Oodles of Yayness

I received a package from my friend M today . . . new music for me to listen to gleefully! I will now have to make intricate playlists to return in kind. Love it! So awesome . . .

I now have "Love Cats" by The Cure. It sooo makes me want to break out the entire Smiths collection, maybe rat my hair and mope for a while.

New Hat and Neighbors

This is the new hat purchased in New York, which no one will ever see because we cannot wear hats in school, for some mysterious reason. Bought it from the hatter across the street from J's apartment and it came with instructions . . . I was shown lint brushing and everything.

I will eventually lose the feathers. In my memory this hat is very much like one I used to steal every chance I got. So now I have one of my very own. The picture was taken by M in the lobby of J's building, with the doorman rolling his eyes. Such silliness.

Went to Royal Oak this morning for coffee but forgot that it was the citywide trick-or-treat fest. It was like the heterosexual suburban frat/sorority culture took over for a day. And children . . . children everywhere you looked or stepped. Funny how I was thinking about how much my uterus ached for one earlier and then this . . .

The good news was all the stores were open. Got some Lamb's Pride Bulky for a hat I am planning and some hair dye . . . though Noir was out of colors again. I know I'm the only one who buys it but still . . . at least I'm loyal. Had to buy some candy, in case some children show up at the house (the last two years has just been a cat . . . a different cat each year but just cats).

Walked back and met the new neighbors. With ache being the word of the day . . . I now ache for the former tenants, very cute engineer boys. The new renters are NOT cute engineer boys . . . the introductory conversation started with "that van won't be there long . . . just have to get all the parts off it. It doesn't run and I got tired of fixin' the trans, you know . . ." Great. Let's start with the van that's up on blocks. I love being a homeowner.

A Little Shopping Center on Every Corner

Once upon a time . . . my parents moved to the boondocks, or what their collected families thought were the boondocks, way out in Plymouth-Canton. It was a very confusing time and there was much discussion about how to get to the farmlands of Canton. Taking Joy Road all the way out was often an option.

As an aside, before Stu (and others, I'm sure) gets pissed off . . . I grew up in Canton, the poorer (and lesser in some opinion) of the two suburbs of Plymouth-Canton. My parents eventually moved to Plymouth . . . but I am a Canton girl, if that matters to you. Just so I don't hear Canton under everyone's breath when I say Plymouth. By the way, Canton now has better McMansions and better social amenities . . . have you seen their pool?

So while driving Joy Road all the way from Wyandotte one day my Great Aunt Hazel made a startling observation, which she then shared with my parents. "There is a little shopping center on every corner out here" she informed them. My parents, who knew that they had not moved to the permanent boondocks and that there would soon be McMansions built over the little shopping centers, nodded and smiled. And then they made it the family joke . . .

I know I'm taking a long time to get to it, but that's how I felt in New York this visit. Except that the line was "there's a little Urban Outfitters on every corner" instead. When did Manhattan turn into a mall? As I described it to my father (who says he hates New York), "it's just like Somerset, with a couple of rats thrown in to give the tourists something to talk about." Actually, I only saw one rat and that was in the subway . . . and he wasn't very big.

Everything was relatively shiny. Everyone was . . . for the most part, nice. I was only accosted by a woman in a Burberry coat because I was criticizing her parenting skills (one should not let two year olds take the stairs by themselves on the subway). (Molly got the brunt of it . . . and she wondered why the lady was screaming "I saw that face you made . . . " until she remembered that I was behind her) (But the Burberry lady was British, not a New Yorker)

The Starbucks employees were always shocked by MY politeness, especially when they f*#ked up my order, which happened more than you would think but . . . yeah, maybe Disney did take over the place. It seems like they put something in the water. So basically, I can't move to New York because it is way too nice . . . that and it seems that I could just move to Somerset and get some smallish rats.

"In Love With a Bad Idea"

My current fav song . . . Matthew Good of course . . . especially the "princess sticky magazine" because it is just SO graphic. Plus there are just so many bad ideas to be in love with . . .

