Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Category: Stab From the Past

Day 13: I Got Your Fortune Cookie, Baby

Yeah, this was supposed to be a workday, but…you know when you crack open a fortune cookie, you read your fortune, and then you add “–in bed”? Well, I sprained my toe. In bed.


Longtime readers (a few may still survive) may remember how Rom once broke the bedroom window of our apartment downtown during an amorous session. This contributed to our loss of the damage deposit, but the best part was the landlord asking how the window got cracked, and Rom stammering, “Uh, from all the–wind we had in that storm the other night.”

Well, now that we’re homeowners, we can break all the windows we want (unless Nick decides we’re disturbing the peace and arrests us). But those hypothetical longtime readers may also remember the time that our candle (we always do it by candlelight) set off our smoke alarm. (I still fondly remember one night dispatching the fire department to someone’s house in response to “a smell of burning rubber in the bedroom.”)

Which brings us to last night. We’d just gotten up afterwards, congratulating each other on our mutually rewarding experience, and I said, “But my toe is hurting for some reason.” Then there’s the moment when you look down and think, “Did it always look like that?” It was bent sharply at a weird angle. Not as weird as Alien Finger, but still. It was already beginning to swell, and of course I thought of all the times I’d read that you can break a toe without even knowing it. And you especially wouldn’t even know it if you were, well….Let’s just say I was bracing my feet against the sideboard of the bed.

Well, this morning it was a lot better–just a little swelling remaining–but I decided walking a mile and a half to work was contraindicated. I will try to do better tomorrow.

Day 30: The Final Countdown

(You should say that like they do in the song by the same name.)

Somebody asked, “Are you counting the days till retirement?” I realized I was not, and a person such as myself certainly should be doing so. But I’m not counting down how many days are left in my employment, since I have vacations in the next 2 months, but how many days of actual work are involved. Hopefully, having to report back each day will ensure semi-regular posting (and drinking during vacations will probably ensure the rest).



“Caller at business hired a homeless subject to hold a sign, and he is now threatening them.” You know, you would think holding a sign would require the least vetting of any job.

“Suspect said he’s been tased before and knows to wear extra layers of clothing, also he could pull the darts out and run fast.” Let’s test that theory, shall we? One more reason to plan my outfits in advance!

“Subject states he is military police and has more power than the police.” Let’s test that theory, too!

“I got whiskey poured in my eye and I can’t see.” Well, I got Boone’s Farm wine poured down the front of my shirt once. The guy then tried to clean it up with his tongue. I should have told my caller that.

Officer’s comment on traffic stop: “You can’t be driving on a suspended license in a car covered in blood.” It turned out to be fake blood, but that only makes it more puzzling.


McDonalds at St Joe/Maryland has been remodeled. I was wondering if they’d go for the slick gray cyberpunk look of the one at Lloyd/Rosenberger, but no. It looks like what we thought looked modern in 1959, but in a 70’s color scheme. If I get dementia, they could just set me down there and I’d feel right at home, although I wouldn’t be sure exactly which past decade I was in.

McDonald’s is the place everyone ends up at eventually, so it’s like Life’s Rich Pageant in there–mostly Norman Rockwell, but with a few fringe elements. (I suppose I’d qualify as a Fringe Element, but only on close inspection, and I don’t invite close inspection.) When I last went there, there was a crowd at the counter, and an old guy apparently having some kind of medical episode, so I didn’t anticipate getting my order taken any time soon, and went to Taco Bell across the street instead. (I usually prefer Taco John’s for my infrequent Mexican food urges, but they’re farther down the street, and it was starting to rain.)

The clientele at Taco Bell tends to be younger and more redneck, and the music being played was appropriate. Weirdly, though, it was appropriate for when I was younger. Not that I would have heard it at a fast-food place–businesses didn’t pander to youthful tastes in those days–but I would have heard it blaring from passing cars as I walked down the street in my halter top and bell-bottom jeans. The Stones’ “It’s Only Rock & Roll.” “Dreams I’ll Never See” by Molly Hatchett. (I had to Google that, not having thought of that song for all the intervening years.) Then I thought–I know those opening chords very well–Blue Oyster Cult’s “In Thee,” which I’ve never heard when I’m out. Maybe I should go to Taco Bell more often.



“Now you’ll have lots of time for that ridealong!”

must think fast…“He’d probably just refuse, out of spite.”

“No, I think he’d probably accept–out of spite!”

Good thing he’s only imaginary.



