Saturday, February 28, 2009
Now that I work in a furniture store dedicated to insuring comfort to all its customers ("Comfort. It's what we do"), I have started to spend my down time at the store thinking of ways that I, a lowly administrative assistant, could come up with a brilliant new product and/or marketing strategy in order to strike it rich, thus ensuring a lifetime of a whole 'nother type of comfort for myself and my cat, Gerard Butler. I am talking about the comfort that is called 'being rich and not having to work as a lowly administrative assistant in a furniture store.' And now, thanks to key meditations on my currently stunted emotional status, I have come up with a new product. In the words of one of my favorite, if essentially long-winded, playwrights Pierre Marivaux (in 'The Triumph of Love'): "Would you have me lose my reason? Must I now give my life over to my feelings?" The answer is no, not yet. You can sit and think about your predicament for awhile on my new product, the Like Seat. Not as large as a sofa, but with just a little more room than a love seat, the like seat offers some much-needed breathing room for those of us with cold feet (me), or for those of us still trying to escape in our minds the fiery train wreck of our last relationship (me), or even just for those of us who just like being single because then you don't have to worry about what your apartment looks like every time your significant other comes over (me). (Preferably, the like seat would be at your non-romantic totally platonic buddy's house and he or she would never know that you don't change the totally platonic kitty litter quite just often enough. And also they would pay for it because you can't afford to purchase big-ticket upholstery items on your admin wages. Unless of course the furniture store you work for doesn't steal your idea outright and you (I) receive some sort of tangible financial remuneration in the form of a big fat check.) Aaaah. The likeseat. Isn't it time our romance-centric culture focused a little more on ideas involving friendship that incidentally might make me financially solvent? Please say yes. Then promptly fall in love with me. Thank you.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Just a sampling of the beautifully designed, pre-printed return address labels I recently received in the mail
And here I thought I no longer mattered to anyone but my tightly knit inner circle consisting almost entirely of my mother and my cat, Gerard Butler. But now I feel like the VIP I know I am somewhere deep inside thanks to the arrival by post of some tastefully designed return address labels with my name, 'Jennifer Drai,' printed across the surface in a bold, eye-catching font right next to various and sundry cute little icons like a glittery 'USA' sign or a huge calligraphy 'D.' Really, this personal touch says everything I need to know about the care and trouble taken by these anonymous persons sweating away in their graphic design workshop, somewhere on or near the North Pole presumably, to make sure I get the appropriate calligraphy letter next to my name, 'Jennifer Drai,' emblazoned across the shiny white surface of the labels in a beautifully designed (serif) font. Did I mention the jolly smiling snowman icon or the red-white-and-blue banner icon? Such cold weather centricism or unflailing commitment to 'patriotic' values could hardly prevent me from slathering the upper left hand corner of every single last one of my outgoing envelopes with these small, rectangular status symbols. Nothing says you have arrived on the scene like not having to scrawl out your return address in your painfully illegible handwriting every time you have to pay a bill or send a thank you card. Bring it on, little white dove bearing olive branch icon! I am going to use you.
Monday, February 23, 2009
My cat, Gerard Butler, recuperates after his stressful bathing experience
If you thought the Oscars last night were all about drama, you obviously did not see my cat, Gerard Butler's prima donna performance in the bathtub between the hours of 4 and 4:30, Pacific Standard Time. You are probably wondering why my cat, Gerard Butler, needed a bath in the first place since he is constantly licking his own body with his tongue, so I will tell you. My cat, Gerard Butler, has fleas. Seriously. He cannot be comfortable with his constant scratching, so you would think he would be grateful that I took the initiative and shelled out some cash for a bottle of flea shampoo. But he was not. His constant meows took on the tenor of guttural moans as I lathered up his flea-infested regions within the delightful confines of our bathroom. You would think I was trying to kill him when really I was just trying to save him. Not only that, but today I walked all the way from Walgreen's lugging a heavy container of expensive Tidy Cats kitty litter for his cat toilet instead of just buying a bag of Johnny Cat at the corner store. My cat, Gerard Butler, is spoiled. Several hours later, my elbows are still sore. Next thing I know, my cat, Gerard Butler, is going to be demanding Fancy Feast. If that day comes, it might be time for my cat, Gerard Butler, to go live with his father again.