Broke my fast of not calling boys . . . bad idea . . . called S and found out his number had been changed, without so much as an email . . . bad idea . . . took my profile off match and then changed my mind like five minutes later and put it back up . . . which may in fact be a bad idea . . .oh, and gave my blog address out . . . bad idea . . .

So I have to move on. In spite of the bad ideas and the email I received from another boy once I got back to Detroit (wishing me luck . . . and saying, oh, by the way, it's your fault . . . and I'll still read your blog . . . great). On to blind date no. 4 (if anyone takes me up on that) and then only 95 to go.

The Joy of an Afternoon Nap

After the adventures of the past week, I have been a bit sleep deprived. I hit the wall today while proctoring a test . . . I was having trouble focusing my eyes. So I didn't bring any work home and crashed as soon as I got near the couch.

Now that I am out of the coma, I realize that I may, in fact, be sick again. I have eaten two popscicles and am moving on to tea for my throat. And here I thought sleeping would fix the problem . . . so I still feel like crap, despite the afternoon coma.

Ahh, but tomorrow is Friday and anyone can live through a Friday. And this weekend is clear, just house straightening, laundry and sleep. Gotta get ready for next weekend's surgery coma with the straws sticking out of my nose. Fun!

It is Really True, You Know

My favorite poem about Detroit, by Jim Gustafson:

The Idea of Detroit

Detroit just sits there
like the head of a large dog on a serving platter
It lurks in the middle of a continent,
or passes itself off as a civilization
dangling at the end of a rope.
The lumpiness of the skyline
is the lumpiness of a sheet stretched over
what’s left of a tender young body.
Detroit groans and aches and oppresses.
It amounts to Saturday night at a slaughter house,
and Sunday morning bed
with a bag of bagels and the Special Obituary Supplement.
Air the color of brown Necco wafers,
a taste like the floor of an adult movie theater,
the movement through the streets
that of a legless wingless pigeon.
Detroit means lovers buying matching guns,
visitors taken on tours of foundries,
children born with all their teeth,
a deep scarlet kind of fear.
It breeds a unique bitterness,
one that leaves deep deep gashes in the tongue,
that doesn’t answer telephones or letters,
that carves notches in everything,
that illustrates the difference between
"rise up singing" and "sit down and shut your face."
It forms a special fondness for uncooked bacon,
for the smell of parking lots,
for police sirens as opposed to ambulance sirens,
for honest people who move their heads
whenever they move their eyes.
Detroit is the greasy enchilada
smeared across the face of a dilemma,
the sanctuary of the living dead,
the home of Anywhere-But-Here travel agency,
the outhouse at the end of the rainbow.
Detroit just sits there
drinking can after can of Dupe beer,
checking the locks on the windows,
sighing deeply, know that nothing
can save it now.

By the way, I miss Roy Castleberry. Just sayin'.

Yuppie Artists?

Is that like jumbo shrimp?

Apples and 1986

So I figured out how to get this to work . . . though it took some conniving. The trip is great. Have some great pictures, especially of this dead thing hanging in a stairwell.

So St. Marks has these kids that hang out on the street and they look exactly the same as they did in 1986. Except that these are KIDS, not the people from 1986, who are in their 30's and 40's by now. So there is either some Peter Pan thing going on or new teenagers who "study up" on the exact style of punk 1986. I know there is some reference material but really, did we want to go back to Johnny Rotten? (1970's, I know) Heck, John Lyndon doesn't even want to go back there.

So it was like the "Hall of Presidents" from Disneyworld or the reenacters at Greenfield Village, except with punk culture. And somehow that was just as lame as the "Hall of Presidents" (sorry, mom, it is lame. You just go there because it's quiet and air conditioned) except that their were real people attached to the mohawks, instead of animatronics.

So every sales person seems to recognize me. Evidently the sales pitch here is, "Didn't I see you in here last week?" or "don't you come in here all the time?" Either that or I have a doppelganger. Scared of that.

Hey Kids!

