baseball season started at four in the morning. my darling christopher slept on the couch last night so that he could wake up by four and watch that first game. he came into our bedroom at six-thirty in the morning to talk about the devil rays, who apparently only have one team member named 'ray.'

i understand liking baseball, but i don't understand such extreme passion. it's kind of inspiring, in a "why can't you be more passionate about other things too?" sort of way. what would i wake up at four in the morning for? brian regan? newsradio? a flight to vegas? a sub sandwich with all the fixings? i don't know.

i'm considering composing a letter to our upstair neighbors. it will begin, "dear fatasses," and go on to detail how i have heard every step and movement that they have taken. the two adults don't leave the house during the day, ever, and so i will also enclose information on how to jump start their careers by becoming truck drivers.

not a good week for working. yesteday, i left the house at 10:30 am and didn't return until 8:00 pm. tomorrow, i work 11 am to 9 pm. wed, 10 am- 8pm. thursday, 11-9 again. friday, i lucked out with 8 hours instead of the usual 10. they'd better watch out, or i'm going to get lazy on them.

it's getting to be a bit excessive.

on to other news, i've been a bit of an avid reader lately. what have i been reading? young adult novels. again. or still. i found a thrift store near where chris works, which is nice because i was beginning to think i'd never see one again, and i loaded up on the christopher pike and the lois duncan. i also got a t-shirt from a roselle youth basketball team (i'm number one), and wondered who would buy a used jigsaw puzzle. it's guaranteed that you'd be missing a few pieces, and that, my friend, would be frustrating.

anyhow, about these books. they're my secret passion. not so secret passion. i'm telling everyone i know that i think they're great.

links

this will never catch on.

this website writes the story for you. it gives you all the starting points to work with. i kept hitting "refresh." finally, i got, "your character is female. your character is a male escort. your character is looking for a job change."

the medical world always astounds me.

i'll probably sign up for this some time soon.

bleh.

this morning, i'm listening to nina gordon. her song, 2003, could have been a soundtrack to a day of my life.

...i want to meet in 2OO3
i want to see what the future can bring to me
and when i do i'll meet you here my darling
and when i'm free
i'll be waiting where i said i would be
my love will you wait for me?
what we've found is such a precious thing
that's what i 'm trying to sing ...

i met chris in 2003, waiting in the sushi restaurant where i said i would be. i was so nervous that i think i ordered my glass of plum wine before he even showed up, just to calm my nerves a bit. i saw him approach the door of the restaurant, and i smiled as he pushed instead of pulled. he was being a little shy at first; i babbled to make up for it, briefly excusing myself after the main course to go pick rice out of my teeth and make sure that my hair looked decent. i liked him right from the start, and i went home hours later feeling, for once, just happiness, and nothing else. most first dates i'd had made me feel happy- but also a little doubtful. not this time, buddy. the next monday, i remember riding around in my car with dan, telling him about my date with chris. "do you think he'll call you?" dan asked. i was holding the steering wheel, in complete control, and i responded with certainty, "yes."

and now here we are.

i think that if there's ever a ceremony that involves me and chris, "2003" should play at the reception afterwards. not that i'm actively planning any ceremonies- but, you know, you have to have a *little* foresight.

i've always liked nina gordan.


addendum: i'm an idiot. we met in 2002.

i am intrigued by other girls. i like to analyze what makes them pretty or desirable, and i enjoy wondering what, exactly, it is that makes them attractive, or unattractive, to those around them. i am quick to criticize, but i add up their positive attributes just as rapidly. it's like a mental inventory: sally has long legs, a nice laugh, and knows a lot about how the credit industry works. on the down side, she cakes on the make-up, is as funny as a pile of kindling, and appears to have lopsided boobies.

janet has silky hair, a masters degree in painting, and is very kindhearted towards animals. unfortunately, she has crossed eyes, reproachable posture, and doesn't know how to spell "boat."

