North Carolina has a program, “Swat a Litterbug,” that lets
meddlesome concerned citizens report acts of vehicular littering. This is the perfect program for me–I get to ride around town, pen and paper handy, and jot down the license plate number of any douche bag I see throwing their cigarette butts out of the window. I then go to the website and report the license plate, along with the date, time, and location of the littering incident. It gives me a small sense of satisfaction to imagine the look on strangers’ faces when they get an (unfortunately non-threatening) letter from the NC Highway Patrol, encouraging them to be more responsible about their waste disposal.
My ultimate fantasy would be to retrieve the jettisoned cigarette butt, catch the litter bug at a stoplight, and toss it back into their car yelling, “You dropped this!” But then I would have to run back to my car and try to lose the irate litter bug in Wilmington traffic, which would be difficult with all the stop lights, stop signs, and the occasional stray dog crossing the road. This scenario requires more gumption than I possess, so I usually settle for pressing very hard with my pen as I write the license plate number down and hissing to myself, “I’ve got you now, sucka.”
All I wanted to do was enjoy Kenny’s delicious guitar riffs.
I like plants. Unfortunately for them, they don’t cry when they are hungry, or wake me up when they need to go outside, or do anything really attention-grabbing, so they go unnoticed by me. My very few attempts at plant husbandry have gone, well, not so good.
Me: Check out my new bedspread!
Roommate: Cool, it goes really well with the dried grasses you have artfully arranged on your windowsill.
Me: Dried grasses? Hmm, I guess I have been less than diligent in my watering duties.
Which brings me to my point. I don’t do office plants. I don’t need a dead plant screaming to my co-workers about my lack of attention to detail. It just doesn’t look good. The Boss’ wife works in the department next to mine, and one day she came out of The Boss’ office and asked me if I had watered his plants recently. I thought I had misheard her. Watered his plants? Is that code for something? Then my supervisor told me that the lady who worked in my position before me always watered The Boss’ plants. Wow. Did she also pre-chew his food for him?
I have enough
email to answer blogs to read things to do at work without babysitting someone elses’ plants. I mean, come on. I don’t expect The Boss to let my dogs out on his lunch break.
Co-workers will make the plant-watering rounds, asking me if I have any plants that need watering. Nope. Do I think The Boss’ plants need watering? Maybe; I know I haven’t watered them. I fantasize daily about peeing on them or spraying them with Round Up (the plants, not my co-workers). Let me reiterate: I like plants. I just don’t like the way they silently judge me as they slowly wilt and turn brown.
Mondays Night = American Gladiators Night. I’m not sure what it is about American Gladiators; I’m hooked. Maybe it’s Hulk Hogan–I had a serious case of Hulkamania back in elementary school. Last night I was hanging out on the couch, drinking a Big Miller Lite because I am a Big Girl, eating pizza and enjoying American Gladiator’s tribute to the new “Incredible Hulk” movie (which I probably won’t see until I get drunk and add it to my Netflix queue sometime next year). I mean, for crying out loud, Titan painted himself green and spoke only in grunts this week. Someone else is watching this, right?!?
Am I the only one who drunkenly adds bizarre movies to my Netflix queue? God help me if I happen to be watching “I love the 80’s” part VIII with a beer in my hand and catch a reference to some bizarre science fiction movie. Three days later it’s in my mailbox, and I have to watch it because I am Not a Waster. Except of time, because “Westworld” was not a good movie, even if Michael Crichton did write it.