Lived through parent teacher conferences . . . though I just realize that tomorrow I have nothing, absolutely nada, planned. Hey kids! Let's learn about free verse! And since I so wisely planned a trip for this weekend to have something to live for . . . I don't really care about tomorrow. That's terrible, I know. I'm sure I can punt with "Charge of the Light Brigade" or maybe I'll look up some T.S. Eliot or something.

Maybe I'll whip out the Audioslave song that I wanted to use for the poetry unit . . . but I don't want to do that by the seat of my pants either. Hey kids! Let's sit here in the dark and write a really long journal entry . . . quietly.

"Charge of the Light Brigade" it is then . . . oh, what fun!

Like a Real Person

I now own a suitcase that cost more than $10, thus moving me closer to the realm of the "real" people. It's very nice, black, wheelie, and has words like "ballistic" written on it. It will fit into the overhead bin and should hold the 48 mini moon pies, that I'm taking as an offering, very well. Oh, and the two towels that I am leaving there. So much for packing light.

I really just wanted to wear the same pair of jeans all weekend but I have been told that is unacceptable. So $94 dollars later, and I have a bag that is much bigger than my head. (Then again, I was told to bring more than one purse . . . I still think this is ridiculous) Speaking of ridiculous, I have a migrane which I think will last until tomorrow (if experience shows anything) and that is going to be WONDERFUL for parent teacher conferences.

Why hello, parent, please ignore the squinting and wincing . . . oh, and ignore the hair . . . please don't look at the hair . . .

Maybe I can pull off wearing sunglasses? The sunglasses look good with the hair. Anyhow, kind of makes me wish I had a primary care physician and a script for some Imitrex but not enough to actually go out and get either of those things. So I will be in a high school gym, with the floor covered with blue tarps, in a suit . . . all while holding my temple so my brains don't explode out the side of my head. Fun, Fun, Fun.

Haven't you ever seen . . .

Just paid all of my bills . . . and am now having a panic attack about parent teacher conferences. I know it will be fine but I have to panic about something. It may just be . . . gasp . . . PMS.

I've been terribly overdramatic lately, especially about boys. And now that "Sex in the City" is on every channel, all day . . . in addition to watching it myself, people keep giving me advice they have seen on "Sex in the City" while saying "don't you watch 'Sex in the City'?" I either have to watch less of it . . . or more, I'm not sure.

Spent way too much money on shoes to be paying bills this evening, speaking of Carrie Bradshaw. Oh, and only consumed, like, 900 calories today. How's that for an eating disorder statement? On the shopping disorder front, I bought a slipcover for my couch (downstairs) which I don't even need, but it was too good a deal to pass up. And I still have to buy moonpies at Costco tomorrow and maybe a suitcase. I need a suitcase right? People in their thirties should have a "real" suitcase to use instead of the one they bought at Walmart for $10? So there's another $100 bucks out the door.

One of Those Girls

I've become one of "those" girls . . . my sister pointed out as I quoted the calorie counts for soy lattes versus non-fat milk lattes. The girls who only order chicken caesar salads. The girls who share dessert three (or eight) ways. The girls who say, "Oh, I couldn't possibly eat that." Those girls.

My grandmother was one of "those" girls. She never finished a meal while eating with other people. She never ate dessert. She was constantly complaining about her weight (and my weight, and my father's weight . . . come to think of it). With the lipstick obsession (lipstick was always reapplied after eating, it was often checked at random intervals), the food obsession was just annoying. Plus my grandmother always ordered the salad with fried chicken fingers . . . it just didn't make sense.

And now I'm looking up the calories on the internet for my daily crack, I mean soy, latte from Starbucks. I check my lipstick. I try to walk everyday. And I do feel better about myself. But still . . . so don't want to be one of "those" girls . . . eehwoo.

The Dependable One and Morning

My brother, the dependable one, used to be an early bird. He would get up at 6 am every day and have coffee, read the paper, putz around doing whatever my brother does. He and my father were very alike in that aspect.
While I hate the phone calls . . . "What you're still asleep?" or "Why didn't you answer? I waited until 7 am." There was something were dependable about my brother being up on at the butt crack of dawn . . . or as listed in the Odyssey: dawn with it's fingers of rose . . . sorry, English 9 flashback . . .

