Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Category: Let’s Get Serious

Ours Is Not To Reason Why

I am full of opinions today, and you need to hear them.

Leggings are still not pants, no matter how many women wear them. “I work out, so my butt is cute” is not a counterargument.

It occurs to me that my plan to grab the pervert’s cellphone from under the restroom stall is actually a pretty good one. I’d be barricaded in my stall, and I’d use his phone (with the incriminating evidence still on it!) to call 911. I now yield the floor to Officer Nick, who will explain why my plan wouldn’t work.

By the way, that last sentence is the only time you will see me use the words “I yield to Nick,” under any circumstances.


That is an R.E.M. line which often occurs to me these days.  Ways in which progress fails:

–The new buses have computerized change-counting machines to put your fare in, which, I suppose, enabled them to lay off the person who’d been counting it all at the end of the day. This means that only one coin can be allowed to pass through it at one time, so the machine can keep track of it, and this means the slot had to be made extra-narrow to ensure that only one coin goes in. Which, of course, means that if you put more than one coin in at a time, it jams up.

–Why, in this age of environmental correctness, are even more things made out of plastic? Fences, mailboxes, grocery bags…? I was reminded of this when a fellow bus passenger’s Walmart bag, being made of plastic, sagged and dumped his purchase of Axe body spray (in the Anarchy scent) onto the floor. Axe is the biggest-selling line of men’s grooming products in the world, but it’s called Lynx in every country but the U.S. Why? Do they think we won’t know what a lynx is, even though they live on this continent?

Why is the sky blue? I know, the visible light spectrum reflects blah blah blah, but that only explains how it’s blue.

I Hate a Parade

Therefore, the festival parade got rained on.

Rom said, “You should post more frequently so you don’t forget stuff.” Yeah, good intentions, what the road to hell is paved with, etc. I’m inclined to think the road to hell is not well-marked, either.

The bus today was standing-room-only, thanks to a woman whose attitude was, “I can’t be expected to move over. I have a tote bag.”


Speaking of which, in that blessedly cool and quiet setting, a woman marched up to the counter with 2 orders of fries and said, “These are cold and nasty. And I want 3 orders back.” OK, if you paid for 3 orders but only got 2, fine. If someone in your party already ate one order even though they were cold, or you expect to get an additional, free order of fries as compensation, too bad. And try not to be such a bitch. See, if my fries aren’t hot, I consider it to be in the nature of fast food, and better luck next time.

This is why they never made me the supervisor of anything.


My 3rd post (“World Without End”) was about how I got religion, if anyone has been wondering. Trust me, I was not Likeliest To Attend Church when I started at Dispatch. In the interest of brevity, that post featured only why I became religious in the first place, not why I embraced any particular religion. So here’s that explanation:

After my initial ecstatic experience in March of ’95, I feverishly read up on various religions, but came to no firm conclusion. Then I decided that, if God really was trying to get in touch with me, surely guidance would be provided, so I prayed for that. Around dawn on a day in  June (those who know me at all will know I was staying up late, not getting up early), I was idly paging through an old Bible I still possessed, and my eye fell on the verse in Matthew that says Ask, and you shall receive. This felt like a Sign to me, and I started attending St Paul’s Episcopal church downtown (that being the denomination I was raised in). And yes, I am aware of the objection that I probably chose it just because it was familiar to me. I’m pretty much aware of any objections to faith that can be found.

My conversion to Catholicism was more of an intellectual decision. I had been reading church history, and was troubled by all the divisions that had arisen, from the Orthodox split in 1054 to the Protestant Reformation. Jesus is on record saying that Christians should all be one, and we Episcopalians prayed for unity at every service, but we were part of the problem! So on Ash Wednesday 2002 at St Paul’s, I was gazing out the stained glass window that had been refurbished thanks to my contribution that year, and thinking, “Too bad that window has my name on a plaque, since I’ll be a Catholic now.” Since I hadn’t consciously made the decision yet, I was a bit unsettled by that thought. But I got my ashes and headed for the bus stop to go home, and prayed, “God, if I ought to  become a Catholic, let someone ask me if the ashes on my forehead mean that I’m Catholic.” In the past, comments on my ashes were either “You have some dirt on your face,” or, “Are you in a cult?” (Seriously.) When I got on the bus, a guy pointed to my face and said, “Are you a Roman Catholic?” So there you have it.