This new radio system sounds like it’s recording what I say, even when I’m not on the phone or air. But that couldn’t be true, could it?





True Confessions

{Note: There was originally a line here that I edited out, and I can’t figure out how to make the white space go away, so I substituted this line in its place. Carry on.} {Yeah, I know this is more than one line, but I care insufficiently to do anything about it. Proceed.}


On the Anonymously Autistic blog, where I’ve been loitering lately, I found the official diagnostic definition here. (<== Look! Did you see that? I made a link! My first ever! This Blog School is turning out to be worthwhile after all! Maybe I better restrain my enthusiasm until I publish this and see if it actually works.) Leaving aside the obsessive way in which I carefully checked off each of the listed attributes and rated them for level of severity, I think I can put your doubts to rest with two simple observations:

  1. I rock back and forth when I listen to music. They call this “self-soothing” behavior, which I originally took issue with, thinking, “How would I feel if I didn’t do it? Oh–nervous and twitchy. OK.”
  2. As I walk along {“I wonder what went wrong, with our love, the love that was so strong…” Sorry. Too much listening to music.}, I often recite sequential lists of dates. I will not bore you with how these dates are selected.
  3. OK, make that 3 observations: I have difficulty recognizing people’s faces if I encounter them outside of their accustomed settings–colleagues outside of work, parishioners outside of church, Nick pretty much everywhere, etc. (I worked with that poor thing IN THE SAME ROOM, ON THE SAME SHIFT, FOR A YEAR–or so he claims–and don’t remember it.) My husband is the only exception. So if you run into me at Walgreen’s, or follow me down the street in your vehicle hoping to give me a ride, expect a blank stare initially. The only way to avoid that is to live with me for years. No, I’m not inviting you to move in.

Where the “high-functioning” thing (or maybe just “maturity”) comes in is, I’ve learned to not display my weirder traits in public, and I’ve also mastered Life Skills 101 (although I’m not sure about Life Skills 201). For example, not knowing how to dress properly got me in trouble at 3 different jobs. Since there were no dress codes to tell me exactly how to proceed, I just wore what I did when I wasn’t working. Back then, that involved lots of see-through shirts, halter tops, and black goth-y stuff that hadn’t yet become fashionable. So one supervisor told me, “Just because there’s no dress code doesn’t mean you can wear whatever you want.” See, I’d thought that was exactly what it meant. The “obvious” alternative–looking around to see what other employees were wearing–simply never occurred to me. How did I eventually discover that tactic? I read it in an article. Combine that sort of thing with my belief that making sustained eye contact with anyone will turn me to stone, and you can see why employers used to edge me out as soon as they could figure a way that wouldn’t involve paying me unemployment benefits.

Along with Life Skills, a structured and/or familiar environment helps a great deal, so I know just what to expect. I also have various Rules, so I don’t take forever to make decisions like, Where should I sit on this bus? What color underwear should I put on today? (Although I actually make those particular decisions in the reverse order from the way I just listed them.) (You know, it JUST OCCURRED TO ME that I could solve that one problem by just buying all-white underwear. You learn something new every day!)

Also, here (again from Anonymously Autistic) is an example of how one can “build” small talk “from the ground up,” so to speak.

Well, that was somewhat embarrassing, but I’ll live. Enough about me and why I’m weird. I’ve already dawdled over this post for too long, afflicted with “but what if they don’t want to read about my problems?” Well, if you don’t want to read about my problems, YOU’RE IN THE WRONG PLACE.


I have scratchy glitter on me from carrying Christmas packages. This is not optimum.


I’m happy because I discovered rose-scented Vaseline for my lips.


“Real-Life Grinch Caught On Video Stabbing Inflatable Snowman.” Yes, Yes, YES!!!



School’s Out Forever

The musically-astute will recognize my I GOT NO GOALS statement in the previous post as a take-off on Alice Cooper:

“And we got no class!

And we got no principals!

And we got no innocence!

We can’t even think of a word that rhymes!”