But no more . . . my brother got married, to an awesome woman, who we all love very much. However, once married . . . my brother switched from morning guy to right around noon guy. This is confusing to us, confusing to me. He said that he would come help me with my thermocouple this morning ("help me with my thermocouple?" Sounds kinda dirty) and it is now 11. I got up at 8 thinking he would be here banging on the door.

Now I have to go find something else to do . . . I can't fix the thermocouple because I'm not really sure which, of all the thingies in my furnace, it is. And the thing is, thermocouples, they come in sizes. So you have to know what size to buy, which means you have to take it out of your furnace and take it with you to the hardware store. Again, I could do that by myself . . . but I don't know which thing to disassemble and take.

So my brother is no longer a morning person. One can now longer call at 8 am and know that he will be there with his coffee and his newspaper. It is a sad state of affairs.

At least there is still Mr. Crabbypants. But then again, his morningness might be just the fact that he stops breathing 127 times a night. His body might just say, "Get the hell up so we can breathe." Mr. Crabbypants being a late sleeper would really rock my world. Of course, the payback would be a bitch . . . I've gotten used to calling him at 7 am on a Saturday.

Magical Thinking

There is this lovely passage in Augusten Burroughs' Magical Thinking, from the story of the same name, about how Mr. Burroughs believes in the Baby Jesus and his pet cow. Not Augusten's pet cow but the Baby Jesus' pet cow. It's a hilarious passage, which I will quote when I get the book back . . . because I lent it out immediately.
Anyhow, I had to picture petting the cow today . . . evidently if you are friendly to the Baby Jesus' cow, he will do you favors (or the cow will do you favors) but somehow creating the image in my head of the Baby Jesus and a cow AND walking up and petting the cow, was somewhat soothing. Let it go . . . just pet the cow . . .

So when I'm muttering later about petting the cow, you'll all know what I mean.

Scar of Grape Jelly

The grape jelly is now just a scar imbedded with glass . . . someone cleaned up the majority (curious dog? wandering jelly-eating cat? did the squirrels gather it up?) so now it just looks like a weird scar on the sidewalk.

Today was one of those "kinda awful, everything is just going wrong enough to be annoying" days. There was an accident on the freeway so I sat in first gear for twenty minutes for nothing . . . I hate it when I get to the accident and it's dumb, just a smashed fender. So almost late for work because no one would move the dented car.

Then Starbucks was out of soy milk AGAIN (see previous) and I was pissed off enough to mutter the word "again?" within hearing of the speaker, which caused a panic in the Starbucks for some reason. Maybe they recognized my voice? So then the Starbucks lady felt that she had to explain, repeatedly, that there was something about Roseville and soy, and no matter how much they ordered they always ran out. I pointed out that soy didn't go bad . . . at least not that quickly, so they could really just order an extra two cases and if it was too much it would keep. All this while later to work than I should be . . .

Then I had to punch my "key card" in the door . . . thus leaving the record that I walked into the building at 7:49 which is one minute late. The teacher before me at the copier couldn't figure out how the thing worked and so recopied the same document several times. So many tries were had at making a double sided document, without staples, that I gave up and just went to my room and wrote what I needed on the board.

Then the whole "will you set up this meeting" exercise, which is like, I don't know, putting one, two . . . eight cats in the same bag. "I can't go Friday or Tuesday and so and so is only available on the second Tuesday of the full moon." Arrgh! If I were a pirate, I wouldn't have to have meetings.

Then I went to Marshall Fields with the coupons . . . and found NOTHING. Not even underwear. There was nothing good to buy at Marshall Fields. No wonder they need coupons.

Now I have to pay bills. Yuck. And I should clean the bathroom. Double yuck, with a side of yuck.