mavis is slender, intelligent, and sings like aretha franklin. too bad she smells of fish, tends to boss around the elderly, and is stuck with the name "mavis."

you see how it works.

i know i'm not the only person who does this. guys check out other guys, and, probably more so, girls check out other girls. it's all in the circle of life: our observations of survival of the fittest, natural selection. also, we want to know where girl a got her shoes from, and the name of her manicurist.

i wonder what somebody would say about jackie.

jackie is smart, funny, and all around fantastic. it's a shame, however, that she's flat as a board, consistently whining, and is often caught staring rather openly at other women.

there's a ford taurus parked in our parking lot that is the exact same year and color of my own old ford taurus. every time i see it, i'm reminded of how my very first car came to be found on road, dead.

it was the fall of some year. i was driving down to u of i to visit a friend. "could you pick up another friend of mine?" this particular friend asked. i agreed, only to find out that this guy i was bringing down- let's call him bobby- happened to have lived in my house. we had bought the house from his family, and bobby had once slept in the same bedroom i now slept in now. on the way down, he regaled me with stories of all the dead cats that he had buried in my yard and the kinds of icky boy things he had once stored in the closet that now held all of my shoes and turtlenecks. he was a wierd guy; i think he tried to convince me that his parents had sold the house because they were certain that it was haunted by escaped slaves using the underground railroad. or something.

we smoked a lot of cheap cigarettes on that car ride, and bobby was giving me the creeps in a real bad way. i pressed my foot to the accelerator in order to get to u of i faster, and my car shook with speed. finally, we pulled off onto the exit. it was then that my car started to smoke, and, suddenly, although it was running, it refused to move at all. i freaked out. bobby had to get out of the car and push it all the way to his friend's house, and it was there that i had to phone my father. we had just gotten into a fight a few days earlier about me going to champaign; my parents had been convinced that the taurus wouldn't make it. my dad answered on the second ring, "it made it," i stated, near tears, "but now i can't get it to move at all." the transmission had blown.

my dad drove down. bobby was there when he arrived to check out the damage, and he quickly introduced himself to my father. "do you know who i am?" he asked meaningfully, glancing at me. my dad shrugged, probably wondering why the hell he would know this semi-retarded boy smoking from a generic pack of cigarettes. "i used to live in your house," bobby continued. "i slept where your daughter sleeps now. i buried cats in your yard. and, oh yeah, the house is haunted. with slaves."

i wanted to just go home with my dad that night, but instead i stayed the rest of the weekend, suffering through bobby's stories and finally, when my friend was to drive me home on sunday, i gave him eight dollars so that he could take the train instead. i was done with him- i didn't want to hear anymore about why his parents had had giraffe printed wallpaper in the kitchen, or how his dad had often run into the spirit of harriet tubman. or whatever.

later that week, i bought my cavalier. and then i scrubbed the walls and floor of my closet.

for janice

you cut the strings of your white balloons
before you could watch them deflate.

your party stood in an empty lot
and reached in vain for the shrinking dots;
you say with nothing tied down,
there is so much space to play.

but while there's ground to run around,
it's only pavement without pretty-
no decorations to inform
of festivities, and you.

one of the colors we're painting our [new] apartment's walls will be "kissin' cousins." how's that for your bizarre dutch boy names?

en espanol, es "primos carinosos."

i'm writing poems lately, but mostly in my head. they're much more clever and sharp inside my brain. once they hit the paper, or screen, disappointment will be inevitable. so, for now, i am the poet that does not actually write any poems.

other dutch boy colors include: i love a parade, pledge of allegiance, and paddywack. they are all just shades of purple.

if i had to name some colors, i'd try to incorporate the word "testicular" as much as possible.

there's a recall on my car because apparently the steering column on my model has been known to burst into flames. now, this i don't need. as if i didn't have enough fire hazards in my car already, what with the styling products in my hair, the lit cigarette dangling from my mouth, and the jug of kerosene i like to carry around in the passenger seat for emergency situations that call for one jug of kerosene... and a pipecleaner. always got to carry around a few pipecleaners.