But they are more clever than you think, given the double meanings of “class” and “principles” illustrated above. Speaking of which, I always remember the different spellings from the trick they taught us in school, “When you mean the principal of a school, it ends with ‘pal,’ because the principal is your pal!” Even as a kid, I thought that was lame. Speaking of which, I remember senior year of high school, standing in the hall during one of the lunch periods (the school was big enough that we had more than one) talking to the assistant principal, who was in charge of attendance and discipline. He pointed out the window to the courtyard, and said, “You see those kids standing around? Half of them are supposed to be in class right now.” I myself was supposed to be in class right then, and snickered inwardly at his ignorance. Of course, I now realize that he was probably perfectly aware of that, and that’s why he brought it up. (And for those of you who are thinking, “Why, World Leader! We didn’t think of you as the class-cutting type!,” let me just say that the class I was cutting was gym, and I didn’t start cutting it until a classmate pointed out that I was failing it anyway, so why bother to show up? It actually hadn’t occurred to me to skip it until then. And you see what a wuss I was even so–I didn’t even leave the school grounds, just prowled the empty halls.)

SPEAKING OF WHICH, after reading my account of meeting up with Nick unexpectedly and not noticing him, Rom said, “You’re a strange person.” But what does he know? He’s only lived with me for 36 years.


For once, I mean that literally, and not as arcane symbolism. Speaking of which, FanBaser and sort-of-coworker T. Rex reports that she knew about me when I started in Police Records, as “the Record Room intellectual.” I guess every Record Room needs one. And it sounds more distinguished than “the one who doesn’t wear a bra,” which I also was.

What You’ve All Been Waiting For


“What we’ve been waiting for is a damn post,” they interrupt testily. “Didn’t you say something about trying to write every day…again…”  Well, I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. “Then why didn’t you write about it?”  It never stops, nevernevernever stops…

Ahem. My birthday was Saturday, and featured a surprise VISIT FROM NICK, with his mate and pair of spawn in tow, all in red shirts. I don’t think that man knows how to dress unless some type of uniform is involved. (No, Nick, I will not take fashion advice from someone whose shoes fall apart.) I also got a SURPRISE HUG from the same individual, which mildly alarmed me, and a birthday card congratulating me on turning 85, which just goes to show that a beast can’t count. Seriously, I’ve always wished there were specific cards for all ages–“To A Special 37-Year-Old…” Did you know that Rom once thought he would die at 37? See, he’s not always right. I once dreamed I died at 83, on March 16 of whatever year that would be. (Now who can’t count?) I ought to sign up for one of those services that send you an email from yourself on a specified future date. On March 16 Whatever Year, I’d read “Have you died yet?” and promptly die of fright. I would die as I’d lived, namely, ironically.

Thornton’s gave me 10 cents off a gallon of gas for my birthday, showing a lamentable lack of knowledge of my buying habits. Lands’ End gave me a 20% off code, which I will not use to buy green gingham shorts, unless I happen to be drunk at the time.


Stephen Colbert informs us there is currently a national surplus of cheese. Rom & I are doing our best to address this, thanks to a recent shipment of Wisconsin cheese from my sister. You all need to help out and eat an extra 3 pounds of cheese a year, or the extra cheese will…get moldy, I guess. Moldier.



In spite of my charming/disarming tell-all tone in this venue, it is my habit to keep my personal plans to myself, in case…well, in case someone uses the information against me, I suppose. It’s like when I’d go with colleagues to the FOP Club in the 90’s. I’d drink too much, turn sullen, then call a cab, slip out and wait for it on the corner, without telling anyone I was leaving. You know, being mysterious and stuff. Or the way I never want to tell my co-workers which shift I’m picking until the last minute, even though I always pick the same one anyway. SO, recently I caught myself thinking, “I wish I could tell my FanBase what I’ve been doing lately,” and realized, What’s stopping me? It’s my own blog, after all.

“…which nobody will be reading if you don’t get to the point,” they point out. 


What I’m getting at is, when I turn 62 at this time next year, I’m planning on retiring. (I already feel panicky, like I should qualify that–I mean, it’s always possible that the numbers won’t add up like I think they will, since I’ve already proven I can’t do math.)

I went to one of the retirement workshops sponsored by our pension fund. I ran into someone I used to work with, which was kind of embarrassing, in that “Well, what are you doing at this whorehouse?” sort of way. I also picked up a magazine called “The New Retirement,” put out by AARP, who ought to know, I suppose. It included an article about financial planning, which mentioned that a professional financial planner can help you come up with a plan for your pension and Social Security. You mean, other than letting them send me a check every month? Because that was my plan.

So this will be the last year of the Crisis In Progress department. I will now be a lame-duck dispatcher. I’ll be doing a bunch of stuff at work for the Last Time, probably getting sentimental about stuff like being yelled at on the phone. “No one will ever say they’re paying my salary again!” Perhaps I will become dangerous and yell at them on the phone. I hope to have a drunken retirement party–if you play your cards right, you may get the “House of the Rising Sun” karaoke I’ve been threatening for years. And if I take up skydiving in retirement, you’ll be the first to know.


