Sober Moment 3.2.08

It's not all partying and drankin' with D. Kareem.  The sober moment posts are just going to say what's on my mind.  More what I'm thinking; less what I'm doing. 

I recently made my first purchase from Gilt Groupe, a New-York-based discount retail website.  I've been a member for almost a year, but I can never justify paying what they want for anything I'd actually wear (even if it is half of what some dumb gay, who is up to his eyes in credit-card debt while paying 3/4th of his income towards rent in a trendy zip code, is willing to pay for something cute the retail price).  That's the only reason I'm giving you the URL.  Style stealer.

Anyway, I was in need of a new pair of white sneakers, and I saw a very cute, unique pair for a non-outrageous price.  I could have found cheaper or more unique, but they were right there in front of me!  I clicked.  I ordered.  I extended my indentured servitude.  We'll come back to the shoes.

Many of you who know me in real life have heard this annoying cough I've had for the past month or so.  I'm actually getting quite comfortable having the Cough around and have accepted that he will be here until it's warm enough for me to actually wear shorts in public (80 degrees Fahrenheit).

So me and my Cough are having a good old time in my cube at work.  Then the Cough steps over the line and invites his friend over, a Sneeze.  I am not a fan of the Sneeze.  He was a pretty strong Sneeze, so when I looked down, I had a handsome Splat of phlegm on my dark jeans.

My mind goes into overdrive, weighing the options.  It was only a matter of time before someone walked past my cube, and the Splat was in plain sight.  The nearest napkins and water are in the men's lavatory, which is approximately 30 meters from my cube (mostly along a high-traffic hallway).  My coat's too short to cover up the Splat while I'm walking there, and there's little chance of no one walking down the hall as I rush to clean up, not to mention who might be already in the lavatory.  No napkins at my desk, but I did have a plastic bag from my recent stop at the grocery store.  As soon as I grabbed the bag to started to rectify my situation, I hear an unfamiliar voice: "Hi, D. Kareem?"

"Yes."  I let go of the bag, leaving it casually on my lap.
"I have a package for you from Mercedes Distribution Center.  Can you sign for it?"
"Sure."  I coudn't write my name fast enough.  Luckily the new mail room runner is too young for me to judge as cute.

The shoes fit.  The Splat's gone.  My dignity's bruised.

I'm just glad I wasn't reading The Great Cockhunt or The Neighbors Will Hear at the time of the Splat.