i can see it now. i'm driving to an awards ceremony given in my honor. the weather is 80 degrees and sunny, and i'm wearing a beautiful purple gown that also happens to have the flammability of chicago during 1871. practicing my speech in the rear view mirror, i am just getting to the part where i thank all the little people out there who allowed me to step on them on my glorious journey to the top... of what i don't know, but let's say it's in a field that involves both irrigation and linguistics... when i accidentally beep the horn. "oops," i say, when suddenly the whole front of my car explodes. see, just a simple beep of the horn had knocked a few of those frayed, shoddily arranged wires together in such a fashion that me and my car become a homogenous mixture of "fireball" in under 5.9 seconds. my beautiful purple gown is ruined. my eyebrows have burned off my face, which is alarming in itself- but even more so alarming when you realize that EVERYTHING has burned off, and the girl you once called "jackie" is now just a fiery pile of ash coming to rest against the trunk of an elm tree which happens to reside in a school yard. and all of the watching children will later need therapy to get over the sight.

the recall letter gave me a number to call. it's sitting in my car right now, and will probably be destroyed in the fire, along with my map and sun glasses.

i've choreographed the perfect dance to u2's elevation. any friend that's seen me while a wee bit intoxicated would know this dance.

i mime the mole, living in a hole, and digging up his soul. i orbit my hips and touch my finger to the corner of my lips. going down, excavation, is me twisting closer to the ground. during elevation, i shoot way up.

i also "shoot me from a gun," aiming, squinting, and then firing off my invisible handgun. my arms become flapping wings when "you make me feel like i can fly." i'm doing air-guitar when i'm strung out like a guitar, only to have my mind educated in the next line, which looks like me pointing at my head and nodding emphatically as to say, "yes! yes, i get it now, teacher!" i clutch my heart and pitifully gaze outwards when love is to lift me out of these blues. i believe in you. i point at you. i also point at me.

can't sing but i've got soul.

i'm getting my hair highlighted today, which is generally something that i do not do. my cousin lisa highlighted my hair a few years ago, and it looked really good for a while, the random golden strands making the curls stand out like proud old men on veteran's day. then the highlights grew out a little, so my big plan was to just dye my entire head BLACK as to get rid of the highlights entirely. because lord knows my reputation depends on *not* having my roots show- i just can't be that girl.

the girl on the box looked gorgeous and hip with her jet black hair; i looked like a sickly immigrant. i tried dying it back to brown; the thing about having black hair is that it just doesn't get any lighter.

i called lisa. "i look like a cuban refugee in bad need of vitamins," i wailed. after bitching me out for not being patient enough to wait for her to just touch up my roots, she came up with a foolproof solution. her solution was to bleach my already intensely damaged hair once again, and then just pour on a bottled version of my natural brown. what a good idea. i went over there on a sunday. first we ate a meal of chicken smothered in cheese; then she got to work.

hours later, when we were done, she squinted at me in the harsh bathroom light. "it looks orange," she stated. "especially this circular patch right on the back of your head. i must have left the bleach on a little too long there. let's try to dye it again. we've already fucked it up this far, might as well go all the way."

another hour later, it was still an uneven orange, with the brightest spot shining like a bald spot, or a yarmulke, on the back of my skull. "screw it," i said, sighing. "i'll just wear it in a pony-tail for a while."

and that's what i did. now, today, i attempt to enter the world of highlights again. and when my highlights grow out? i'll shave my head.

it's st. patrick's day. i lost my virginity on a st. patrick's day. it was the one year that i could have honestly said i had a little irish in me- had anyone asked.

yikes.

ho hum. time to make the doughnuts.

May those who love us love us.
And those that don't love us,
May God turn their hearts,
And if He doesn't turn their hearts,
May he turn their ankles,
So we'll know them by their limping.

