- This let-me-bring-you-just-one-sheet-of-paper-at-a-time thing can stop.
- Pseudo-delegation can also stop. Here's my thinking: If a task starts and ends with you, why can't you also manage to do the work that's required in between, as opposed to compiling stuff to pass off to me so I can do the simplest data entry imaginable just to hand it back to you so you can complete your compilation? It'll only be 10 fewer minutes of Facebook time at the most.
I hate commuting. Have I covered that enough for you yet, really? Let me tell you more about why I hate it.
I hate it because it means I'm forced to drag behind someone in 2nd gear pondering things like the following:
Boxes of Kleenex in the rear view window. I see you sneeze. (Your rapid, jerky braking also informed me of this occurrence.) You sneeze again. I ponder the effects of self-inflicted whiplash as your brake-jam makes a screeching-skrt sound. A car in another lane looks over at you curiously. I shake my head because I feel that you probably need those Kleenex but have no way of reaching them short of shifting into park, getting out of your car and climbing into the backseat of your 2-door car. (Note: This is something you absolutely should not do in front of me because I will mouth unpleasantries in your face as you wipe the snot away and I will be playing a furious fugue on my C-note horn, I assure you.) Anyway, you realize after wiping whatever you just excreted on your sleeve, that you need a napkin. I see you lean towards the glove box. I know that's where I keep my Kleenex, but something tells me yours aren't gonna be there. You check the center console. I see you extract what looks like a phone charger. You sneeze again. I feel so close to you by this time that I think I should probably start carrying Lysol in the car to spray in defense at the air vents. Your head spins around as you fumble clumsily in the back seat for what you can so easily see if you looked in the rearview. You veer a little too closely to the snobbish-looking man in the middle lane. His Lexus doesn't seem to fancy a meeting with your Mazda. Finally you look up. I am smiling at you ... poor, harried, snotty man. You turn and reach in vain, but find that the Kleenex is out of your reach and the line has started to move again. I accelerate wondering if "A slug drooled on me this morning before I got in my car. Spring is coming!" will serve as a sufficient excuse when a co-worker points out the crusty, shimmering trail upon your sleeve as you slurp your cup of coffee. I doubt it. Your day shall suck, too.
Vanity plates. The irony of puttin' along behind a ZIPPITE, SPDRCR, KONCR-IT, ZUMZUM, etc. is just too much for me to friggin bear. And lately, these putting moments have happened in light traffic in the would-be open left lane, which is just astounding. Sometimes I daydream about having a bazooka that emerges from the passenger side and blows these cars out of my way. Other times I wonder about getting a scoreboard-like sign on the top of my car that can flash messages that I dictate to it for the offenders to read as I pass them by: "Hey SPDRCR. Not so friggin' speedy. Get over." Or, "By going 55 mph, you have singlehandedly undone all of Mazda's adwork." Special mention also goes to the drivers who mouth the F-bomb and flip certain fingers rabidly -- the Jesus signage and symbols on the back always make me wonder if the car belongs to you.