Committees suck.

There's a saying in advertising: Design by committee.

Basically, it's when a group of people get out of control and botch up a perfectly good design for no apparent reason other than they want to have an opinion.

And "it's good," isn't a good enough opinion.

Beautiful things die by means of fear. Good ideas get buried in meaningless words. And hard work never gets the recognition it deserves; it just gets reworked until it's unrecognizable and looks like a five-minute combination of fonts and colors.

And it's not just advertising that melts at the temperture of group mentality.

Committees ruin ideas. Propositions. Careful planning.

Everything.

And even when a committee isn't consulted, one sprouts up anyway.

And I'm left staring at a computer screen wondering where to start. All over again.

Thanks for the Christmas card, stranger.

Back when Cooter and I were inviting people to our wedding, we ran into the same problem so many couples face.

Mom and Dad want to invite everyone from here to the moon, no matter how well (or unwell) they knew these people.

I can safely say that my Dad invited at least ten people whom he barely knew. At one point, he even said, "I think that's her last name."

Why invite people who are practically strangers? I have no idea. But he was paying and we had to oblige.

Anyway, there's one couple's name that kept popping up. Because every time our expending family would look at the invite list, they would ask, "Who are Jane and John Doe?" (Obviously, I changed the names.) And a every time, Cooter and I would say, "We have no clue. [Dad] invited them."

And most of the time, Dad couldn't remember who they were either.

Again, why were they invited to our wedding?

Chances are, they had no clue in hell who I was. And no clue in the largest circle of hell who Cooter was. But they feel like they should know us now, because we got a Christmas card from them. Picture and all.

And still, even after seeing their smiling faces, we have no idea who these people are.

Oh well. Nice to know that even as strangers, we're worth a 48 cent stamp.

You smell wonderful.

Someone who smelled very good stood here not long ago. 

I know absolutely nothing about this person. Not his or her gender, hair color, sense of humor. But I know what this person smells like. 

And I like how he or she smells. It's clean like soap. But sophisticated with light floral notes. But friendly and with a hint of fruit. 

I like how the scent of this person lingered in the hallway just for me. And then surprised me again in the elevator, one of six which could have answered my call.

You smell great, stranger who once stood here. And I feel we would get along famously.

Adding an X doesn't make it any better.

Around a year ago, clients started sending me .doc and .ppt files like they always had, only there was one tiny difference.

An X.

.doc became .docx, and .ppt became .pptx.

What is this new file type? I wondered. Shortly before my computer hiccuped and froze.

Then I soon discovered that Microsoft Word couldn't open these new WordX  files.

What?

That X was apparently the newest cockroach in the Microsoft suite of office tools. And I just want everyone out there to know that the X doesn't make Word or Powerpoint or Excel any more badass.

If anything, it makes them worse. Because now they've got an X. A letter which used to mean "cool," "edgy," and "untamed."

Now it's just another fad adopted by corporations in order to appear young, fresh, an alive.

Or maybe it's just supposed to make some accountants feel badass.

Whatever the reason for extending the extension with a ridiculous x ("doc x" sounds like a comic book character as opposed to a creative brief), it's lame. Just like everything Microsoft does.

Besides, iWork, Apple's version of the office suite, is far less buggy, easier to use, and prettier.

And it opens those ridiculous .docx files. Unlike every version of Word I already have (which, being a writer, is quite a few).

Oh, crap. Am I a vegetarian ... vampire?

Today, I was alone in the elevator when I started looking at my nails. And I noticed that my hands were sparkling ever so slightly.

Hmm, I guess my hand lotion has some shimmer in it, I thought. Then I noticed that my arms were also glittery.

But I didn't remember putting lotion on my arms.

My upper arms shined under the dim lights of the elevator as well.

What the fuck, I thought.

Looking at the halogen bulbs in the ceiling, and then wondering if there were indeed cameras hidden in there somewhere, I tossed out caution and lifted my shirt enough to see my stomach.

AND IT WAS SPARKLY, TOO!

That's when I panicked. Because I wasn't wearing anything on my person that would make me sparkle.

Then it hit me. I'm one of those sparkly, glittery, asshole vampires from Twilight.

I shine. And I twinkle.

At least in low light.

I couldn't run out of my building and into the sun fast enough. Where I discovered that if I was sparkling, it wasn't visible in the daylight.

A small bit of relief sandwiched inside of a bigger, glittery question.

Is it normal to twinkle in low light? Someone please tell me this isn't exclusive to just me and that fictitious, possessive Edward jerk. Please!

I'm going to start carrying a dry-erase marker in my car.

When people are behind the wheel, they are assholes.

Perfectly kind, normal humans turn into unholy demons when there are four wheels beneath them. I can't explain this odd phenomenon, and I won't try to.

What's even worse is when those same demons park their vehicles in a way that disables other people from getting into their cars.

This is common practice at my apartment, which in itself is odd considering it isn't hard to find out who drives what car.

Anyway,  I just read a blog bitching about the whole I-had-to-get-into-my-car-from-the-passenger-side-because-some-dickhead-parked-too-close-to-my-car problem. And the writer didn't leave a note because it would do "no good."

The writer is right.

The alternative sucks, too. I have friends who'll gladly bash the offending car with their car door trying to teach a lesson. I'm not too fond of that, either, considering it's impossible to know the entire reason they parked so close (perhaps they had to because of another asshole car on their left side). Or there's always the chance that the poor parker had no idea they parked so badly (I know, inexcusable, but it happens), and they're left with a huge scratch they won't feel guilty for.

Anyway, I came up with a suitable solution that damages no vehicles, yet lets a fair amount of venting take place.

The dry-erase marker.

When someone parks too close to you, parks over the line, takes up two spots, whatever the offense is, simply write a message on their windows with the dry erase marker.

It does no damage to their car. It doesn't waste paper. And it'll freak them out thinking they've been Sharpied with:

• Just because your car cost 100K, doesn't mean you get to park like an ASSHOLE.
• Thanks for making me get in on my passenger side, DICK WAD.
• Take my license from me. I don't know how to park.
• I can't stay in the lines, either! Enjoy the Sharpie, JERK. 

Or perhaps it's a terrible idea. But I'm excited to try it.

Go ahead, demons, park too close to the 'Stang!

My desk is a death trap.

Did you know it’s possible to be allergic to dust?

Dust! Plain, lands-on-everything dust.

I’m allergic to dust. And “allergic” is putting it lightly. Apparently, I’m really very truly allergic to dust. And I have the photos of my allergy test to prove it.

And my desk? Covered in dust.

This knowledge has made me paranoid. Instead of my keyboard, I see teensy, tiny skulls. The light film that collects in the corners of my work area look like tiny daggers. And the film that gathers on my phone buttons looks like itchy, sneezy spears.

No wonder I was constantly scratching my face, arms, neck ... I’m fucking allergic to my work environment. 

 I guess I could do a better job cleaning it. But everyone will laugh at me if I break out the gloves and face mask. Which is far worse than some scratching. Right?