Irish curse

there's snow again outside. it's snowing as i write this. i am not pleased.

gina and i went to ikea on sunday. i never thought i'd be so impressed by some crappy home furnishings store... but i was. maybe it was all the colors and shapes. maybe it was because the store was the size of disneyworld. maybe i thought it was cool that there was a separate escalator for the shopping carts. i keep thinking of ikea's role in "fight club." but i know i'm going to go back there come june to buy that cute little desk and chair i saw. also, the little decorative boxes that fit inside the bigger decorative boxes. ha. ha. ha.

i'm a bit ashamed. but, more than ashamed, i'm a bit eager. and i've already decreed that no one's allowed to look down upon me.

7th grade

it was an awful year for me, probably the worst of my life thus far. only two or three people in all of existence know why that year was so bad, and i think that "three" is possibly too generous a number. it's something i don't ever speak of. i certainly will not write about it, although i will say that it was one of those things that left its mark like a brick dropped from a plane right onto a square of fresh, wet concrete.

let me tell you about other things, who i was. i had glasses that i wore only in class; the rest of the world was a smudge that i couldn't make out. i had to lean down to see the lock on my locker, my nose only three inches from the numbers. i was poor vision and unruly hair. as i had no earning income of my own, i wore the clothes my mother bought me: namely pants that were always a little too short for my longish legs and tent-like sweaters that look ridiculous on my too skinny torso. 7th grade was when i started wearing make-up. i painted on bright red lips and drew eyeliner with a heavy hand. i didn't wear foundation; my mother gave me a bottle of goo once that i tried at home, only to enter a state of shock when i saw my garishly orange face staring back at me in the mirror. "no thanks, freak," i told her. "i'll just stick to the raccoon eyes and clown mouth."

i only had a handful of friends. samantha and i had sleepovers nearly every week; it was always more fun at her house. i loved the smell of her basement; even my little sister, who would sometimes come with me, would later comment on it. marcia would remark, while we were at home watching tv, "you know, samantha's basement sure does smell nice." neither of us could figure out what it was. in samantha's basement, we watched "blazing saddles" and "my blue heaven" and ate little caesar's pizza and laughed for hours about farts. we were two classy young ladies, and we were going to be friends until the end of time. the end of time, apparently, came four years later. by that time, i had contact lenses and was able to see all the way down the hallway as opposed to half an arms length away.

i remember little things about seventh grade. i got into my first and only physical fight. it was with a deaf girl, and she just about kicked my ass. i don't even remember what it was about; i think that she just wanted to start a fight, and i was the only one that was weak enough to take it. i couldn't have possibly insulted her; even if i had, she wouldn't have been able to hear me, right? i had a boyfriend in 7th grade for about three days until he passed me a crumpled note in science class that read, "i think we should see other people." "good, i was thinking the same thing," i wrote back, and the proceeded to call in sick the next few days. i called in sick a lot in seventh grade, again for reasons i won't discuss. i had ridiculous excuses. once, i called in sick because the toilet had flooded, and i thought i should stay home to watch it.

i remember a cute boy flirting with me, which was unheard of, as i wasn't that cute myself. that's a crystal clear memory; gee, i wonder why. 7th grade, i started reading v.c. andrew books, dog-earing all the dirty parts. i didn't listen to a lot of music in 7th grade, as i didn't get my own c.d. player until 8th grade. my very first c.d. was, of all things, meatloaf's "bat out of hell 2." i still will argue that it was a fabulous c.d. later, i would enjoy the cranberries, counting crows, bon jovi, and sheryl crow. i had a friend who wasn't allowed to listen to sheryl crow because there was talk that she was a lesbian. this friend of mine showed tendencies towards lesbianism herself; i always felt bad for her because i knew that there was no way she could tell her weird, ugly parents without having them pull out a gun on her.

i had two great english teachers in 7th grade, and they had such confidence in me. i still have what one of them wrote in my yearbook, even though i threw the rest of the yearbook out. "jackie, you will go far in this world.... you're an extremely talented writer and an asset to the world." actually, instead of "world," she said, "class." but i'm allowed to embellish, right?

