My father has been going through all sorts of old papers, and among other crucial documents he found my bowling scores from when I was on a hard-hitting league in fifth grade. Our team name was The Morning Glories, but it really should have been June is the Only Hetero Girl. Lots of sturdy no-nonsense German girls on my team, us being from Michigan and all.
My average screamed up from 28 to 52. My lowest game was a 4, but my highest was 110!
I remember getting that 110. It was astonishing. It still WOULD be astonishing for me. At Christmas, I went bowling with Ned's family, and I got something impressive like 114, and I emailed a photo of that scorecard to my dad, right from the bowling alley.
"Is that all three games combined?" he asked. Oh, harrrrrrr-de-har.
He also found the bill from my birth, 48 years ago this Tuesday, sadly. The whole bill, including my mother's stay and all that, was $280. Can you imagine? That's less than Botox. In one area!
Despite that low bill, my father said 280 is still more than all my bowling scores put together from fifth grade.
Did I mention harrrrrr-de-har?
Last night, Ned and I went to see Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, and the big adventure for me was using every ounce of my willpower to not throttle old "Lemme check my phone every .004 seconds" in front of me. WHY DO PEOPLE DO THAT? First of all, are you expecting a text from the Secretary of Defense? And why do you NOT CARE how disturbing that is to everyone else? Who raised you?
Still. Pee-Wee is an excellent film.
So that ends our arduous week of watching movies at the old theater, and our big plan to not get popcorn each night has failed miserably. We will not be pee-wee after this month is over. Next week, we have Fargo and Jaws and I forget what else.
The 39 Steps. I think we have The 39 Steps. I guess I could look at the calendar I put right on this blog.
Oh, and here is my Curly Girl hair and me rubbing my eyes, on the beginning of day three. And no, it's not crunchy, as someone asked. GET THE BOOK.
I have rolled out of bed, driven home (hi, mom) and not showered yet. So you're getting it in all its glory. And it rained again last night, so. I won't get it wet, again, today when I shower, and then I'll do this thing to sort of refresh it, with a spray I made from lavender essential oil.
It's a whole thing. GET THE BOOK.
Did I just make it seem like I spent the night with my mom? It IS the South.
I had to go to the damn hippie grocery store yesterday at lunch to get said essential oil.
(The goddamn bank has STILL not put the money back in my account, AND they're charging me for checks that come through, and I've been on the phone with them countless times and they keep saying don't worry, we'll fix it, but now they're saying, "Oh, we didn't mean in three to five business days from when we called you. We meant three to five days after the whooo-de-whooo posts to your bloop de blee." When I explained to them I've been having popcorn at the movies for dinner and NOW I'M OUT OF PET FOOD, they said I could write checks, that my local branch was alterted. However, I'm too afraid of trying for fear I'll be humiliated at the grocery store.)
(Anyway, that's why I charged essential oil yesterday.)
My point is, since I was there and all, I said, Oh, I'll go through their free love, organic, no dye, Woodstock, patchouli salad bar. Nothing like charging your lunch on a credit card. I believe Suzi Orman encourages it.
And as ALWAYS HAPPENS at that store, there was some gray, long-haired woman who really could have used the Curly Girl method standing in front of me, and dudes.
She picked up a fork. Of course they only have stainless steel forks there, and these hemp boxes that are too baked to fold properly but that's another story. Anyway, she picks up a fork, looks at it, puts it back and gets another fork. Looks at it. Puts it back. I'm standing right behind her. I can't get any quinoa and grass-fed grass till she gets the eff out my way. Fork. Back. Fork. Back.
WHAT THE FORK.
Finally I sighed as loudly and beleagueredly as humanly possible and went around her. There has not been ONE TIME I have been there that I haven't beleagueredly had to move past some mesmerized hippie. Look, I understand pot is the answer and we need to visualize world pot and so on. But DO YOUR STONY SHOPPING IN THE OFF HOURS. Get there right before All Things Considered, when those of us who aren't necessarily wearing natural fibers are still at work.
Half the people shopping there look like Jesus.
I must go, and get into some unnatural fibers, and head off to my capitalist pig job. I'm The Man. Maybe that makes me a terrible person, but at least I GET THE HELL OUT THE WAY at the grocery store. And my hair smells like lavendar.
Oh, and one more thing?