The definition of counterproductive, otherwise known as, I need a new career

When dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s and entering endless streams of data (in duplicate and triplicate) at my day job, my mind tends to wander down Income Disparity Road. It generally happens when I’m determining compliance, which is a fancy way of describing the menial task of counting each and every pill that research participants have returned. Actually, it happens a lot when I’m counting, and it’s completely involuntary. I’ll be counting away and suddenly notice that I’m all, “one-hundred-and-five, one-hundred-and-ten,…I wonder how much Jennifer Lopez makes in one hour…, one-hundred-and-fifteen, one-hundred-and-twenty, …Jennifer Aniston is probably sitting …

The confession

I didn’t mean for it to happen. I really didn’t. But there is only so much patience a woman can muster when combing and braiding this fabulously fabulous hair: And usually, I got this. Twists, zulu knots, braids…I’m good. But Ruby requested small braids, which is another story. Doing Ruby’s hair is not a rinse-and-brush-and-run-out-the-door kind of event. It’s more of a pick-your-three-favorite-movies-and-grab-a-pillow-for-your-tushy kind of event. The girl has got a lot of hair. And no front teeth. And one egg. She’s such a goofball. Anyway, if you take all of the hair in the universe and put it …