i had a crush on the boy who lived behind me. he was the son of a major league baseball player, and so my daydreams focused on him being a major league baseball player as well, and me being the wife of a major league baseball player. i had a lot of excuses to go outside whenever he was outside, too. i had to pet the dog. i had to take out the trash, one item at a time. i had to read on the deck or inspect the lawn. i had to gaze adoringly in his direction, insane with the lust of a 12 year old. thinking back, i sure did make a lot of stupid excuses. also, i would position myself by the kitchen window with a pair of binoculars as to get a close-up. i'm sure that wasn't incredibly obvious, me with window blinds up pressing binoculars against the glass while i crouched on the countertop and tried not to fall in the sink.

he probably heard my parents fighting all the time. that's why he didn't ask me out- also, the unruly hair, short pants, and squinting.

i wore my first bra that a year, which was only necessary due to changing in gym class. being a flat girl in a class full of busty barbies wasn't the best thing for my self-esteem; but, then again, let's once again recall that since my vision was so poor, i suppose i didn't notice all THAT much.

i wrote a lot of bad, junior high poetry, which was the prelude to my bad high school poetry. i wanted to be a writer even then in seventh grade; i told people that i wanted to major in english or journalism. i don't think i was quite sure what journalism was. i also considered being a therapist or actress. i did a lot of acting in front of the living room mirror, producing my own episodes of "clarissa explains it all," except, of course, that it was "jackie explains it all." i didn't have all that much to explain.

i walked up and down stairs. i sat next to kevin vahl in spanish class, and he'd crack me up every day. i sat next to some other dude whose name i can't remember in computer class, and he too would crack me up every day. this was only because he'd open the paint program and create completely pornographic images. "oh, look," i'd say upon sitting down, "another vagina. that's a nice one, too."

i wrote for the literary magazine that year, which is how i met my friend chrissy. she wrote stories about italian boys and gave them last names like mazzola and crisco; i wrote a story about a girl getting killed by a volleyball. i didn't much care for volleyball. i wish i had a copy of that literary magazine; i can't remember what else i wrote. i'm sure it was pulitzer worthy.

turns out i have several callings in life. this one is an eye for matchmaking. sure, i've failed a few times in the past, but i'd like to think that i've always been close. my latest coupling is gina and brian: gina, my favorite near-redhead (as opposed to rachel, my favorite redhead), and brian, chris' favorite... towhead. i put them together because they have similiar body types. this is key in any relationship. beyond that, they're both scathingly sarcastic and fans of casual sex, alcohol, and other vices that i will choose not to mention on this here blog.

i knew what i was doing. and i did such a good job.

i watched "monk" for the first time this morning. very funny television series, but in a subtle as opposed to slapstick way. as i said in my personal ad so many moons ago: slapstick is sexy; subtle is sexier. too bad tony shalhoub isn't very sexy.

back to work tomorrow. boo for me. diana and i are supposed to alternate our weekends off from now on, but somehow i'm working the next two weekends. huh.

pshh.

well, we've pretty much decided where we're going to live in june should we stay in the chicagoland area. walking through this place was like falling in love on the first date; i feel giddy just thinking about it. it's a one bedroom, one and a half bath, with a separate den and wet bar area. a wet bar!! it's cool because you walk in and see just a dining room and living room and kitchen... but then you walk past the FIREPLACE and, bam, you turn into a den. with a wet bar. did i mention it has a den and wet bar? also, the bedroom is gigantic with a vanity area (for the vain) and a big closet... for shoes.

so stay tuned, and be prepared to come to a kick ass party in hoffman estates come june or july. we're going to have a wet bar, you know. and we're painting the walls violet.

mostly, i didn't like her because of what she was wearing. it was basically a crocheted blanket with a hole in it for her head; it looked like her neck was wearing some kind of ridiculous skirt. i don't understand how she could comfortably move her arms around under that thing- especially because one hand was weighed down with a diamond the size of jupiter.

she talked on about the benefits of using opti-free versus renu. her slide show about tetronic 1304, an ingredient in the contact lens solution, went on for approximately four days. it's a good thing she brought lunch; i occupied my mind by rearranging my sandwich into what looked like a snowman. i used french fries to make the arms.

