DAY 126: FAKE NIPPLE RINGS?

     Is there such thing as fake nipple rings?  I am hoping so.  I had a blind date with a guy and did some sleuthing before the date--my usual Google stalking.  My sleuthing unearthed this guy's My Space page and on that My Space page were several pictures of him in Halloween costumes.  These costumes all had one theme in common--no shirt required.  Well, when someone doesn't have a shirt on you can find out lots of interesting things.  In this case, the guy had nipple rings.
     My questions are: were those nipple rings part of his sexy cop costume or his modernized cave man outfit? Or were they the real deal, worn every day under his normal clothes nipple rings?  Unfortunately or fortunately, I cannot answer those questions...

DAY 125: NOT NEGOTIATING WITH TERRORISTS

     For the record (and in case you were all dying to know) I refuse to negotiate with terrorists.  So to the lady who thinks she can extort money from me (and is threatening to do so) due to a fender bender that was her fault, I repeat: I do not negotiate with terrorists, that means you lady, that means you.

DAY 124: ANTI-BACTERIAL BODY WASH

     What kind of work are you in if you need to bathe with Dial anti-bacterial body wash?  I don't want to know.
     What I do know is that my company buys this Dial body wash in bulk from Sam's Club for us to use as hand soap.  That I get, I work at a manufacturing plant and while there is a shower in 1 of the bathrooms, I'm 99.99% positive that no one is using it.  Jeez, I hope not.  That would be an awkward office situation.

DAY 123: MOM CLOTHES?

     Sitting on the plane flying back to Dallas this morning, I overheard two college girls talking.  They talked a lot about rushing sororities and Greek life.  Then they started talking about shopping and clothes.  I realized how big the age gap was between us when one of them said that she initially thought the store J Crew sold "Mom clothes."
     Mom clothes!  I shop there and I'm not a mom.  I'm no where near being a mom.  I started to panic.  But then the girl who made that blanket statement retracted it.  She used to think it was a Mom store but then she went there and saw some other girls at her school wearing J Crew clothes and they looked cute and nice.
     Well, phew, glad we got that issue solved.  I'm really not ready to give up shopping at J Crew.  I didn't think it was like Chico's, which is the store I consider to be a "Mom store."

DAY 122: BUILD A BRIDGE

     Some sound advice from my first grade friend: "build a bridge and get over it."  She started saying this years ago and it never went out of style.

DAY 121: BLACK FRIDAY IS NUTS

     All the people waiting in lines to get into stores and then fighting with each other over toys and handbags once they get into the stores amaze me.  Was it really worth it to rush your Thanksgiving dinner to get to the mall or strip center so early?  Is that item really worth it that you needed to knife someone or brandish a gun in front of other shoppers so you got to go home with it?  Are you going to wake up happy and thankful tomorrow morning? 
     Now, I'll admit I did some shopping today.  But I didn't get violent.  I did smile when I got the extra 50% off that Cole-Haan purse though...

DAY 120: HOME

     I give thanks for this home my father worked so hard to provide for us.  Can you even believe this view of the Sandia Mountains?  It will be unbearable to sell this place or even to rent it out—it’s home, the place we come for comfort and togetherness.  It’s hard when your family's not living in your home anymore.  But then when you get there it’s all ok and all your memories come flooding back.  I’m thankful for those memories.    

DAY 119: FORGET THOSE SCHWEDDY BALLS

     Forget that Schweddy Balls Ice Cream.  Did you know Ben & Jerry's makes a Red Velvet flavor?  Go try it, it's great.  
     I actually want to try the Schweddy Balls flavor--vanilla ice cream with a hint of rum and is loaded with fudge covered rum and milk chocolate malt balls, but I can't find it anywhere...

DAY 118: BRAVO ZULU

     Apparently Bravo Zulu is a naval signal that means "well done."  Well my boss, formerly in the Navy, said Bravo Zulu to me today!  Pretty cool, even if I had to look it up to see what it meant.