Japanese Pan Noodles

So I'm walking along, on my way to get some Japanese pan noodles, and there is an entire jar of grape jelly on the side of the road. Broken. Actually, it was in the middle of the sidewalk, like it had been thrown from a car. Who throws jars of grape jelly out their car windows? Why would anyone do that? It looked like the blob (from the movie "The Blob" which was the first horror movie I watched, ever) but in color.

The noodles were spicier than I thought they would be and I need to start carrying my stolen mag light if I'm going to be walking in the dark (don't worry, I stole it from Mr. Crabbypants). The walking a lot is helping with suppressing the urge to punch people in the face.

So that's good.

Unfortunately

I can die now . . . saw "Suck" live . . . though not really close enough, so maybe there is a reason to keep living. I don't care how old I am, the old person section really . . . well . . . sucks. Maybe it's worth it to get jostled.

So yeah, Trent (Mr. Reznor to you, lady) played Suck last night, which is actually a Pigface song but is also the secret B side on some CD I have. It's my favorite song. Hilarious, because everyone sat down for it (because it's a bside) and I'm jumping up and down and screaming . . . in the old people section. I even have the original Pigface version.

No encore . . . or no encore that we stayed for . . . my companions were on a mission to get home for some reason, so no afterglow for me. Much more fun when I was with people who wanted to guess the bar that the performer was going to go to . . . met Sisters of Mercy that way with Stu.

Oh, and women kept complimenting my hair. That was nice, I guess.

Imaginary Ladder

Had one of those days yesterday . . . when something is so awful that you have to reflect on WHY you are doing things. A little bit of an anxiety attack last night, in the "ohmygodcanIdothismuchlongerandnotbehollow?" category.

Some people just need to have all the eggs and I just want to do what is right . . . what is best. If the egg grabbers don't appreciate that, well, let them sue me. Best line of the day: I think people have a ladder of inference. They go up that ladder until they find something negative enough to suit their purpose. That's just my opinion. (smug smile) After that was said, I will continually imagine climbing my ladder of inference to drop something heavy on the person below.

So, yeah, I feel like my soul is being slowly killed by people with imaginary negativity ladders . . . but I signed up for this gig, didn't I? Must just close and lock all my doors. And try not to speak to anyone. And take up kickboxing. Cause it's all gonna be okay . . .

so you didn't have to share

I was told tonight that my blog has become boring . . . perhaps it is the editing, maybe it's that my life is not all that exciting . . . don't know. Do know that being told that your posts suck . . . well, it kinda sucks.

My brain is now the consistency of marshmellow and I still have to grade ninety English Nine Odyssey tests (say that five times fast), which may not happen tonight. I'm sure they'll get over it. Oh, and if I have one more meeting I may just scream.

So tomorrow I'm going to a concert that one of my students is playing . . . at the Roseville theater. Evidently, his band is awesome. I so hope that they play at, like, 10 pm so I can fit in a nap AND I hope my feet don't stick to the floor at this place. They are headlining, so the later in the evening and Emily napping is looking good. Saturday is Nine Inch Nails . . . and I'd better be in the old people section. I want no jostling.

Z's birthday is Sunday. A whole eight going on 28, it seems. I will take him to The Corpse Bride, but may have to take my mother also. I don't know if Morna will fully appreciate Tim Burton but at least it will be a family event.

Currently listening to old "The The". So awesome, that Matthew Johnson.

"The Reasons"

My favorite The Weakerthans song at this particular moment:

"How I don't know how to sing.
I can barely play this thing.
But you never seem to mind,
and you tell me to fuck off when I need somebody to.
How you make me laugh so hard.

How whole years refuse to stay where we told them to,
bad dog, locked up whining in a word or a misplaced souvenir.
How the past chews on your shoes,
and these memories lick my ear.
How we waste our precious time marching
in the picket lines that surround those striking hearts.
How the time is never now,
and we know who we should love,
but we're never certain how.
I know you might roll your eyes at this, but I'm so glad that you exist."