"what kind of solution do you use," she asked me. i couldn't very well tell her, whatever i can snag for free, so i responded, "renu. i think i'm allergic to... technotronic 2000."

she's giving us one dollar- or 100 pennies- for every box of opti-free we sell. she had selling tips, too. "always touch the person you're talking to. touch their hand, their shoulder. use eye contact. pretend you're talking to a friend."

i'm not touching anyone. i'm pissed off because this woman in the sweater/blanket is leaving for a european vacation in about a week. i want to go on a european vacation. and a dollar a box just ain't going to cut it.

target is selling marshall fields. i wonder if i have enough for it.

last night was my first time closing the store by myself. everything went fine until i tried to open the safe. xx-yy-zz. xx-yy-zz. it wouldn't open. i said the combo aloud like a kindergardener attempting to count apples. xx. yy. zz. no good. i crouched there for 15 minutes trying to "jimmy" open the safe. let's just say we have a quality safe.

"yeah, george?" i said to the retail manager over the phone. "you're not asleep, are you? because everything here went swimmingly tonight except for the fact that i can't open the safe."

"who is this?" george asked sleepily.

"jackie. from work. i can't open the safe."

"what are you, a fucking retard?" at least, that's what i heard him say. actually, he replied, "okay. i'll be right over."

xx-yy-zz. i thought of the movie safe men.

ever see that? maybe you should own it. there's a character in the movie that wears butt pads, because he thinks his butt is too flat. classic.

anyhow, back to my story. i'm in the office trying to crack the safe. xx-yy-zz. let's do it slower. xx.....yy.....zz. no luck. maybe if i do it backwards. zz-yy-xx. i've got a thousand dollars in cash lying on the floor beside me. the whole store is dark. george has not yet arrived, and i consider just taking the money home. then i could maybe keep the money if i tell the general manager that, upon walking into the parking lot, i was robbed by a gang of vicious orphans. with british accents.

xx-yy-zz. fuck.

i exit the office, and there's george pounding on the front door. "how long have you been here?" i ask, letting him in. "i thought you'd have a key."

"ten long minutes," he replies. "i don't have my key."

we walk into the office. george is in pajama pants; obviously, he had not been planning on having to help some dim-witted girl pop open a safe. he smells vaguely of pizza. i wonder why he didn't bring me any.

xx-yy-zz. it opens. i cry, "for the love of christ." i'd been half hoping that somebody had accidently changed the combination during the day, as then i couldn't be faulted. maybe vicious orphans could've snuck in here while i was in the crapper or something. i start to mention something about oliver twist. george says, "okay, let's go."

we leave. i thank him profusely. i get in my car, and, eager to get home, i slam on the accelerator and back out of my parking spot. doing so, i nearly crash into george's car, which is pulling out behind me. what a way to repay him. i give a small wave and carefully drive away. george is shaking his head.

i can't get a safe open, and today i'm going to a meeting on preventative opthalmic maintenance- as in taking care of the gadgets and machines the doctors and lab techs use. i'm considering telling the guy in charge that i can't even open a safe... even when knowing the code... so how the hell am i going to check that a big fancy machine is tuned to correct diopter increments?

fuck, man. at least i didn't hit george's car.

well, this game is certainly addicting.



my weekend was rather lazy, except for saturday when i worked 10- 6. that was pretty rough-going. i can't stand working on saturdays, because that's when everybody and their mother (their old, crotchety, half deaf, i-want-a-deal mother) comes out. saturdays make me hate my life. saturdays make me cry. saturdays make me a mean person; if you come into my store on a saturday with some real, genuine problem, i will not only have no empathy, but i will also glare at you the whole time you're telling your sad tale of eyewear woe.

