EnvelopesSo here's the thing: I needed an envelope. That sounds easy enough.
Unless you live at my house.
Gloria has this big wooden trunk in her study where she keeps all kinds of things. Including envelopes. She also uses the lid of the trunk as a tabletop for books, paperwork, her CD player, whatever.
I know that I don't need to tell you what's wrong with this scenario, but here's the obvious summation: I have to take all that crap off the chest to get an envelope. Even worse, then I have to put it all back after I'm done.
I should just have a dinner party for twelve or something. Or maybe re-shingle the roof. Is that something they do to a roof?
That's why I'm an accredited Doctor of Lazyology, though. When confronted with a mind-bending potential workload like this, I refuse to panic. Instead, I use skills honed through years of practice.
The first thing to do is open the lid until objects begin to drift from the incline. That helps me establish that, although it's a tight fit, I can get my arm inside the trunk to remove an envelope without having all the stuff sliding off the lid.
One problem, though: it's dark inside the trunk. I'm rooting around in there with my hand, but I can't seem to find the envelopes.
"Hey honey, did you move the envelopes?" I ask.
"They're still in the trunk," she says. She's sitting on the couch with Eli 4.6, watching an episode of Buzz Lightyear. "Did you look in the trunk?"
"I can't see inside very well," I say. "It's dark."
"What do you mean it's dark?"
"There's a lot of stuff on the lid, so I just cracked it open and reached in with my hand," I say.
"OH MY GOD," she says.
"What I need is a flashlight," I say. I head off toward my study.
"How can you be the most industrious person I know and the laziest at the same time?" she asks.
Clearly, a rhetorical question.
She's walking into the study just as I return with a flashlight. "Here's one," I say, clicking the button and aiming the beam of light toward the trunk. "Just let me slide in here."
"No!" she says. "I will get you an envelope. Stay away."
My personal motto: I proudly continue to lower the bar.