DAY 117: PUSHING PEOPLE'S BUTTONS

     The worst thing you can do is not respond when someone reaches out to you.  An ex-boyfriend of mine texted me this weekend--of course he wouldn't call, that's how it is these days.  I ignored it and I don't ever plan to respond.  Keep in mind this is the same person who has called me and hung up--he didn't leave a voicemail and we all know that's the equivalent of hanging up on someone.  This is also the same person who felt that not talking to me for a week didn't mean we'd broken up--he thought we were still together (I'm certain if some guy can't or won't talk to you, he's got no business being a relationship with you).
     I've sent cards, letters and emails to people and received no response.  It hurt my feelings.  While I'm not proud to be doing the exact same thing, I see no reason to open the door to any further communication with this person.  Sometimes you just have to go with your gut.  My gut says he's not a good guy, so it's not worth it.

DAY 116: FRESHMAN ORIENTATION

     Dad didn't drop me off at school my freshman year.  My then step-monster had put our family on a "budget" and thought that paying Dad's plane fare to Ann Arbor would be too expensive.  But Dad did come with me to my freshman orientation at the University of Michigan before I left our house for good and before the my step-monster has implemented the "budget."
     Now take yourself back to a time pre-email and pre-cell phones.  I had neither.  Dad dropped me off at my dorm room in West Quad for freshman orientation and told me he'd stop by at a certain the or that he'd call me on the pay phone at a certain time.  The orientation people put me in a triple room with bunk beds.  I met one of my roommates, she marched in the U-M marching band.  The other roommate showed up once during our entire orientation and I can't remember her story except that she already knew people in Ann Arbor and was too cool to christen our room with her presence.
     Dad was worrier and a very protective parent.  He must of sighed a sigh of relief when he saw that the orientation organizers provided a bulletin board for the students where notes and messages could be left for them.  I felt cool and special the first time I found a note with my name written on it pinned to the board.  Of course I knew it was from Dad even before I unfolded it.  I could spot his all caps, black felt tip pen, block printing anywhere.  (Who else would it be from?)
     The pride I felt in receiving that first note started to fade and transformed into slight embarrassment when Dad started leaving me notes every few hours.  He gave me advice like "take a sweater to your math placement test, it gets cold in big auditoriums."  He asked questions like: "Have you met the Indian girl?  She seems very nice."  He warned me about college parities:  "Please don't drink alcohol or go to any of those big parties, people could take advantage of you."  Dad's notes when on and on.  I left orientation with a huge pile of them.
     No one knew what Dad had written to me, so I really had no reason to feel embarrassed.  And what I realized on the plane ride home to Albuquerque was that this was Dad's way.  He wouldn't tell me how much he was going to miss me or cry as I stepped on the plane a month later to start my freshman year.  But he'd try to tell me all those things or express that emotion in notes, letters and care packages that would track my college years, my law school years and even the years when I'd be finished with school.  Because even in the real world and all grown up, Dad still needed to be the best parent he could to me and the written word was his way.

