Dudes. I have forgotten to buy hair gel for THREE DAYS IN A ROW. Am officially doing a tree impression.
Jesus. What is WRONG with me? I mean, here is how yesterday went, and the two previous days were just as chaotic-y.
I had this special project I got volunteered for, which is great and I was glad to do it because it was something different to do, but every person I told said, "Oh my god!" Like in a million years they'd never take on something like that.
But take it on I did, and it was intense, and I didn't even go on my walk at work in the morning. Then we had our company meeting, in which my name got mentioned and they flashed a photo of me across the screen and naturally there were autographs after, and a few hysterical fans who grabbed their faces and fainted and so on.
Then back to the intense thing.
I finally got that done at around 3:00, then had to scream over without a minute's break to my REGULARLY scheduled work, only to get an email from the guy who interviewed me. "You'd told me a friend compiled some of your quotes from your blog. Do you have those?"
Of course I don't have those. Has anyone met me? But my friend, The Poet, still did, and she emailed them over. Isn't she supposed to be all disorganized and poetic and gazing at the moon at sunrise and so on? And as a copy editor, shouldn't I be acutely aware of each detail? Anyway, none of that is true, so she sent me the quotes in about 14 seconds.
"What're you laughing at?" my work husband Ryan asked me. He sits on the other side of my computer. Not, like, under the keyboard, but in back of my computer, in our private, cloistered open floor plan.
"Well, myself," I told him. And he seemed unfazed. I was reading this:
So for MONTHS now I've been rolling my stupid foot on a tennis ball like some kind of twisted Labrador retriever or Martina Navratilova. Neither of whom actually rolls their feet on a tennis ball, but I never said I was accurate.
It was when I had the plantar fasciitis.
Also, I adored myself for this:
I've also been sleeping in a sexy splint, which I take off and very neatly place on my nightstand while I am DEAD ASLEEP, and I just kind of wonder what else I'm doing in the night. Making bad investments? REM e-mailing people? Not that I'm emailing "Hey! What up! I'm losing my religion!" "Hey, long time! Stand in the place where you live!"
Then at 5:00, I was supposed to scream to the library to tutor my student, but she canceled, so I got in the car and went to Wendy's. My diet is super clean. I'm going to start an I-get-all-my-meals-out-a-window diet.
I get the strawberry chicken salad there. Have you had it? It.is.delicious. It really is. Any time you combine strawberries with bacon, you have yourself a duo. It's like Peaches and Herb, only it's Strawberries and Hog.
So I went home and devoured that, and then I've made a deal with myself that I will spend a minimum of one hour a day packing and throwing things away and getting things ready for what I call a rummage sale and what Ned and Southern people of his ilk call a yard sale. A yard sale. Whoever heard of such an outlandish term?
I began with the attic, because other than the scary bug-infested shed, it seems like it's gonna be the worst part. I clamored up those steps like I was a beleaguered Anne Frank, tossing empty boxes down, and 39493920 cords that Marvin left, and so on. I threw away what was tossable, labeled with tape and a Sharpie what I was selling, and set aside what stays. So far two things stay.
Then I did my Tracy Chapman workout while trying to avoid Edsel, who becomes even more obsessed with me when I'm lying on a yoga mat. It's his big chance to lick me 900 times, and I swear Tallulah told him I've got a Tootsie Roll inside.
While I was Tracy-ing, Ned called, and it was while I was talking to him, at 9:00 at night while I was exhausted and sweaty, that I remembered the goddamn gel.
So that's why I look like a tree.