3:26 and All Is Not Well

“…I was up till 3:30 last night,” says Stephen Colbert, as if there’s something unusual about that. I cannot rest until I write. I’m like Cat Esmerelda with petting–“I’VE DONE WITHOUT IT FOR DAYS, BUT NOW I MUST STAND IN THE HALLWAY AND YELL, AND GET IN FRONT OF YOU WHEN YOU TRY TO LEAVE THE ROOM, AND COME BACK AND GET YOU WHEN YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME, BECAUSE I HAVE TO HAVE IT NOW NOW NOW–”

Ahem. Anywayz, the 28th was Rom’s birthday (he’s 65! how did that happen?), and we went to Turoni’s with D. It’s a good thing I remembered what I wanted (3-cheese/chicken/broccoli pizza, yum!), because their current menu struck me like a blow (albeit a very minor one–unlike their bathroom, which thanks to their mid-century modern decorating scheme reminded me of the restrooms of my childhood, so I expected their toilet to do likewise, and instead it was a supersonic TOILET OF THE FUTURE, and startled me when I flushed), because the menu was an over-crowded BARRAGE OF WORDS, and I was momentarily overwhelmed. (The accompanying illustrations did not help. Pictures on a menu should be of food, not cartoon characters.) I had been thinking I might like an alcoholic beverage (or 2, or 3, or 4), but that required a separate menu to present their hellish profusion of beers, so that was Not Gonna Happen. By the way, the pizzas of my table companions were overly colorful. A pizza should not look like it has confetti strewn over it.

This post is reading like a grab bag of World Leader Edicts. And I’ve only just begun.


You didn’t know I had one, did you? Neither did I.

Nothing like a letter from that source which cheerily begins, “We’re NOT accusing your of identity theft!” Oh?

“…but you need to go to our website, and pass a quiz to verify your identity, which will only take a few minutes, and we’ll give you 3 chances to pass it, and then we’ll send you your refund, if you first tell us the exact amount of the refund you were claiming.”


I grumpily went to my pile of leftover tax documents. Well, guess what? After doing the taxes, I had separated the paperwork into 2 piles–one to toss and one to keep–and guess what I did. That’s right, I threw the wrong ones away. Stuff like this would make me think dementia is setting in, except that I’ve been doing stuff like this my whole life. It’s a wonder I can even feed myself. Oh wait, I don’t, Rom feeds me. Well, not by hand, because I bite.

Soooo…I don’t have the paperwork they require, so I need to call them, at their non-toll-free number. How can I prove I’m not the identity thief they’re not accusing me of being? Maybe they’ll tell me to come up to Indianapolis with my state I.D. (it’s like a driver’s license, except that it says Don’t Let This Person Drive) to get my refund.

You know, I carefully arrange my life so I seem normal, to myself and others. But going to a city I’ve never been to, where I know no one, and try and find a building I’ve never been to? That is so Not Gonna Happen. They can just keep my refund, paltry as it is. Identity theft has claimed another victim.

Even More Stuff

…mostly stuff I forgot to include last time. Speaking of which, scrolling through old posts (because I saw someone had read an old one titled “I Am the Carpet Queen, I Can Do Anything,” and I wanted to see why I’d come up with that {stolen from Jim Morrison/the Doors, and not for the first time, I bet}) (OK, I just had to go back up to the top to remember what my point was) (I’m not drunk, by the way), I was struck by the fact that–wow, old posts used to be long. (“And more frequent, too,” they observe tartly.) Yeah, this paragraph was a lot of buildup for little payoff. Please don’t say that old posts also used to be better.

My arm continues to get better, thanks for asking. Especially since I had to perform amateur surgery to remove a piece of sweater fuzz that had become embedded in the wound, ew ew ew. My stoicism in doing this makes me like to think I could cut off my foot to escape a trap if I had to. And I probably would  have to, because avoiding the trap in the first place doesn’t seem to be an option.


Actually, I was paid to write a review once in the 80’s. That wouldn’t look great on a resume (along with having a short-short story published in a magazine with a circulation of 200 in 1995), but since I’ll never have to write a resume again, I don’t care.

Anyway, I saw the Jungle Book with Rom and D., and I can recommend it to all who enjoyed the books. Unfortunately, it included a couple of musical numbers left over from the Disney cartoon, for which I did not care, but they were brief.