The 3rd Secret & 2 Other Mysteries Revealed

But first…


–Fiona, now 6, to her mother:

“Why haven’t we bought any more animals?”

“We bought 2 fish, plus we have 2 cats.”

“But all we do with the fish is give them food and look at them.”

“Well, that’s all you really can do with fish, and you and your brother were the ones who wanted the fish. And I don’t want to take care of any more cats than the two we have.”

“But what if took care of them?”

That’s the oldest trick in the book, right? It was time for me to get out of the car (McDonald’s waits for no one), but Fiona had already launched into, “When I’m an adult, I’m going to…” Have a country estate so she can have endless numbers of animals, no doubt. Not that we’re in a position to talk–we have a raccoon living in a brushpile on the property who’s had to be rescued from the garbage can twice, and Rom ducks whenever he goes out the back door to avoid disturbing the spider that’s spun a web across the doorframe. (Nick adds to notes: “Security provided via spider, avoid back door.”) Maybe our pet raccoon and spider are the reason why, when the window was accidentally left open and unscreened all night, the cats did not attempt to escape. Nightmare In Progress…Speaking of which–


Not only does it wash dishes and greasy, oily wildlife, but Dawn dish detergent can be used to wash your house! No more green scum on the siding!


I saw a tanker truck that said “Silvertip Propane” with a picture of a snarling grizzly bear on it. Do you really want to remind people that your product is deadly? I mean, we’re not re-filling flame-throwers here. Are we? I don’t know what flame-throwers are filled with. I suppose a flame-thrower could also remove the green scum on the siding.

Remember the story I told of the 4-year-old jumping up and down yelling “I’m Captain America!”? That’s Trump’s foreign policy.

Dear Hanes, if you put a label on a package of socks saying, “Our Softest Socks! Feel Here!” I will touch them when I walk by. Every time. (I did eventually buy them.)

Irony in action: I got home the other day, clutching my broken umbrella, and found the new umbrella I’d ordered waiting on the porch. And getting rained on.


In the spirit of tying up loose ends, taking them off the table, and sweeping them under the rug, here are the rest of the things they didn’t know about me at work.

–Remember my 2nd post, my story about the time I got beaten up at a previous job? Sure you do, just look up the archives for February 2013. Ever wonder why I never mentioned what that job was? (Maybe not, since no one asked me.) I was working at a massage parlor. Yes, that kind of massage parlor, yes, I was desperate for money, and yes, I was terrible at it. I ran afoul of the dress code there, too, as I seem to have done at every job I’ve had. I hasten to add that I did nothing that was not completely legal in St Louis County in 1976, so you law-enforcement types can just sit back down.

And two more mysteries cleared up about my 911 job, which will be of interest mostly to the supervisors who dealt with me, neither of whom still work there, but both of whom are readers here:

–The time I got in trouble because I was screwing up ALL THE TIME, and couldn’t seem to stop, no matter how I tried? That was scary. (And LET’S GET SERIOUS for a moment–IT WAS SCARY PARTLY BECAUSE OF THAT CREEPY THING THEY DO WHERE THEY SEND A MESSAGE AROUND TO EVERYONE WORKING SAYING “WE JUST ARRANGED FOR SOMEONE TO COME IN AND WORK FOR THE PERSON WHO’S GETTING IN TROUBLE WHILE WE TAKE THEM OUT OF THE ROOM, AND DON’T LET THAT PERSON KNOW IT’S GOING TO HAPPEN.” COULD YOU BE A LITTLE MORE LIKE 1984???) They said they might fire me, then asked if there was trouble at home they should know about that might be affecting my performance, which there wasn’t. I didn’t know what was happening to me any more than they did. In retrospect, it must have been a hormonal imbalance occasioned by my recent surgery–eventually, the problem went away by itself.

And, the time I got in trouble because I forgot to do the move-ups for a working fire in the county? I was waiting for a phone call from Wisconsin telling me my mother had died. As it turned out, I didn’t get that call until I’d left work, but I probably should have called in sick that day or something. I didn’t mention this when I got complained on, because I didn’t want them to think I Couldn’t Handle the Job.

There. Now they can correct my Permanent Record, which they’ve probably burned by now anyway.