DAY 115: SCRABBLE CLUB

     Do you know where the Dallas area Scrabble Club meets on Tuesday nights?  I do.  It's at the IHOP on I635 and Josey Lane.  I know this due to my love of Scrabble and a little help from Jennifer Lopez playing in her Scrabble Club in the movie the Wedding Planner.
     When I moved to Dallas, I knew no one.  Not a soul.  I knew I liked playing Scrabble and I knew from JLo's romantic comedy that there were such things as Scrabble Clubs.  So I opened my game of Scrabble, found a pamphlet and called the 1-800 number for the National Scrabble Association.  They gave me the contact info for 2 Dallas Scrabble Clubs.  I chose to go to the Tuesday night club at IHOP.
     The Scrabble Club met in the Josey Lane IHOP's side room.  I didn't get there early.  Players, or should I says club members, had already set up their boards.  Almost every board was elevated and spun completly around so one didn't have to move the board or crane her neck to see a possibility for a play.  The club's captain gave me a cheat sheet since it was my first time.  The cheat sheet had all these 4 letter words with no vowels and high point letters like XYST and ZZZS--yes these are both apparently legal Scrabble words.      
     Anyway, I would be able to play 3 games.  For each game a player had 25 minutes to make all of his or her plays--there was a timer, like in chess.  This meant if you didn't know the Scrabble board well and how many points a blue or pink square was worth then you'd be screwed.  I was screwed.  I had to lift my letters up after I made a play and count my points. It took forever.  I lost the first game badly.  My first opponent had been an elderly man with a mangled hand.  He'd showed some mercy to me and in return I hadn't minded helping him place some of his tiles on the board since he couldn't use both hands.
     Oh this would also be a good time to mention I was the youngest player in the group by at least 25 years.  There was one guy my age (at the time) who was 28.  He was so obese he couldn't even get up to shake my hand.  No future loves would be found at Scrabble Club.  In my second game I played a nice lady in her fifties.  She won, but I felt like I was getting the hang of things.  No so.  Because along came my third opponent.
     She was a sweet looking, white-haired lady, with a nice outfit on and her hair swap up in a tidy bun.  She was out for blood.  Her first words to me were:  "what do you think you're doing with that word sheet?"  I told her that the club captain gave it to me and said I could use it as a cheat sheet since it was my first time at Scrabble Club.  Sweet grandma wouldn't have it.  I looked at her and said "you're going to win anyway so what does it matter if I use the cheat sheet?"  She still wouldn't budge.  So the ass-wooping begun.
     That 80 year old lady spanked me.  Not literally, but she might as well have.  She won handily.  I think she had at least 2 bingos.  A bingo in Scrabble means you used all 7 letters in your letter rack in one play.  The reward is 50 extra points on top of your word score.  It's absurd.  Well, I take that back.  It's absurd if you're the newbie at Scrabble Club losing badly and the only thing you have to show for it is your sticky syrup coated fingers when you leave.  Remember this club played its games at IHOP and someone along the way had ordered pancakes and now a thin but distinct layer of syrup coated all the Scrabble tiles belonging to each board in the room.
     I left sticky and cried in my car as I drove home.  I knew I'd never go back.  I hadn't met any new friends and an old grandma had been mean to me.  That's no way to spend a Tuesday night even if you are at an IHOP.
   

DAY 114: SHE'S YOUR VENUS

     I saw Venus Williams speak at the Girl Scouts of Northeast Texas luncheon today.  She surprised me with her poise and public speaking skills.  Plus, it was great to see so many girls who are Girls Scouts and hear about how many women leaders were former Girl Scouts (lots of US Senators).  It reminded me of my Brownie troop.
     Mom decided not to be my troop's leader.  Instead she was the leader for a troop of girls one year older than me.  It upset me to know that my own mother didn't want to be my troop leader.  But she chose not to be my troop's leader because she didn't want anyone to ever think she was playing favorites towards me.  She wanted me to have my own experience.  This wasn't the first time she'd done something like that.  She'd volunteer at my elementary school library, but never during my class' reading hour.  She'd always come earlier in the morning and help other students in different classes.  I think this was her way of teaching me to be independent and how things won't always be day or handed to you because you know someone.  Whaddaya know, it worked...so even though she wasn't my Brownie or Girl Scout troop leader, she served as a great role model.
     Dad gets props too.  I stayed in Girl Scouts after Mom died.  Dad helped me to sell my cookies and get my badges.  I never sold enough cookies to get the trip to Disney Land, but I did sell enough for the prized stuffed animal one year.  I'd go door to door trying to sell the cookies from the extra cases Dad bought (so I could reach the amount of cookies needed to "win" the stuffed animal) with him standing behind me or waiting at the curb lugging the half full case of Samoas.

DAY 113: OPINIONS

     My Dad used to always say (I'm not sure where he got this or if he was quoting someone else) that opinions are like assholes--everybody has one.  So true, so so true.

DAY 112: I WAS SERVED

     Ok, I wasn't served with a subpoena today by and FBI Special Agent.  But my company was--no worries, the company didn't do anything wrong and will be helping out with an investigation.  Anyway, the really interesting part of this whole "being served" business is that I knew the FBI agent serving the subpoena.  We'd been on a blind date.  A terrible blind date.
     This guy was the 3 Pile Guy.  The guy who picked the skin off of his fingers at our lunch table and when his pile of skin got too big he swept it into his napkin covered lap only to start picking the skin off of his fingers and cuticles again.  He made 3 separate piles of skin on our date and 2 of those, actually maybe all 3, were before our lunch was served.
     I cannot begin to tell you how awkward the whole situation/s was/were...both that lunch and seeing him today, 2 years later in his work capacity, were both pretty bad.  Oh and I had to shake his hand as did the owner of my company.  I need to go wash my hands--so gross!

DAY 111: MOLDY CLOTHES?

