As I sit here and stare at my computer screen, my friends, I realize that there are some things about me that haven't changed since about the second grade.
One of those is that I absolutely will not eat frozen yogurt unless it is covered up with those waxy little colorful sprinkles that really have no flavor at all. The other is that on a beautiful Friday afternoon, it is very, very hard to concentrate on work of any kind. Especially if that work is indoors. In a cube. With no nearby windows. I've rearranged items on my desk, thought about dusting it but rejected that idea, counted the tiles on the ceiling, and started biting my nails. And now that my weekly pre-column-writing bout of anxiety has passed, I think I am ready to present you with this week's material: a list of perfectly trivial observations. I'm so proud.
A few weeks ago, I changed my hair color from a summery blonde/light brown to a dark shade of red. Not that you really care. But here's my point -- there is a consistently noticeable difference in the ways that men and women respond to a change in the personal appearance of someone they know. All of the women in my office noticed right away, told me very sweetly how much they like it, and then proceeded to discuss the endlessly fascinating topic of haircare with me for a few minutes. All of the men in my office walked by slowly several times throughout the day, looking at me with puzzled expressions on their faces. I could see their brains working on the fact that something in their immediate environment had changed, they just weren't sure what it was. And I laughed. The moral of the story is this: women notice details, while men will generally only concern themselves with the big picture. And that is why they are so helpful to us chicks when we're freaking out over the planning of a family holiday or the deficiencies of our wardrobes, or any of the other endless and minutely detailed things that cause us to have minor heart attacks. It may, in fact, be both their greatest strength and their greatest weakness as a sex in general.
While I was wigging out about what to write this week, I counted 53 sticky notes, 22 business cards, and nine full-sized sheets of paper that are scribbled over with phone numbers and tacked to a wall of my cubicle which I refer to as my "contacts list." So if you are someone that I promised to call for whatever reason and you haven't heard from me in three weeks, hang in there, I'm still looking for your number.
Until construction is completed at our new house, The Police and I are sharing a bathroom. It is very likely that this arrangement will end in someone going to jail. And that someone will be me. It's not The Police's fault -- he's fairly neat and considerate when it comes to bathroom sharing. But he's a boy. And sometimes I really like that about him. But those times never come at 7 a.m. when all I want to do is shuffle with my eyes half-closed into my beautiful new bathroom to get ready and be left ALONE. I do not want to have to look for a clean towel, or wait for my turn in the shower, or you know, communicate in any way with another human being. My feelings run very deeply on this subject. I need therapy. Or some pie.
In other bathroom related news, I have noticed over the course of several years now that the public women's bathroom in the back of most big box discount/grocery stores always smell like fresh green apples. The ones in the front always smell like the monkey house at the zoo. I do not blame management or employees. I blame people who leave dirty diapers and all other kinds of ungodly disgusting mess all over the place in there. The point here is really a tip, people -- the walk to the back of the store is totally worth it, even if it's quite literally 2 miles away, and you just want to get out of there, already. I even tested this theory out on Facebook, and got a lot of agreement -- so I know it's not just me.
Speaking of Facebook, a lot of things that I would normally post as status updates are now being stored up in my short term memory for use in this column -- because apparently I can only produce so much funny every week, and I need all of it here. No funny to waste on Facebook. Sorry. That's just how it has to be. So if my Internet-based friends think that I have fallen off the face of the earth, it's not that. It's just that I have realized the limits of my talent, and it has frightened me into some sort of weird hoarding behavior -- but with witty remarks instead of comic books or cats.
And ... that's all.
sharris@blythevillecourier.com