saturday night we went out with chris' ex-boss, a man with a head full of completely white hair. some people can really carry that off, such as steve martin. and this guy.

yesterday we bummed around all day, except for a mid-day jaunt to quizno's and costco. costco always gets me upset. i always feel like i'm going to die before i can use the stuff i buy. we bought a gigantic box of raisin bran, 12 light bulbs when all i needed was 1, and a drum full of chai mix. we almost got the 30 rolls of toilet paper, but were afraid that we wouldn't have enough cash. 30 rolls of toilet paper- now that we would have used, especially since i'm starting to cook a little more. watch out, guests.

my new motto is going to be:

under my thumb: stealing pictures off the internet, one website at a time.



this is bob werner, if you can read his nametag. his last name is one letter away from being "wiener," if you change the r to an i and then transpose the e and the i.... anyways, i don't know anything about bob wiener, except that he is surely wearing shoulder pads. he may be an artist of some sort, posing for this picture in front of his latest work, entitled, "study in black and white." i think he's really going places.

make the president dance.

not much to say. i have a day off today, finally. i'm doing laundry as i type this. that's how days off are put to good use. bleh.

well, yeah. i don't even know why i started this entry. but i'll leave you with this:



snowmen gambling and drinking is funny. also: snowmen picking up hookers, snowmen evading tax laws, snowmen shoplifting major appliances, snowmen using the toilet.

i just finished playing "who wants to be a cotton millionaire?" i ended up in debtor's prison. figures.

i'm ready to move. i don't like this apartment anymore. when we get our new place, i'm going crazy on decorating. i might tend towards the stupid. chris will come home after work and ask, "what's with the giant mobile made of feathers, macaroni, toothpaste tubes, and styrofoam cups? and why must you hang it right in front of the tv?"

"because," i'll snootily reply, "the place over the sofa was taken up by the three-dimensional time line of south african history."

the lawn in front of our apartment building is flooded due to all the rain. i'm talking, i was knee-deep when i took out the trash. weren't certain plagues caused because of poor drainage/sewage systems? or maybe i'm thinking of something else.

are you ready?

i've been thinking a lot about my hair. i don't like it. maybe if it was shorter... or longer. if i kept it up more often... or down all the time. if the curls were springier? or completely bone straight.

hats are good.

things i'm thinking about this morning as i put off working on my crappy story:

my mom was always pissed off that she was never able to become a mail carrier. she mentions it a lot, and i just don't get it.

when i was in second grade, we colored pictures of dinosaurs. the teacher said, "you can make them any color you want, because nobody really knows what color they were." still, everybody made their dinosaurs either green or brown. if i were that teacher, i would have flunked everybody.

music tends to make you remember different times in your life. for me, it's socks. the socks i'm wearing today make me think of my cousin getting married. i also have a pair of socks that make me remember her subsequent divorce and another pair of socks that remind me of throwing out the bridesmaid dress i had to wear. it was a really pretty dress; i didn't think i'd ever have a chance to wear it again, so i pitched it. that was dumb.

i get a lot of paper cuts.

i always confuse the gordita with the chalupa. i know i like one better than the other, but i still don't know which one is which. it's like taco bell just throws these obscure words at you and expects you to remember what each one is. they should call one, "the good one," and the other, "the okay one." then i'd remember for sure.

i really want to live in an apartment with an in unit washer and dryer. not only would it be convenient, but have you ever had sex on top of a washing machine? you should. but you can't do it if you have a communal laundry room, unless, of course, you're into that kind of thing.

i'm tired of saying hello to my neighbors all the time. i don't know any of their names or anything else about them, and the hello is a fake pleasantry that i do not need in my life. i have, however, made up names for them, and i also fear that if i keep saying hello all the time, i'm going to accidentally go too far. "hello, gloria," i'll say to someone who is actually named joan. "how's the lawsuit against the electric company coming along? and, of course, the child pornography?" maybe that will end the hellos.