First off, call me old and prudish (I dare you–DON’T MAKE ME PICK LINT OFF YOUR ARM!), but please don’t cuss in front of the customers. Apparently they think they’re OK as long as they don’t cuss at the customers. Perhaps I am stodgy about this because my job does involve people cussing at me. (“They cuss at you even though you’re providing the emergency help they’re requesting?” they ask. Yes, FanBase, yes.)

Second off, a co-worker who was not present was spoken of thus: “Right now she’s literally walking on eggshells.” No wonder she couldn’t make it to work.


I’m toying with the idea of reinstating the Post-A-Day rule, perhaps starting on my upcoming birthday. That gives me several weeks to, you know, brood over why I couldn’t stick to it the last time.



The More Things Change…

So we got on the front page of the paper for a story on Dispatch To Get Monumental New Radio Upgrade. A photo of the operations room (a/k/a Bridge of the Starship Enterprise) was featured, plus a close-up of a couple co-workers, to which I can only say, Better them than me. My work-related publicity is limited to being The Person With Their Back To the Camera in an old episode of “Rescue 911.” I had actually been called in on overtime, because they needed someone to really work while the other person was pretending to work for the camera. I think Channel 14 News also got a closeup of my hands typing once, which was a good deal, because I wear lots of rings. So the viewers got their money’s worth. Yes, I know how much you have to pay to watch broadcast TV.

FUN FACT: Yes, I wear lots of rings, but the feel of jewelry annoys me and I always take it off as soon as I get home.


We had a tour come through the other day–well, not through, but with their noses pressed to the glass as if we were in a zoo. Now I understand why monkeys throw feces at visitors. Not that we threw any, of course.

My personal problem (you knew I’d get to it, didn’t you?) was that I was not very busy at the moment. The sheriff’s department can get busy, but it’s usually in fits and starts, and no one had done me the favor of running off a country road into a ditch, or hitting a deer on the highway. So I did a lot of looking back and forth between screens, as if there was some ongoing situation I was monitoring. I was glad when a deputy finally asked for a tow truck. Look! I’m talking on the phone now!


For a week I’ve had a disgusting blistering itchy rash on my arm, which looks like poison ivy, although I don’t see how it could be. I’ve been wearing long sleeves, lest my habit of promiscuous hugging leads to my co-workers getting cooties. (Note: I do not, in fact, have a habit of promiscuous hugging. Get away from me.) So I’ve had to face this beautiful spring weather in long sleeves and long pants (the latter because I still have a dog bite on my leg. I will let you know when this is no longer the case). So last night I lay in bed thinking about cellulitis. Or maybe it’s the first symptoms of rabies? I do, after all, have a dog bite on my leg.


I dreamed I was an expensive hooker. I had a mink coat and everything (although, in all honesty, the mink coat was a hand-me-down from a previous resident of said house of ill-repute). But I left the house to meet a client, wearing my football-jersey-type orange shirt with white sleeves, and a glass bead necklace. A co-worker said something catty to the effect of, “Way to look high-class!” and I said, “I don’t have to dress up.” An odd thing for the owner of a mink coat to say.


Tingling With Excitement

…since I have a giant can of ale. Did you know that 24oz is the perfect serving size for me?



Why? Because an internet (do we still capitalize Internet these days? I think not–apparently the novelty has worn off) test on Which Side of Your Brain is Dominant? pronounced me Left Brain Dominant 68%. Hey, I wanted to be more creative and artistic and stuff! Of course, an I.Q. test also revealed that I’m not as smart as I think I am. And that wasn’t on the internet, that was a Real Test given by a Real Police Department Expert,

for my current job. Apparently I am just smart enough to do the job, but no smarter. Did you know that the average I.Q. of police dispatchers is higher than the average I.Q. of police officers? It says so on the Internet. It makes sense when you think about it. So don’t. (If you’re an officer, that is.)

I think some of the questions on that test (the brain-side test, not the I.Q. test, which I don’t remember any of the questions of, being under a lot of stress at the time) were unfair. (“Please provide an example,” they say.) For example, “Does your desk need to be neat and orderly, or are you comfortable with clutter?” My desk is cluttered, but I am not comfortable with it. So what does that mean? That I’m left-brain-dominant, but incompetent? That’s not the answer I was looking for.

I am now experiencing difficulty deciding what needs italics/CAPITALIZATION/bold-face type. I suspect alcohol makes you stupider. I doubt I am now smart enough to dispatch police.