     Have your clothes ever been moldy?  Not mildew on your towel, I mean mold on your clothes.  I left my clothes from the Tomato Battle on Saturday in a trash bag until I did my laundry this morning.  Why I waited so long, I have no idea.  I planned to throw the tomato-drenched shirt away but wash the pants and keep them.  Well, it turns out I had no choice about the shirt, because when I opened the bag the shirt was covered in mold and tomato seeds.  Oh and it smelled real good too...nice.  Needless to say I won't be doing that again and I'm probably out on the whole tomato fight too.  Unless it's the original one in Spain.

DAY 110: JEAN PAUL

     I just saw the exhibit The Fashion World of Jean Paul Gaultier: From the Sidewalk to the Catwalk at the Dallas Museum of Art.  What a designer.  The exhibit made we wish I could sew or better yet be a couture fashion designer.  Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't/couldn't wear a quarter of Jean Paul's outfits; but he does make some pretty art.  

DAY 109: I HATE THE GREEN ONES

     I'll pick out the lime-flavored/green candies from Dots and Lifesavers.  But green M&Ms are A-okay.

DAY 108: HOLY TOMATO

     I just got home from fighting in the Tomato Battle-- a huge food fight with tomatoes.  I'd like to report that the Tomato Battle's website wasn't entirely accurate.  The tomatoes weren't overripe and too mushy to be sold in the store and none of them had been peeled.  Instead they weren't ripe at all and some were still green.  In fact, the facility manager for the park where the battle took place told us that 2 pallets of tomatoes had to be removed because they were green.  Green as in unripe.  Green as in hard.
     Just imagine how hard the rest the tomatoes were that hit me in the head and neck.  They were hard and they hurt!  I saw some girls get nailed and I was one of them.  But I didn't shed any tears.  I tried to aim my throws at this guy who was basically a minor league or a major league baseball player.  He was pitching fast balls, I mean tomatoes, at unsuspecting food fighters.  Unfortunately my aim is terrible and I didn't hit him once, which left him to continue to pelt tomatoes at everyone and anyone.
     I left the mound of tomatoes with some of them still in tact, tons of seeds splattered over my clothes and lots of tomato gunk in my hair.  Hey, maybe this is the hair product I've been searching for...my hair sure feels soft and supple after my shower.  Hmm, interesting.

DAY 107: 11.11.11

Happy November 11, 2011!  I was feeling lucky today.  Should have bought that lottery ticket...

DAY 106: HAIR GEL AND OTHER CRAP I HAVE IN MY BATHROOM

     I still use hair gel as if it’s the 1980s and big hairbands still rule.  See I have naturally curly hair and hair gel is the only product that makes my hair look the way I want it too—semi-decent and not like a frizz ball from poodle hell.  But it comes at the price of drying out my curls with alcohol and oh yeah being seen using gel, when most people use their beloved “products” like serums and other fancy monikered lotions and potions. 

     So if you're trying to invent some new anti-frizz hair product, please make one like gel, but without the drying effects and make sure the product works the way curly-haired people want their products to work.  And no there isn't one on the market that does that.  Trust me and my cupboard full of once or twice used anti-frizz, prettier curls guaranteed products.  We want hold.  We don’t want flakes.  We don’t want to have to use half a bottle of crap each time we do our hair.  We don’t want any frizz period.  Get it?  Got it?  Good.

     Due to the current inefficiency products on the market I had to bust out my curling iron this morning to re-curl my curls.  That would never happen if I was using the perfect hair product for naturally curly hair.  With all the hullaballoo of heating up the curling iron and rushing to get to work on time I whisked that barrel right across my chin and burned it.  I have a date tonight!  Not good.  Not good at all.

     This whole burnt chin curling iron debacle reminds me of the time I was trying so hard to curl my sister’s hair and do a good job at our version of the beauty parlor game.  We had a babysitter that night who and I remember her stuffing her face with OUR box of Thin Mints Girl Scout Cookies while she “supervised” our makeshift hair salon in the kitchen.  I had my sister on a stool and curled away until wap I singed the top of her right ear.  Not my best hairstylist moment and not a pleasant result for my sister.  A huge blister formed on the top of her ear and she screamed bloody murder at me until I most likely ran to my room and slammed the door leaving her with an inflamed ear, a non-interested babysitter and no Thin Mints.  Needless to say she forbade me to ever do her hair again and the ban is still in effect to this day. 