i still don't know where my umbrella went.

i need suggestions on which book to read next. it has to be fiction. it has to be available in paperback, because hardcover books make my tiny wrists ache. i don't read translated literature; the only exception i ever made is "the stranger," and i still feel like i was somehow duped.

so i'm a manager now. diana and i will take turns having weekends off. while that's fair, i kind of want EVERY weekend off. for what, i don't know. it's not like i'm heading off to bed and breakfasts every saturday.

i wouldn't mind going to a bed and breakfast. i'd like to go to one in some town with a lot of antique stores. also, a town paper where a lot of headlines are horribly misspelled.

i like this h.g. wells quote: moral indignation is jealousy with a halo.

i like this quote from my dad: never trust anybody who reads the bible in public.

and then i like this hodge-podge quote from me: you can drag a dead and beaten gift-horse to water but you can't make it drink. because, you know, it's dead.

i'm starting slowly with this cooking thing. last night i bought pre-prepared stuffed salmon fillets and then threw them in the oven. boy, were they tasty. i heated them up just right, and i couldn't have been more proud of myself than if i had actually mixed the crab and shrimp and cheese stuffing all by myself. "this cooking thing is a snap," i said aloud to no one in particular as i carefully twisted the oven knob to 375 degrees. i did, however, sautee mushrooms all on my own. those were especially yummy as well. if only i had grown the mushrooms on my own. but, as we know, i'm a chef, not a gardener.

it doesn't take much to make me feel like i've accomplished something.

still no word from microsoft. every time i mention moving to somewhere else in this neighborhood once our lease expires in june, chris says, "hey, let's not get ahead of ourselves- we're moving to washington, remember?" i keep seeing signs that seattle is in our future. of course, that's because i've posted pictures of the space needle all up and down our hallway, over our bed, and in the shower. i had to laminate the ones that are in the shower. but now i'm getting off track.

i am lazy, with ambitious dreams.

i quickly become upset, but can also be quickly cheered up.

one thing that will get me upset for sure is if you refer to me as "annoying." "big fucking wierdo," i don't mind so much.

i'm good at making friends. i used to be extremely shy, but then i discovered alcohol.

i want to live in seattle.

i don't fall in love easily, but, when it's right, i fall in love quickly.

it's only been right once. the time before that, it *felt* right, but was actually as wrong as humanly possible.

i remember that when i started to know it was wrong was when we were eating breakfast, and he was wearing a sweatshirt with a huge picture of a dog on it.

he called me annoying a lot. that's why i don't like to be called annoying now.

he also picked on me for being so lazy.

i like cats, but i don't really care for dogs.

i like silver better than gold.

if i could change one thing about myself, it would be my smile. it's not that nice of a smile, and i used to cover my mouth when i laughed. now i don't cover my mouth, because i'm older and "over it," but every once in a while i catch myself smiling in the mirror and have to immediately stop.

i have a fantastic butt. sometimes i bend over in front of people on purpose.

i dislike spending time in nature. i also dislike public pools, people in mini-vans, know-it-alls, and plain white socks.

i especially dislike elderly people with carts containing over 20 items in the "self-check out lane" at jewel. i think there should be strict rules for the self-check out lane. if you don't know how to work a remote control, you are not allowed to check yourself out. if you are over 70, you need to get your ass in a regular line. if you have more items than you can fit in your arms, get out of my fucking way because i only have yogurt and a can of pop and i am in a goddamn hurry. retards.

i like holding babies. i don't like holding crying babies.

i like art museums. i like book stores. i don't like gun shows or looking at model trains.

my dad used to take us to civil war reenactments. now there's a bunch of people with way too much time on their hands.

i think i have an ulcer.

what i miss most about college is the grilled cheese i used to eat for lunch.

my parents almost named me jeanette. i am not a jeanette.

i love the name 'jaclyn.' i wouldn't trade it for any other name, except maybe 'stumblebee.'