Calculate This.

Do you ever get the feeling that someone could do all the necessary research to write the Dummies Guide to Screw-Ups and Grand Oversights after following you around for a few hours?  I was talking to someone Wednesday about a summer night years ago, when I left such a wake of logistical destruction and poor job performance that I locked myself in a tiny kitchen bathroom for like, two whole hours and then proceeded to blubber and wail myself out of consciousness.  In a sort of two-for-one bonus, by quarantining myself there amongst the stainless steel sink and porcelain throne, I simultaneously shrugged off the list of duties I was responsible for that evening, thus increasing my level of negligence exponentially.  It takes work to be that irresponsible.

The real state of my computing skills was brought into the light this afternoon at work, and unfortunately for those in my office, the quality of my accounting expertise would make you believe that a Cabbage Patch taught my Consumer Finance class in college.  I even have a hard time with calculators.  And no, I'm not referring to the scientific kind.

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Seriously though, what the heck does the "*" button mean?  Someone tell me, please, so I don't have to ask.  My intellectual reputation cannot withstand any more scrutiny - the veil is already veeery thin.

When I was in college, I got into the habit of pulling all-nighters when I had a paper to write or a big exam to study for.  Once during my junior year, a roommate and I stayed up all night to work on a two-pronged project for Oceanography.  We were asked to design: 1) an imaginary water-born craft for oceanic exploration, and 2) a new sea monster.  I can't remember what kind of futuristic submarine I conjured up, but I do recall a cleverly-designed sea turtle with a beaver tail-like paddle that was covered in spikes.  I think I also gave him a red Santa cap.  You can't just buy an education like that.

You are beginning to see how productive my night sessions were.  After another of these nocturnal episodes, I spit out a term paper for an anthropology course (it was only my declared major - I couldn't be expected to care about the field of study - that would be just too much).  A little while after turning in my work, my professor called me into his office to give me the verdict.  It wasn't good.

"M, you're a bad writer."

Well, at least someone did their homework.  He was right.  I was rotten at winging it, and I liked him quite a lot for calling me out on it.  He didn't only tell me that I was not the next Emile Durkheim or Clifford Geertz, he told me that I needed to change how I tackled my academic projects.  I needed to chip away at my work one day at a time and not wait until the very last hours before a deadline to start roaring my intellectual engine.

But who wants to waste their time with all that?  Most people strive to learn from their mistakes, but not me.  I like to do my part to keep the average American, well, average.

Read At Your Own Risk. Seriously.

I’ve never had a hangover or a one-night stand, but this must be what it feels like.

My teeth are furry, my stomach is churning like some kind of vicious medieval cauldron and I look like Medusa.  I feel like I could attack someone.  I also feel like this van and I just had the most distasteful and unsatisfying rendezvous ever known to man and vehicle. 

I slept in the fourth bench seat – it’s the longest.  After a really long day yesterday and another hour and a half of moose-patrol to go before reaching home, I counted my losses and pulled over to get some Zs at a rest area.  I had mistakenly left my fleece jacket in Amy’s car on the way to the dealership (biggest regret of the day, period), and therefore was only wearing shorts and a tank top.  So I did the only thing a person with moderately impaired judgment does in a dilemma like this:  I blanketed myself with a reusable nylon shopping bag and tried to doze off.  Honestly, I was uncomfortable before I even considered sleeping in the van, because unfortunately - since I was downriver yesterday - I used the opportunity to fill my gullet with all kinds of unhealthy, processed foods (such as the sausage, egg and cheese croissant and bucket of fried vegetable chips that was my 9pm dinner – a black magic spell for dysentery, I’m sure).  I pray that you never make the same mistake.

It turns out that if you lay in the right direction and are comfortable sleeping in the fetal position, bench seats are not so bad.  My only fear was to be discovered back there, curled up under a Hannaford shopping bag, my B.O. wreaking like a rotten Vidalia.  The last time I stopped at this rest area, there was a drifter tenting in the woods, and I woke up every other hour last night imagining a mangy, suspicious-looking face pressed against the window.

(This was probably an AT hiker in all actuality, but it could have been a drifter, right?)

Driving into work this morning felt like the ultimate walk of shame.  I smelled like I had just returned from being plucked out of the Amazon after spending the previous 6 weeks wandering around and soiling my only pair of clothes.  Plus, I don’t think I’d washed my hair in 4 or 5 days.  Our shower causes me to identify a little with Buddy the Elf during the period that he still lived in a miniature chalet with Papa Elf, but was clearly a large, Will Ferrell-sized adult.  The camper's tub makes me feel a bit like a giant elf-man in an tiny shower, tossing water left and right, minus the cone hat.

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As if all this wasn’t enough, I hit a bird with the windshield on my way back to camp.  I hate hitting stuff.

At least I wasn’t riding a motorcycle.  There's always a bright side.