     The whole blister on the ear catastrophe makes me think of the Icy Hot incident.  We grew up in the desert.  As little kids we weren’t constantly using hand cream and lotion.  This lack of moisturizing regime turned out to be an unfortunate practice for my sister because her hands got terribly dry.  Her cuticles got so dry that her fingers would bleed.  They looked awful. 

     In an effort to help my pained sister, I took a play from Dad’s playbook and went searching through his tennis bag for his container of Icy Hot.  Dad used Icy Hot for his sore muscles after his weekly tennis matches.  In my mind Icy Hot was a cure all.  It worked for Dad, so it would work for my sister.  I didn’t realize you shouldn’t apply Icy Hot to open, bleeding wounds and I was too stupid or headstrong to read the warning label.  Can you say bad idea?  I slathered that pain-relieving cream all over my little sister’s chapped hands.  She screamed sounds I’d never heard before.  I immediately doused her inflamed paws into a sink of cold water.  I tried dot wipe off the Icy Hot. Nothing helped.  Dad came running at the sound of the first scream and started to help her.  He shooed me away all the while looking at me as if I was the devil’s spawn.  My sister was enraged, with every right, started crying and had to try and deal with the pain. 

     I used to say the reason I didn’t go to medical school was because I faint at the sight of blood.  I think this story proves I just don’t have the capacity to heal anything or help anyone in while she’s in pain.  In case she’s still mad about the Icy Hot (I would be), this serves as my open apology to my younger sister.  I am so sorry for being an idiot and rubbing that menthol analgesic all over your dry, little hands.  If it helps, your hands are way cuter than mine…  Too soon?  Ok.  But I am sorry. Really I am.  So very sorry. 

 

 

DAY 105: DOUBLE BOOKED

     Thanksgiving's right around the corner and I'm so happy to be doubled booked for Thanksgiving dinner at my first grade friend's house and our dear family friends' home.  It feels so good to know I have a wonderful place to go for the holiday and to have 2 places to go to, well that's just amazing!  Plus both dinners are home in Albuquerque.  Priceless.

DAY 104: AWWWW..........TEXAS

     I just had a guy cancel our date because I'm a liberal.  Seriously.  Only in Texas could I imagine--and oh look it did--happen.  How closed minded do you have to be to not go on a date with someone because she has a different political viewpoint than you?  Oh dear.

DAY 103: THE JUAN TABO BRANCH LIBRARY

     Before the City of Albuquerque built the Juan Tabo branch library close to our house, Mommy had to drive us to the Erna Ferguson branch slightly further away.  My sister and I loved going to the library each week to select the books we'd get to take home with us.  During one of the weekly visits I got so excited to show my mother the book I wanted to check out that I started running through the stacks only to end up hitting my eye on the corner of a table that stood at the perfect height to cause some major blood shed and a scar above my left eye that still exists to this day.
     Fortunate for me, Mommy had locked her keys in the car that day when we arrived at the Erna Ferguson branch.  As blood gushed out of face my mother tried to find a coat hanger to jimmy open our car door.  I remember lots of blood on the library's white tile floor and Mommy ushering me into the bathroom to make me a cold compress out of wet, library paper towels.
     I was glad when the City announced the opening of the new Juan Tabo branch library.  So was my sister and our friend Shelley.  They heard that t.v. cameras would be at the opening.  I didn't care so much about the cameras as I did the new library I'd get to explore and not have to fear getting hurt in.  The Juan Tabo branch was supposed to be much more kid friendly than Erna Ferguson.
     The Saturday of the library opening I decided what to wear carefully.  I wanted to christen the new library with my favorite, fancy, ivory party dress.  Mommy had sewn it for me for special occasions and this seemed like the perfect one for me to wear it to.  My sister and Shelley didn't wear their party clothes or even seem to care about the books we'd get to check out.  They were camera hungry.
     From the minute we entered the Juan Tabo branch, Shelley and my sister hunted down the t.v. cameraman.  I'd run into the every so often as I browsed the new shelves of pristine books.  We eventually left the library that afternoon, when my sister triumphantly announced that she'd gotten on camera.  But that night when we watched the library footage on our local station there were no shots with my sister or Shelley waving at the camera.  Instead, the cameraman found a little, brown-haired girl, in an ivory party dress with lace trimmed sleeves, alone in an aisle of childrens' books as she knelt down to select one and then sat on the floor to start reading it.  I guess it pays to be a reader...