I love the time/dog metaphor and well . . . it's just the perfect little song. So yeah, that's what I want. Someone to be glad that I exist so I can roll my eyes. Plus, I really need more people to tell me to f*&k off. I don't think that happens enough when I need it to . . . though it happens all the time when I'm not being disorderly.

gettin back on the horse . . .

Once upon a time, back when I lived in Northville, I went to this new chain restaurant called Noodle Bowl. I had the mushroom stroganoff and it was super yummy. I thought I saw one of my old exs with a pretty blonde wife and a new cutey-patootey baby. I played with chopsticks and talked with my mother, who had some sort of Asian noodley thing as only someplace called Noodle Bowl could serve. It was a good moment in time.

Until . . . five hours later when I was hurling up mushroom stroganoff. I puked stroganoff until there was no more stroganoff and then I puked some more. It was extremely unpleasant . . . and there was no sleep, as I recall.

When my brother heard about the incident, he said, "Hey, I did that too!" Thus the Noodle Bowl stroganoff conspiracy theory. Neither of us has ever eaten there since.

Until tonight . . . I don't know what it was, but desired to try it again. To get back on the horse. It had been long enough. So on my walk downtown, I stopped at the Noodle Bowl and ordered a small stroganoff. It was super yummy, just as I remembered. A bit too much cheese, but I'll know to order it without next time. And now we wait . . .

Why do I do this? I have no earthly idea. I could have ordered anything else on the menu (they even have things without noodles). But nooooo . . . I have to risk it, thinking as I'm eating . . . "Well, it doesn't seem to have any egg in it so it probably wasn't salmonella. Could be the cream base . . . maybe they put something in it that I'm allergic too. That would explain Dave getting sick on a different day. Hmmm, what spice could I be allergic too?" Gotta test the fates.

Crappy Poem No. 1094

while in search of bean burritos
there are two men with demons in their heads,
with their keeper
at least it seems like their keeper
could be the feather man's girlfriend

all rosaries and swaying
one dollar in his hand
and there is a lot of talking
to the demons
against the demons

the keeping of the demons in their heads
the pleading with them to stay still
and in between the order of one soft taco
please and thank you
and shut up, shut up, shut up

the feather man is giving advice
and the small one is muttering behind me
making sure that I don't see
the keeper is tired, trying
to sit everyone down

but I get up and
slurp one last slurp
walk out into the night
leaving the demon keepers
to their keeper

or girlfriend
judging by her car

Doesn't Lose Suction?

I just bought the most expensive vacuum in the universe. It's pretty and shiny and candy-like but for 500 bones it better clean my dishes and wash my hair while it's not losing any suction. I'm expecting vacuuming to so joyful that it will be like an out of body experience . . .

I'll let you know when that happens of course . . .

Oh, You're Emily? . . . I Puked on Your Car Once

Went to my former place of employment to see Mikey this evening. Shared his resume with my father and needed to debrief him. I made sure that I showed up at last call, so I wouldn’t have too many flashbacks but still ended up carding some jerk for a strawberry stoli. Hate to break it to ya buddy but you’re drinking a girly drink, so don’t try to be all manly when you show the I.D. Mikey just I.D.ed them to be a hassle anyhow.

Now it’s 3 a.m. and I reek of smoke. Will have to wash everything, including myself before I go to bed and my sinuses KILL. Stayed to talk to Sasha . . . one of the people I truly liked working and hanging out with during my tenure in the restaurant trade. Met some fellow named Frank, who then immediately admitted that he threw up on my car when he was eighteen. How charming. Caught up on all the gossip . . . the five years of gossip. Still don’t miss it.

The thing about restaurants is everything works with lighting . . . when you turn them on you’ll find cockroaches, the way the people really look, how dirty and nicotine stained everything is . . . and it’s kind of the same with the personalities. The regulars who were actually into coke and young strippers. The charismatic sous chef with a horrible drug problem. The prep cook that sold heroin out in the alley. All floating in alcohol, like the ancient pineapple that they make the infused vodka with . . . they never change that pineapple . . .

