Jess can only fit 26 dogs in her boutique dogsitting home-business on Edgeware Road. Any more than that is simply unreasonable. After all it’s a sharehouse, and fucking Edmund is allergic and BLA BLA BLA, the summary here is that 26 dogs is IT.
Jess is counting her store of dogs and wants to make sure that the new shipment of miniature schnauzers won’t push her numbers of beagles, Labradors and rare Algerian beaverhounds into unreasonable territory.
First, Jess starts an Excel document and enters dog breeds and numbers:
But Jess doesn’t want to count that shit manually! Jess’ll be all “14 plus 3 equals 17 plus 4 equals THERE’S A REASON I DON’T HAVE A REAL JOB CARO AND THIS IS IT”.
Here’s where Excel comes in.
Jess clicks on Autosum up the top, and then ‘Sum’ from the dropdown menu.
Then something like this will come up:
And this is fine. This is not as intimidating as the electric blue makes you feel. All it means is that where the B4:B8 is in that bracket, you can manually change those cell references and make them read just, like, B4:B5, the top two rows of data, aka Schnauzer numbers and Labrador numbers. After all, you might be downsizing Doggie Style Daycare just to specialised Schnauzer and Labrador care. And no one will blame you. If anything, they’ll be like “shoulda done that to start with. Nothing beats a Schnauze.”
(Helpful hint: DON’T RANDOMLY CLICK ANYWHERE ELSE ON THE DOCUMENT WHILE DOING THIS DELICATE SURGICAL WORK. IT WILL NOT BE PRETTY. YOU’LL BE LIKE ‘UH WHERE DID X73 PLAY INTO THIS?’)
So anyways now you have this cool thing:
And then you’re left with some awesome selective data and you can add up FUCKING ANYTHING in WHATEVER PERMUTATION YOU WANT:
OH SHIT THAT’S 27 DOGS AND WE ONLY FIT 26! TIME TO KILL A BEAVERHOUND!!
Just remember this catchy quote:
When I need to make a sum, and counting freestyle makes me mad,
I type =SUM(A1:A100) for the cells I want to add.
Happy birthday Caro. I’m saving up percentages and alphabetical ordering til next birthday.
– Hey guys has anyone seen my Tresemme?
– Um, no, sorry!
WE'RE WEARING WIGS OKAY?
– Seriously Agatha you always steal my shit.
– I didn’t, Hortence.
– The Tresemme is the tip of the iceberg.
– Get over it.
– I paid my own $7.50 for that 2 litre tub. Not your $7.50.
– It was just a tiny smidge. I didn’t, like, finish off the whole 2 litres.
– Why is it missing then?
– I think it’s actually a favour for you.
– I think your hair is bristly and thin and shitty and you need to use a much better quality shampoo than something that comes in a 2 litre trough and costs $7.50.
– So you hid it?
– I think I’d like to make my own hair decisions, Agatha.
– I think that updo you had at your cousin’s Bar Mitzvah begs to differ, Horty.
Long and unpleasant pause.
– Give it back.
– Give it back.
– You need a shampoo that protects and moisturises. You don’t want a shampoo that, 1 day without washing, leaves you looking like this, like a hideous dying hag hobbling into our kitchen wailing for some sweet sweet shampoo. Longterm protection and shine. Longterm care and premium glossiness.
– I can’t afford that Aveda stuff. It’s really nice and it’s full of buruti oil or some shit, but it costs $50 a tube and NO WAY am I paying that shit. I don’t care how luscious and shiny. I don’t care what sort of baby animal I feel like. I don’t care that the aromatherapy is simply divine. I am not paying that sort of money. Not with my medical bills for this rare spinal condition. Not with my speech therapy classes. Not with my professional choir sponsorship bills. I cannot afford a better shampoo so I will use the 2 litre tub that costs $7.50 thank you very much. And I will not pretend “it’s so much better than the posh brands” and “how did they keep it SECRET for so LONG”, but I will just use it cos IT IS WHAT IT IS and you can’t do any more than that.
Hortence rips open Agatha’s chest and rib cage, wrenches out what should be her heart, and pulls out a blood-slimed bottle of Tresemme.
– Ladies. When you just need some shampoo that is okay but not amazing, but won’t cost you $50 a tube. Use Tresemme.
Tonight, my funny friend Caro said something funny. She said that whenever she wears high heels she feels a bit like a kid dressing up as an adult, because high heels just don’t feel natural, they don’t feel right, and all of us nodded vehemently and agreed.
THIS IS CARO.
This got me thinking. Yknow what also makes me feel like a kid dressing like an adult?
EVERYTHING RESPONSIBLE THAT RESPONSIBLE ADULTS DO.
Tax. Grocery shopping. Netbanking. Disposing of dead insects. Dusting my desk. Setting an alarm. Finding new pens. Getting a passport. Increasing your credit limit. Ringing your mobile phone company. Investing in a paperweight. Watering plants. Framing something arty. Buying batteries for anything bluetooth-capable. Syncing your mobile contacts. Remembering to wear a watch. Writing a to-do list. Getting the right-sized staples. Swimming caps. Going for walks for spinal health. Updating your glasses prescription. Getting a new pillow. Ironing anything. Taking off nail polish using nail polish remover. Backing up your computer files. Ordering your playlists into cohesion. Watching documentaries. Decorating. Investing in a windchime. Cooking with beans. Buying an expensive kettle. Learning to turn on an electric fire. Couch-shopping. Joining an aquatic centre. Expiry dates. Alcohol. Dietary supplements. Spirituality. Star signs. Wearing the right clothes for that day’s weather. EVERYTHING.
But mainly, it’s tax. Tax freaks me out so much that the thought of it makes me want to hide in that weird misbalanced set of shelves we have in our bathroom, which would probably topple over taking me with it, but then tax would be the least of my problems. Tax freaks me out so much. Tax is the thing I have nightmares about, where a tax vaccuum cleaner chases me down a long windowless hallway, then affixes its suction nozzle into my belly button and sucks out any joyful experience I might have ever had in my life.
I WILL GET YOU JUST WATCH ME
I guess what I’m trying to say is that being responsible is not that fun, but probably pretty important. And when you grow up and turn responsible, you may just see that everything isn’t really so hard, and as a result have fewer psychological nightmares, or at least ones that are less transparent in their symbolism.
Maybe life is just something we stumble our way through; a series of progressively pricklier brambles that we dodge and weave. And when we get to the end we can dust off our hands and say “WELL AT LEAST WE TRIED”. And then lurch eyeball-first into the vacuum cleaner.