DAY 102: MOTHBALLS

     My family in India uses mothballs to store their clothes and to keep out mice.  If I stayed with tradition I'd still be using them to store my sweaters and other wool clothes.  But I've moved on and use cedar blocks and cedar spray in my closets and drawers.  I learned my lesson in college.

     When I packed up all my winter clothes in Ann Arbor to put in storage for the summer after my sophomore year, I generously sprinkled moth balls amongst all of my boxes.  Come August the moving company delivered the boxes to me and my roommate's new apartment.  Turns out you don't really need to use moth balls in Michigan to store your clothes for a mere three months; unless you want all of your friends to call your apartment "grandma's place" or ridicule you about how your comforter smells like an old folks home.  I was only twenty years old and had a major complex.

     Plus, it didn't help that when I went home for winter break that year, Dad had started using mothballs all over the house to "preserve" it since I was't living there full time.  He overused the mothballs in every nook and cranny he could think of.  He even put them in my bathroom sinks and the air vents.  Imagine coming home to relax from all the finals you just took only be fumigated by the strong stench of mothballs wafting through the air vents of your room when the heat came on.  Not fun.  And damn near impossible to breathe.  

     While we're on the topic--if you think that the new "lavender" scented mothballs will be ok and not stink up your sweaters.  Think again.  I tried those cute looking mothballs in the lavender colored boxes which contain the individualized packages of two mothballs in a white paper looking sachet and ended up airing out half my wardrobe for weeks before I could even think about wearing one of the mothballed items.  Uggg.  From here on out it's cedar blocks all the way.  If I ever build a new house I'll make sure it has a cedar closet or a zero sum moth population in all directions.

DAY 101: ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT

     I miss my mom today plain and simple.  I wish I knew her as an adult.  I wish she was here to have conversations with me and I could ask her questions.  I feel jipped.  I didn't get enough time with her.
     When my sister and I talk about our mother we refer to her as "Mommy" never mom.  I think it's because we were both so young when she died.  I was 10 and my sister was 7.  And when she was diagnosed with leukemia we were 7 and 4.  At those ages we still called our mother Mommy and we've really never stopped.  It's as if that time stopped for us on that day in 1986 when she died and no matter how far away we get from it we can't really grow up/or never were able to grow up in any sort of normal way because our lives were altered so dramatically.  I mean if she never got sick and was still here, I can bet you good money neither my sister nor I would still be calling our mother Mommy, she'd be "Mom."  No women in their 30s call their moms "mommy," it'd just be too weird.
     Anyway, it doesn't really matter what I'd call her, I just miss her.  

DAY 100: THANK YOU ROB LOWE

     Thank you Rob Lowe.  And no, it's not because you're easy on the eyes.  It's because I stated reading your book Stories I Only Tell My Friends.  You write well and your story is already engaging me.  Your book has inspired me to get back into writing my half-finished memoir about my Dad.  I need to finish it.  Because of you, I've been writing things down all day and might bring out my micro cassette recorder tomorrow--so many good ideas I need to capture!
     So Rob Lowe, I don't know you, but I like you and I'm really enjoying your book.  Hopefully, when mine's finished and published it will find a way on to one of your bookshelves like yours is (will be when I'm done with your book) on mine.  Until then happy writing and happy reading to us all...

DAY 99: CAR CANDY

     I've decided that if I keep candy in my car, I'll never ever be in a bad mood.  Give me a bag of licorice and all my troubles go away.  Literally.  So why not keep an emergency sugar rush in my car?  Exactly.  The candy of the moment is candy corn--that's the good stuff.

DAY 98: THE CASE OF THE MISSING SLIP

     My half-slip’s gone missing.  Yes, I still wear a slip under dresses and skirts.  Why?  It’s lady like.  It looks better that to go without one.  And, yes I probably should have grown-up or lived in the 1940s.  I don’t like the see-through crap girls wear nowadays, so I wear a slip.  And I don’t like how dresses cling to me or my tights in the winter if I don’t have a slip on, so again, I wear one.

