Individual Modus Operandi

While I bustle around preparing for Tuesday's Thanksgiving care packages to soldiers, I also stew on inconsequential things in the the iota of space I have left in my head.

Modus Operandi. Individual modus operandi. I contemplate, lately, the things I do to get me through the day that, perhaps, the rest of you might not. I'm relatively sure that many of you have your own operating systems, and I think it would be fun to compare and contrast.

Many of my systems revolve around reminding myself to do something. I make lists. When I absolutely MUST remember to do a thing, I resort to more drastic measures: Post-it notes on the bathroom mirror, reminding me that a coworker needs a ride to work this morning. Drawing an "X" on my hand, because I hate ink on my skin (tattoo excluded).

Here's another "system" I use. When I MUST remember to do something at the end of the day, I park my car at work and throw something in front of the steering wheel:

Seriously, who's going to forget to take home the milk they put in the workplace refrigerator when they find this? It doesn't have to be a shoe: A water bottle, instruction manual, any old thing you can find in the car will work. (If you get all the way home without noticing the shoe, you shouldn't have been driving in the first place.)

Clint, when reminding himself to grab something on his way out of the house, will set it in front of the door. Right. in. front. of the door. Like a doorstop.

Another friend, to remind herself to grab a thing, pulls this little stunt:


Keys in the freezer. No one's going anywhere without these, and oh! Don't forget to return the hedge trimmers to your sister!

Not all of my personal, quirky modus operandi revolve around memorization. For instance, when I do any sort of housework, yardwork, work work, I listen to books on tape. In order to work freely and keep myself from periodicaly catching the cord on doorknobs and such as I move about the house, and thus prevent snapping my neck, I uses small hair clips, and pin the cord to the back of my shirt:


When Brian was growing up, we developed a system of leaving notes to each other on the floor. They never went overlooked:



Being light skinned, but not quite "Porcelain" or "Geisha" as are the lightest shades of makeup, I buy 2 colors of foundation every time I shop, and mix them every morning. I don't know about you, but my skin isn't the same color every day. Lack of sleep can leave me pale, extra sunshine leaves me blushed; I'm covered every day with this system. And I get by on cheap makeup this way also. 2, $7 tubes do more for me than 1, $55 cosmetic counter color.


Doing it on the run, as I do most things in my life, I suck at laundry. After losing one too many sweaters or other delicates, I now have a laundry system that works for me every time: A magnet on the washer lid.

Magnet on the back of the lid means "toss everything in the dryer. Knock yourself out."


Sliding the magnet to the front of the door, however, means "there's a bra in here that costs so much that you've opted to pay 23% interest and make $10 monthly payments on it. Take heed."



Here's the magnet I use. It's my own personal laundry drill sargeant!

Did you know "Hooah" isn't really pronounced "Hoo-Ah," as Al Pacino would have us think? It took me quite a while, at Brian's bootcamp graduation, to realize that "hoo-ah" is pronounced more like a gutteral "HUAK!"...only without the actual hard "k" at the end. It's more of a disgusting hocking sound, one you wouldn't want to hear from the guy in the booth behind you at Applebee's.

Well. I digress. "Hoo-ah" is my laundry reminder.

Why don't you regale me with tales of your own individual modus operandi? I'm sure there are some brilliant ones out there, and that we will all benefit from your systems.

Go ahead. Make my day.