Random Thoughts Before May Day

I miss Justified. I mean like a missing limb miss. It's hard to believe I will never see those people again. In the store the other day my phone rang.  I had forgotten that I'd changed Kid #1's ringtone to the Justified theme.  For a minute I thought I would burst into tears. Yes, I am a pathetic fangirl. I feel like running down the road  at the end of Shane, yelling "Come back, Boyd!  Come back!" Sigh.



I think the counter guy at the post office is annoyed with people who come in to buy one stamp.

The Minnesota Wild have the worst fans in the league. (Sorry, Minnesota fans who aren't absolute dicks -- you must be out there somewhere.) You don't cheer when a player from the other teams goes down on the ice with an injury.  You sit there respectfully and hope he's okay, and when he does get taken off the ice, you cheer. There are rules, people!



I have a black hole somewhere on my desk. Things go missing and I never find them again. Most recently it was a bottle of Lorazepam.  Some days the only thing standing me between me and the abyss is a lorazepam.  I try to take them as seldomly as possible, and save them for the big panic attacks, but the last week has been extremely trying. So, hey, gremlins or space men or whoever or whatever keeps hiding things, BRING THEM BACK. (I heard if you stand in the room where a thing is lost and say that loudly and sternly, you'll quickly find the object. And you know what, I did it for a set of keys once, and I walked out of the room and walked back in and found the keys.  Whether it's a psychological cue that helps you remember where something is, or you're actually talking to some inter-dimensional being from a pocket universe, I don't know. I just report the facts.)

Speaking of keys, my key arrangement is huge and unwieldy, the better not to lose. I have an Avalanche lanyard, with a bunch of stuff on it: a Volvo emblem that spins, a pin from Buffy the Vampire slayer, a pewter Avalanche key ring, and three keys.  A key to the Volvo, a key to the house, and a skeleton key that has extreme sentimental value (you don't need the details on that one....).  Anyway, I lose the damned things EVERY SINGLE DAY and spend hours looking for them. That's one of the worst things about my cognizant deficit: never being able to find anything. BAH.

The other bad things about the brain problem are (in no particular order):  not being able to spell anything anymore; sometimes being totally unable to text, because I can't even make the corrections; substituting a word I can't manage with a word that is definitely not the same thing; being unable to park the car -- I'm either too far out, too far in, or not anywhere close to being between the lines.  I apparently currently have no depth perception. Also too many loud noises make me all jangly, I've developed some form of agoraphobia, and I can't listen to anyone talk while I'm thinking, which I used to do with ease. This is not as fun and exciting as it sounds.

Fun Fur and spray adhesive are dangerous in the wrong hands.

It should be illegal to play music in supermarkets. It's like a time bomb. You never know when some song will be played that sends you into emotional distress. And then you can't escape it, because it looks odd to drop everything and run out of the store with your hands over your ears. Thanks, Barry Manilow.

Why is Pokemon still a thing?

Yesterday I listened to a Billy Joel song all the way through. In fact, I turned it up loud and sat in my car in the parking lot and sang it at the top of my lungs. Big step, because Billy Joel, again, has great sentimental value to me.  And sure it was Only the Good Die Young (I'll probably never be able to listen to And So It Goes again, and the whole Stormfront album is probably out of reach), but it was progress.

And I like Billy Joel. And Sting.  And Barry Manilow. And the Barenaked Ladies. And that one song by the Backstreet Boys. So shut up.  (We will not discuss my long-ago tween obsession with the Bay City Rollers. Hey, they were guys with accents wearing kilts. 'Nuff said.)

Have you ever been victim of a drive-by text? It's that thing where you are bopping along, maybe standing in line at the grocery store trying to block out the music wafting down from the hidden speakers, and your text alert goes off.  It's someone hysterically screaming IN ALL CAPS ABOUT SOME INVISIBLE RULE THAT YOU BROKE THAT YOU DIDN'T KNOW EXISTED, AND EVEN IF IT DID EXIST YOU DIDN'T BREAK IT IN THE FIRST PLACE.  The worst thing is that you can't even text effectively enough to say "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG NOW?"  without having to make eleventy-billion corrections. Clearly I need to hire someone to accomplish my texting, and weed out the crazy before it reaches me.

And this thing that didn't happen was obviously some cog in my Nefarious Master Plan. Apparently I have a Nefarious Master Plan that is so secret I don't even know about it.  So clue me in, will you?  I don't have the time for a Nefarious Master Plan right now, because I am busy working 12 hour days again, providing a normal life for my children after the horrorshow the last year became, trying to deal with the destruction of everything I thought was true and safe,  looking at a mountain of bills, having to fit  an unending stream of doctor and therapy appointments into days that are already so full of other things that they are running off the side of my trusty calendar, AND trying to find the time to write.  Maybe I need a Nefarious Master Plan planner who can take care of the details for me. Maybe I should give up the glamorous and fun life I am now living to become a Nefarious Master Plan planner. Apparently I would be very good at it.

Have you ever looked at someone and immediately thought, "Does your hair look like that intentionally? Or was it some unfortunate industrial accident?"  I would provide an illustration, but that would be impolite.

There should be a rescue league for archaic words. I can't do it all myself. Discomfited. That's a good word you never hear any more. Example: I am discomfited by the current turn of events. Sometimes I wish the house was taller so I could effectively defenestrate myself.

I use the word "apparently" too much.

A DVR is a dangerous thing, especially when it starts filling up with things you just can't bear to watch anymore because it's too upsetting. I have  whole seasons of Castle, Major Crimes, and Mad Men. Yes, I need more therapy.  The thing about PSTD is there are so many fucking triggers everywhere. I had to put all of it in a separate folder that I don't open.

The best thing about the end of the month is that all the bills are paid. The worst thing about the end of the month is that all bills start over again, usually on the first of the month. ("Hello, Mortgage, Health Care Premium, Emergency Loan and Private School Tuition!  I have missed you so much!" she said sarcastically.

Have you ever had so many overdue hospital and specialist bills that you just want to see a giant cage match, the winner of which you will actually be able to pay? In my head I just see a bunch of lower middle management drones whacking each other with briefcases and stabbing each other with sharpened paper clips.

Speaking of lower middle management, did you know it's not the same as being a "top executive"? Strange, but true. Embroidery is a hallmark of crippling insecurity.

Did you ever get an email that you couldn't delete fast enough because it makes you start considering a tri-state killing spree? I just did. There are certain people I would happily forget the existence of if they would just fucking stay out of my line of vision, lest they fall victim to my Nefarious Master Plan.

And speaking of email, the overflowing email box calls. It's like an impossible task that starts over every day. Like Sisiphus or the guy who got his eyes pecked out over and over again. 

I plan to return with thoughts on the end of Justified, the destruction of everything you thought was true and safe, and complaints about various stuff and things.  And maybe the unveiling of my Nefarious Master Plan!

In the meantime, remember: There are fucking rules, people!