     As a regular slip wearer, when mine went missing it was almost as if the apocalypse happened.  Okay, maybe not the apocalypse but something very upsetting to me.  Then I went into full search mode and overturned every drawer and dresser I have.  No luck.  I didn’t find my slip and had to go to work without one under my dress.  (I’ve been searching for my half-slip for over a week and I still can’t find it.  I am in anguish over this.)

     Talk about major distress.  I felt miserable today with my dress clinging to my tights.  I wore a long sweater-coat over my dress to camouflage the clinginess, but you can still see it when I walk anywhere.  And I walk anywhere a lot.  I got to the bathroom often—still drinking 80 ounces of water as recommended by that 21 Day Challenge (forgot to mention that ended on Sunday, just in the nick of time for me to eat my weight in Halloween candy) and sometimes I just go for walks around my company’s facility for a break.  I even tried the hair-spray trick.  (You know—spraying hairspray on your dress or tights to stop the cling; and then realized I’d used up the all the hairspray in my travel size bottle for the office and had replaced it with water. Nice move.)  But it didn’t work.  Obviously.

     I realize I could’ve bought a new half-slip last night at the store and saved myself this day of cling and the mess that’s now my bedroom.  But I can’t imagine buying a new one when I know there are two in my apartment that I’ve lost in the past month.  How does one lose a half-slip?  Or two for that matter?  I don’t know, but I’m out of my mind over it.  Literally.  I just wrote an entire blog entry about a half-slip.  How’s that for not having your wits about you? 

     Did I mention I like wearing dresses?  I didn’t wear my first pair of jeans until I was in the third grade.  Mom used to sew most of our clothes (No we were not Amish and yes, her home-sewn clothes actually looked nice.  She could do some fancy tailoring.)  and we had tons and tons of dresses.  I finally wore a pair of jeans, a hand-me-down pair from my neighbor Shelly Turner, who’d affixed a Ms. Pac-Man patch to the right-hand-side back pocket of her (my) styling awesome 80s jeans, one day in the middle of third grade.  I put those jeans on knowing I was going to follow a boy—his name was Brad—home from school that afternoon and needed to wear pants so I could climb over fences and walls that he’d for sure make me go over since I don’t think he was that into me.  And he did.  But he ended up coming over the next day to play MacVegas with me on our new Macintosh computer…  Not bad for chasing some boy home from school, huh?  (Told you Apple computers were cool—ours gave me game in the third grade!)

     Anyway, back to my half-slip mess.  I want you to know I tried to wear a full slip with my dress today, but it was too long.  It’s now bed time, there’s no full moon, and I’m still looking for my slip.  I don’t think I can sleep until I find it.  So so sad.

DAY 97: BILLIONS OF PEOPLE

     The world population reached 7 billion yesterday.  Try to get your heads around that.  While you’re doing that I’ll scream “PLANETARIUM.”  I hate the planetarium.  (And if I ever get on the show Inside the Actors Studio, my least favorite world will be “planetarium.”  Similar to how Sean Penn’s favorite curse word was “dentist.”)  I hate how when you’re there and looking up at some pie graph on the ceiling, the guide tells you how the time humans have been on this earth is equivalent to 24 hours or some other very small time increment as compared to the time the world has existed.  It makes one feel insignificant (I’m not disagreeing that we’re anything but insignificant, but a couple hours at the planetarium listening to that garbage makes me feel terrible and has led to my incredible fear of death.  So if I ever have kids their dad can volunteer for the field trips and take them to the planetarium.  There’s no freaking way I’m going there.)

     Back to the 7 billion; that’s a lot of people to consider.  Oddly, the owner of the company where I work recently asked me how many people I thought had actually lived on this planet at one time or another.  I chose not to scream PLANETARIUM in his face, but instead to answer.  I don’t remember my response, but it was much larger than the actual number, which I think is 107 billion. 

     As another aside, some of the powers that be think that the seven billionth person was born in India, since so many babies are born there per minute.  The baby was a girl.  India’s actually appointing 7 girl babies to symbolize the 7 billion.  It’s interesting the country chose girls, and probably a good thing, because many girl children are never born due to abortion. Many Indian families choose not to have girls due to the cultural importance imparted onto male children.  When pregnant women learn of their baby’s female gender they (or their families make the decision to abort) abort the female fetuses.  That’s another lovely topic you might need some time to get your head around.  But I do think that sonograms have been outlawed now due to how common the practice was becoming...