Mikey evidently has a "present" for me . . . and I’m hesitant to find out what it is. Mikey loved that restaurant . . . got me fired in the process of loving it and it was the best thing to happen really. Otherwise, I’d still be looking at cockroaches in flattering lighting while breathing in secondhand smoke and waiting for something to happen.

Good to know I’m so famous that one remembers my car though . . . ahh, Mohawk days.

Umm, this might sound weird and disorganized, but . . .

For thirty some years I have resisted the Franklin Planner people. My mother being a member of the cult of Franklin, I have been to their stores (mall churches). I receive their shiny catalogs, with pretty stretched dead cow in decorative colors holding bits of paper and books that will evidently make my life more complete with just seven daily habits. Every couple of years or so, my mother tries in vain to convert me . . .

While I have never actually bought a Franklin, I have at least ten empty planners of different flavors stuck in a drawer, mostly because they have ancient addresses in them. I wrote these addresses on the day I bought the planners. After the address book fest (which only will include things from my memory, I won’t go back and look at the other abandoned planners . . . which is why I am storing all of them) it just never comes together. I never write in them again. I’ll carry them around for a week or two, put receipts in them though I’m not sure why. My mother’s always has neatly filed receipts, so I assume that you are supposed to be putting all your receipts in them.

But this is a woman who has every receipt from every purchase since 1968. No really, she admits it on her blog. (see sidebar) (Yes, I know it’s weird to have a mom with a blog when you are over the age of fourteen) It’s like she is going to have to prove it’s all hers to get into heaven or something.

Once we were in the Franklin church . . . I’m mean, store . . . and my mother convinced me to buy one with all the fixin’s. The bill came to over $150 and I believe I returned it the next day. Thank goodness for the receipt saving gene.

So I cannot make use of a planner. I’m too right brained, too disorganized, too lazy to carry the damn thing around . . . however, it would have been nice this morning if I could get over it. I am finally at a time in my life where I have a lot of appointments. Doctor’s appointments, hair appointments, union meetings, work meetings, Starbuck’s blind date meetings . . . Before I just wandered through life, calling for things at the last minute but now I have high maintenance hair, high maintenance nails, high maintenance sinuses . . .

So I wake up this morning at 5:30 a.m., on a freaking Saturday, because I am in a panic about my hair appointment. Did I make it for this week? Or next week? It’s very hard to get a Saturday appointment and if you miss one . . . well, you’re off the list AND you piss your hair professional off. No one wants to deal with that. It's very hard to find a good hair professional who will take requests such as "I think I'd like it colored like Elmo on Sesame Street" and not laugh at you or simply refuse to do it because that's insane. So at 5:30, I’m digging through my purse to find the little card they gave me. I’m searching the truck, while wondering if I even took the truck last time I went to get a haircut. I’m searching the internet for the phone number of the hair place.

I give up and go back to bed. I then get up at 8:30, and decide to drive out to Milford anyway, just to be safe. If I have an appointment, I’ll be on time . . . if I don’t, I’ll hang at Stately Wayne Manor. I’m in Milford by the time the place opens and my phone call begins with “Ummm. . . I know this sounds weird and disorganized but . . . do I have an appointment today or next Saturday?” Turns out my appointment is next Saturday at noon. I’ll have fresh red for the Nine Inch Nails concert.

So it dawns on me . . . this is why people join the cult of Franklin. If I had a planner, and wrote in it, I wouldn’t be searching underneath the seats of my truck at 5:30 on a Saturday morning. (I did find stuff I needed, like the Audioslave jewel case that I was missing) I wouldn’t have to panic when the doctor’s office calls about an appointment I made four months ago, which is the next day . . . and I already have forty-two other things to do. I might know when things were . . . be able to plan a week . . . not have journals due the same night as the hockey game I’m attending. I could have a place for all the receipts I receive that I could then organize and file once a week. I could schedule time to “sharpen my saw” . . . I’ve always wanted a sharpened saw, right?

Yeah . . . right. Get real. Never, ever going to happen. That would be like . . . well . . . putting the pens with the other pens.