Doing things is hard.
Sometimes I think that it's a miracle that I ever accomplish
anything, especially once I adjust the degree of difficulty
of doing things to include procrastination. I remember reading
somewhere that a way to make completing tasks easier is
to break down larger tasks into smaller ones. That way you're
constantly reaching incremental goals en route to your final
one.
This doesn't work. Even the simplest of jobs becomes an
infinite regression of baby tasks; the effect is not dissimilar
to pouring water on cute little Gizmo and winding up with
a phalanx of slimy, hissing Gremlins that want to eat your
socks and swing from the ceiling fan while blasting Alice
Cooper on the stereo.
To whit:
"Make some coffee" becomes:
1. Turn off alarm.
2. Pull aside covers.
3. Get out of bed.
4. Walk over to kitchenette.
5. Open freezer.
6. Retrieve coffee.
7. Open drawer.
8. Take out filter.
9. Put filter in coffee maker.
10. Scoop out coffee.
11. Put coffee into filter.
12. Dump out yesterday's coffee.
13. Wash out coffee pot.
14. Measure water for coffee.
15. Pour water into coffee maker.
16. Put coffee pot onto burner.
17. Turn on coffee maker.
18. Wait for coffee to brew.
19. Wash coffee cup.
20. Pour coffee into cup.
21. Wash spoon.
22. Add sugar to coffee.
23. Add creamer.
24. Stir coffee.
25. Drink coffee.
Contrast with:
"Watch TV" becomes:
1. Sit on couch.
2. Turn on TV.
3. Watch TV.
What if I were feeling a little randy after waking up instead
of in need of a caffeine fix?
"Have morning sex" becomes:
1. Wake up.
2. Realize dream of showering with Jennifer
Love Hewitt was not real, at least not last night.
3. Get out of bed.
4. Rummage around under bed for contraband Xerox
copy of Charlie Sheen's little black book, won in lieu of
Sheen's pinky in Hitchcock-style game of finger-chicken
with a meat cleaver.
5. Begin in "D" section; it just feels
like a day for a Deana or a Diana more than a Kitty or a
Maxine.
6. Make awkward phone call trying to explain
how I got the number, where mentions of "bets,"
"finger-chicken," and "meat cleavers"
do not help cause.
7. Give up after seven calls despite some intriguing
offers involving where to put my cleaver or alternate definitions
of "finger-chicken."
8. Call Sheen and demand his pinky since black
book is not working out like I'd hoped.
9. Have pleasant chat with Denise Richards as
she calmly explains that I can't take Sheen's pinky.
10. Resist urge to tell Denise that she only rated four
of a possible five stars in Sheen's black book despite being
married to him, and that most five-star entries refer to
Heidi Fleiss girls that "used [his] ass as a trumpet"
or were versed in the obscure "Hungarian Birdbath."
11. Log on to internet to check bank balance against possibility
of obtaining five-star morning company.
12. Resign self to inability of affording to find out what
a "Hungarian Birdbath" is, or even unraveling
the mystery of the more pedestrian, three-star "Reverse
Mudflaps."
13. Call Sheen back and ask for loan against results of
next "finger-chicken" game, in which I have posted
record of 32-0 against Estevez clan.
14. Desperation trip to "Sure Thing" section of
black book.
15. Listen to busy signal on Drew Barrymore's line.
16. Dial unnamed two-star number from black book, labeled
only "In Case of Emergency."
17. Listen to surprisingly seductive message on Andy Dick's
machine.
18. Screen call from caller ID reading "Dick, A"
and listen to sing-songy entreaty to pick up the phone.
19. Cower in corner while sucking thumb. Consider, then
reject,idea of picking up phone.
20. Sigh.
21. Put on Al Green CD.
22. Notice week-old TJ Maxx circular has lingerie section.
23. [censored]
24. Cry. Then pray.
25. Make some coffee.
It really is a miracle that anything ever gets done.
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Above:
My highly collectible "Taking Care of Business"
Elvis alarm clock doesn't seem to help much. Below: A better
looking and somewhat hairrier representation of how I start
each morning.
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