everything without even reading it. I also repurposed my paper shredder as an in-box for paper mail, and I bought an automatic labeler. Everything around the house is conveniently labeled “MINE!!!!” or “MiNe SuCkErS!!11” I am, in fact, achieving a state of pure bliss.

What to eat: a sandwich (I wish!!!)

This just in: I am so completely and utterly bored with the internet that I opted to do actual work over reading one more stinking line in Google Reader. Although work still involves the internet, so I guess we have a little problem there. Somehow celebrities will have to wear ugly shoes without me. Life goes on. Somehow.

These days, it’s nigh on to impossible to be a renaissance man. There is simply too much content in the world. I realized this in one gleaming moment of disappointment when I was a teenager and consequently had my first panic attack in an aisle at Barnes & Noble. All those books! All that information! Summer reading lists are the least of our worries. Wrangle the brain chaff, wrangle it, before it buries you like a tsunami.

We have to be adroit enough to build our own highly curated channels of entertainment and educational content in order to avoid suffering total information burn out, but most of us are pretty lousy program directors. If we were given a million dollars and the severed head of Katie Couric so we could create primetime programming, we’d still run nothing but funny cats and grandmas falling down. Or perhaps a baby showing us what birds do. Being well-rounded is overrated.

Which one of you maggots wants to take me to Paris

Financial planning has always been a topic near and dear to my heart. It involves less hallucinogens and guilt these days, but I’m still the one who knows where all the bank accounts are, and more importantly, how to extract money from them. My darling Mr. H says “Dee buh dee buh dee?” and gets direct deposit. I am the evil overlord who makes sure his student loans get extracted on the 12th of each month, as opposed to the 12th of never, his previously preferred date.

Normally, our system works well. I improved our credit scores over the years through the folksy homespun wisdom of paying the bills. To allow some illusion of mutual control, he is a guest user on my Amex. It generally doesn’t occur to him to spend money anyway, just as it didn’t occur to him to pay bills. He’s too busy thinking about complicated pieces of code. I don’t spend that much either, since I was brought up by people who believed “Why buy it if you can make it out of chickenwire?” If I must, I prefer to splurge on things I didn’t get in my youth: things like well-made shoes, hotel rooms nicer than my house, and x-rays performed by a licensed technician.

But the other day, I caught him playing with a Bugaboo stroller. This stroller is nearly $900, or about the GDP of Madagascar. It operates on the principles of the Rubik’s cube or a Transformers toy, so after a lot of flipping and clicking, you end up with an amphibious assault vehicle or Optimus Prime or a detachable bassinet. I’d always just assumed that only assholes who live in Park Slope or the aggressively European couple we know would get a Bugaboo, but damned if he wasn’t communing with one. My poor innocent, attracted to the engineering and oblivious to the social status baggage.

The saleslady pounced and demonstrated, including stealing someone else’s kid to show off the turning radius. I’ll admit that it’s lightweight and impressively easy to spin, but it’s still a little SUV-sized and overpriced for my taste. Then again, I spent a lot more than that on the Democratic party in 2004, and I did not get a foot muff for that investment. I got no muff at all.

Now he’s fairly adamant that the parasite should get trundled around in this contraption. The problem is that I had planned on trundling the parasite through Europe in my abdomen, because I want a goddamn last vacation before she starts playing at nonsense like breathing. Once she’s here, I had assumed that she’ll sleep in a file drawer and get carried in a pillowcase with air holes, just like the good old days. I thought about playing the “we have no money” card since he will never actually look at an account, but this will create problems with my recreational goals. So I see that I have no choice but to weave a convincing Bugaboo replica out of chickenwire if I want a chance to eat my weight in croissants before June. Damn you, the Dutch! You and all your industrial designers. Or perhaps I will just go on vacation by myself and leave Mr. H to push the cat around in the Bugaboo. That way we can afford to do both. What would Madagascar do?

Oh, today in cats: Flop-bott of the bottom system. That will probably end up costing an extra student loan payment.

I’d like to build a value chain, in perfect harmony

Bitches, this is the year I need to monetize all my channels. Because other bitches straight up do not pay on time, even bitches that are normally totally good for it because they have, I don’t know, comptrollers or CFOs or whatever. I do not know what the problem is. Everyone must be off making New Year’s Resolutions like “get organized!!!!” on little Post-It scraps. Mine is “I will bury you.” I had to cancel all charitable giving, and a guy is going to repossess my floors and key my car if you all don’t pay by the end of the month. So watch out, Big Content. I am going to “blog” every day, and I am going to put ads all over the place. You will like it. There will be mention of gumjobs. I might even start spellchecking for you.

All the folks in my life are mystified because Mr. H and I do not exchange Christmas presents. These are the same folks who will go on to ask me “Is he/she a good baby? Does he/she sleep?” And then I’ll have to say “Naw, he/she is a total douche bag of a baby.” I answered the “what did you get for Christmas” question by staring blankly. Sometimes I would grudgingly say “…a house? impregnated?” People. Honestly. We have no money, like orphans! Mr H. had to give the guy at Home Depot a reacharound in exchange for a laser level. I guess his Christmas present was when I explained what a “rusty trumpet” was. Don’t say I never told you nothing.

O incompetence

You’re all in luck, I am pretty freaking incoherent today. A heady blend of dayquil and giant starbucks latte is coursing through my veins. My eyes are glassy, I can barely hear a damn thing save a dull roaring, which could be my monitor or possibly the voices screwing with me. It would be easy to sneak up on me and scare me if anyone were so inclined. And what do I have to do today? Lots of busy work. Print shit out. On the scary big “tabloid” sized paper. Use a 3-hole puncher. I should probably swear off using the paper cutter. Yes, normally I do fairly complimicated technical work, but these days I am the secretary. Secreting everywhere. And it’s not even like I have James Spader for a boss!

Speaking of amputation, it is my fondest wish to have my little toes removed. They serve no purpose, and they make it hard to wear fashionable shoes! I’m not talking about any kind of accident, I want full anesthesia, a reputable cosmetic surgeon, and a prescription for some top-notch drugs for my extensive recovery period. Yes, I want it to look like they were never even there. Tootsies as smooth and gleaming as other parts of my anatomy.

Lambchop, I have set out a bolt of the finest burlap, and it is my fervent hope that the gnomes will scurry out and whip up a flouncy frock for you! I’ve called several bridal supply stores, and they were a bit brusque as they informed me they did not carry any live animals, nor do they have any truck with burlap. I guess we’re going to have to do this ourselves.

In other news, my sister is being stalked by a crazed Saved By the Bell fan! Godspeed, li’l tofu boots!