OOPS, LOST MY CURSOR AGAIN…I take no responsibility for the unexplained space in the middle of the above paragraph. I am, for some reason, unable to correct it. (I am how smart, again?)

OK, I just almost choked on my drink. Apparently I can’t drink and write at the same time.

Where was I? Oh…

I’m tired of having a dog bite on my leg.

Did you know that pants fit better if they’re not on backwards? “How is that even possible?” male members of my FanBase wonder. It’s one of the mysteries of womanhood. Ooh, I said “male member.” Sorry. I remember one night on 3rd shift we spent listing all the synonyms for that organ we could think of. It was a night of few emergencies, obviously.


…on his furry-hat segment, which is a rip-off of my World Leader Edicts…

“If you name your genitals, you now have to introduce them at parties.” Good thing I’m never invited to parties. I have not yet been drunk enough to reveal her name to anyone but Rom.



Solid Sheet of Iceville

Now that we’ve entered S. S. of I. season, let me remind my co-workers of the SOLID SHEET OF ICE QUADFECTA! If you can be involved with the following:

–A reckless driver is all over the road, hits a solid sheet of ice, and shears off a pole, and then when confronted about it, puts his/her hands on someone, you will win…something with scratchy glitter on it, I guess. Chosen by me. Reluctantly.


Seen on Facebook–“Remember when we used to call stalkers ‘secret admirers’?” Let’s just turn that inside out, shall we? Now we live in an age when we call secret admirers “stalkers.” As if anyone who’s too shy to tell you about their feelings probably means you harm. (Nick takes notes, since he’s keeping his admiration for me very secret indeed.) 


There is a picture of me down at police HQ, along with other exotic dispatchers of the 80’s. (I think I’m the only one in the lineup who still works here.) Nick, who probably has to pass this picture a dozen times a day, informed me that I am a “living time capsule.” I can only hope this refers to my timelessly youthful appearance, and not to the fact that my hairstyle hasn’t changed since 1985.


…as you feared it would…


CHILDHOOD: The Prince Valiant cut. This style actually landed me in the school Christmas pageant in the first grade, as one of the Three Kings’ pageboys. (Yes, schools had Christmas pageants about Jesus back then.) My mother thought I looked adorable in this style, even though my bangs would not lie flat unless they were taped to my forehead while they dried.

TEENAGEHOOD: My dark-blonde hair started growing in dark-brown. My mother was distressed at this sign of her Little Girl Growing Up and insisted on bleaching it blonde again. The problem with this was that the color (Miss Clairol in Topaz, now mercifully discontinued) looked brassy and cheap in the worst sort of way (in other words, not “cheap” in the sexy way).  Girls made fun of me for it (boys seemed to prefer making fun of me for my acne instead), and I begged to be allowed to grow it out, but my mother refused. In sophomore year of high school, I finally rebelled and dyed it back to brown (still Miss Clairol, this time in Sun-warmed Brown.) This was also the Year of the Shag. My best friend drew a stick-figure cartoon of me for the underground newspaper I wrote for back then. You could tell it was me because it had glasses and my hair was sticking straight up, since I had a nervous habit of running my fingers through it.

SINCE THEN, EXCEPT FOR AN INTERVAL IN THE 2000’S AFTER SURGERY (FEMALE PROBLEMS, DON’T ASK OR I’LL TELL) (OK, SURGICAL SHOCK MADE 15% OF MY HAIR FALL OUT, SO I GOT IT CUT SHORT): I started growing my hair out at just the age when most women decide they’re too old for long hair, for whatever reason they decide that. I don’t style it. I don’t “do anything” about all the gray in the front. So, for all the people who’ve said it would look nice if I’d just “do something” with it–no, this is on purpose. Unlike the barbecue sauce I got all over my clothes on Sunday, which I hope no one at work noticed.


I was going to sing a David Bowie song in the shower, but I have a cold and I’m losing my voice. (And it doesn’t take long for me to get tired of brilliant-green snot.) So I listened to Ziggy Stardust instead. Ziggy Stardust inspired my high school boyfriend (actually, it was only a “relationship” on my part) to get his long hair cut into a shag, to my dismay–after he dumped me, to my greater dismay. I hadn’t actually heard Ziggy Stardust at that point–that had to wait until I discovered Rom’s record collection 6 years later.

“I could fall asleep at night as a rock and roll star

I could fall in love alright as a rock and roll star…

Yes, I used to think that was a prerequisite.

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