Sending a business e-mail
It's Saturday afternoon, and you have the bestest idea ever about how to totally and completely revolutionize the company's overall productivity -- and it includes five rubber bands, two clown masks and roughly 15,000 bobblehead dolls.
Practically sweating glee, you fire up your work inbox and shoot off an e-mail to your entire department, outlining the plan in great detail. Almost as an afterthought, you scrawl, "No need to respond to this right now. I know that it's the weekend."
You're right, o genius of productivity, it is the weekend -- which means the only people who will see your e-mail are (a) people with no lives, (b) people who are paranoid and anxious, or (c) people with no lives who are paranoid and anxious.
Must you stress said people out even more with your idle ruminations? Plus, when everyone else gets to work on Monday, faced with the grim task of sorting through all the e-mail that has accumulated over the past few days, there your message will be, buried among the rubble and, consequently, forgotten.
When struck with lazy day inspiration, we suggest dashing off your e-mail and then scheduling it to be sent out on Monday morning -- there are plenty of apps, like Boomerang, that will let you do so. That way, your idea will shine through the tempest of weekend missives like the glorious beacon that it is -- plus, everyone won't hate you.
Calling a family member
You're at the local thrift store, and you happen upon the most darling china doll with a lovely, delicate face reminiscent of your treasured only son, who now works so, so far away in the crumbling asphalt jungle that is the city.
He's a high-powered man, you know, the founder of an ingenious app that promises to revolutionize the shambles that is modern-day romance (or so he tells you; in actuality, it's a mobile tool that catalogs all the best public restrooms for hooking up with randoms).
As you gaze into the oh-so-sweet face of Francis the Goatherd -- as his tag reads -- you feel the overwhelming urge to call up your own china doll and tell him about his dolly doppelganger. You pull out your ancient cracked flip phone and dial his number ... and recoil in horror as your loving son answers on the first ring with an enraged, "What, Mom? Who died?"
Although it would be easy to blame the broken doll shards -- you dropped Francis in your frenzied distress -- on your ungrateful son, one only has to look to one of the many synchronously ticking clocks on the thrift store wall to realize that 2 p.m. on a Tuesday is not exactly the best time for a check-in call with your pride and joy. Especially if he or she has lived up to that title by securing him/herself a cherry job.
Unless Francis the Goatherd has been possessed by the devil and is currently choking you to death, save any and all ruminations about his porcelain fingers for after work hours.
Tweeting about your super rad beach day ...
... after calling in sick. Unless they're utter Luddites, your bosses know how to use Twitter, too.
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