I decided to take ‘the day off’ today, since I was emotionally trashed yesterday and – what does that look like? – I slept until 3:15.
So, I should maybe not write today. I should only do easy, enjoyable things. (Writing was once at the very top of that list. A ‘day off’ meant I would be writing all day. I am sure this will be true again someday. Perhaps even as I begin revising the next chapter of the manuscript.)
I started the day by cancelling my housecleaning. It’s a tremendous splurge for me to pay for housecleaning. But after doing budget negotiations with myself, I determined (as solely named CFO) that this was not in the budget for this month. And it’s a good thing I cancelled them for today, because they called back and said they were planning on me for next week instead.
Ah. Good. So then we both weren’t planning on that taking place today.
Do you know what’s less expensive than housecleaning? A manicure/pedicure. Sign me up.
Two days ago, in a fit of nonsensical behavior, I cut off my fingernails. All of them. My darling, Asian manicurist looked at my hands and said, “You cut them yourself?”
“I see.” She frowned. I had decreased her canvas space by a good 25%. Sorry about that, Cindy. Or as she says, Sinny.
She has this new method for taking the polish off my nails: she wrapped my fingernails in acetone-soaked cotton, and then she wrapped my fingertips in foil. The idea is that I can let them soak while I’m getting the pedicure, and neither of us has to deal with the potential spillage of a bowl of acetone in my lap.
It’s pretty smart. And she said it would free my hands to look at a magazine. Or, as we all know in my case, a book.
Except my fingers were wrapped in cotton and aluminum foil, so the task of turning a page was akin to signing 200 Christmas cards while wearing wool gloves.
Also today – and I’m just so proud of myself for this – I realized I lost my University parking permit. The one I purchased two days ago. The one I paid double for so my dad could rest easy with the knowledge that his daughter had little distance to walk to her car.
I left this message on their voicemail: “Hi, my name is Tricia Williford, and my student ID is 8726… Um, 8276… Oh, I don’t know. I have to look it up… I don’t know. It’s just that it’s not in front of me right now.”
That’s an excellent start to preface the fact that I’ve lost something I bought two days ago. Clearly, I can’t be responsible for anything that’s not in front of me right now. I’m pretty sure they rolled their eyes at each other, looked at my degree plan and thought, “Master’s degree. Writing. Freaking artists.”
On the replacement form, they ask me to please describe in detail how I misplaced my ID.
“It was in my wallet, and now it isn’t.”
That’s pretty much all I know. Except I have my wallet, so the whole thing is an enigma.
At Starbucks, a woman ordered a soy latte, and then she said, “It’s not because I’m lactose intolerant. It’s just that milk makes me really bloated.”
Holey shoes. Filter, people. Filter.
I forgot to say the word ‘iced’ when I ordered my beverage, so I had in my hand a hot coconut latte on a 90-degree afternoon.
“Ma’am, you wanted that iced, didn’t you?” He was gracious.
Yes, I did. And apparently if you’re going to be my on-campus Starbucks, I’ll need for you to start reading my mind. Sorry about that.
Still, ordering ‘without ice’ is better than asking for it ‘without the bloat.’
This day is so weird.