Stepping out of the confessional, and getting silly once again, because I can’t think of a segue (I guess I can’t handle this job, either), tune in next time for a new feature on S.G.–reviews of restaurants you’ll never see reviewed–the fast food places on St Joe! Sure, someone’s probably already doing that on YouTube, but I doubt I’ll be on YouTube unless the Sour Neon Crawlers really take off, or Nick and I do our drunken chess tournament.

The Second Secret

This is what we call posting semi-regularly. (I am trying to ignore Cat Esmerelda yelling for attention behind me.) (In case you thought cats were low-maintenance.)


What else were you expecting?

In analyzing How My Job Affected Me & Why I Blog About It–most dispatchers want to be perceived as Caring Professionals. We do care, of course–we want the bad guy to be caught and the baby to start breathing again. But our management likes to tell us, “Imagine that it’s your friend or family member calling when you answer 911.” It doesn’t work that way. It cannot work that way. Emergency-services people among themselves have a dark sense of humor. Those who can’t develop one don’t last past training. (I do remember one trainee who used to lecture her trainers about their attitude. Just think of how that went over.)

That being said, I’ve heard colleagues say that this job has made everyone cry at one time or another. (I guess that’s why the restroom floor has a drain, to dispose of dispatcher tears.)  But I have never cried because of work. (Cursed, yes.) However, it’s also said that everyone who’s been doing the job for any length of time has a Call That Haunts Them. I actually have one of those, and that’s the second secret. No one has heard this story before but Rom.

It was while we were still downtown. I was the calltaker. (We had only one back then–quaint, isn’t it?) I took a suicide call.

Now suicide calls–the ones made by the actual suicidal person, not by family members or friends–have always been my most-hated part of the job. I never felt like I knew what to say, and the consequences of saying the wrong thing might be terrible. This guy had stabbed himself in the abdomen with a screwdriver, then regretted it and called 911. And he was fading fast, and could not remember his address.

This was in the 80’s, when we did not have even the rudimentary GPS capabilities we have now. The guy could give me the numerics of his address–and did so repeatedly–but he could not remember the name of the street. I kept asking, but every time I asked, he just repeated the numbers and trailed off. Time was running out, and I was frantic to get the information. I felt so helpless, and kept thinking, If he can remember the numbers, why can’t he remember the street?, and I kind of snapped at him.

Eventually, his brother called in and gave us the address, and we got everybody out there, but by then it was too late. Ever since then, I’ve wondered, if I hadn’t spoken to him irritably, would he have been able to remember? I suppose it’s equally possible that my sharp tone might have jolted him out of his daze. But anyway, I wish I’d managed to remain professional throughout, which surely would have improved the chances.Oh well.

I also had some of the usual silly stuff to write, but it doesn’t really fit well after this, so I will just leave it for now.

Oh, in case anyone was wondering what was my most-favorite part of the job–that would be monitoring the tactical channel on SWAT callouts.




True Confessions + Some Actual Content

I’m going to tell you a secret. Actually, three secrets, but the other two will have to wait. Only then can we move on as a nation.

I’ve been trying to figure out if this blog is still viable now that I’m retired and no longer able to provide content that you couldn’t get anywhere else. Or that you weren’t getting anywhere else, more precisely. Which brings us to the secret, of sorts.

I never thought this blog would make me famous, since I’m not insane. However, I did think it might attract a wider readership of fellow 911 dispatchers. Toward that end, someone more publicity-minded than I am (well, that could be anyone, couldn’t it?) linked to this blog on a dispatch Facebook page so that others could view it. I received my highest readership that day, some 360 people. That was a big surprise to wake up to. The bigger surprise was that all those extra readers never came back. They checked it out once and decided it wasn’t for them.

I’ll discuss why that might be so in the next post, but in the meantime, if you noticed a point at which S.G. lost momentum, and I could no longer be counted on to post regularly, that would be why. Nick, if you call me a “poor thing” again, I will…well, I don’t know what I’ll do. You’ll have to check back with me later.

I remember when I couldn’t wait to get home and post all kinds of exciting stuff about my less-than-exciting life. I still get ideas, but I tend to lie down and wait until the urge passes. BUT NOW…


–“Why you gotta be so cruel? I’m gonna marry you anyway.” Always a good idea.

–“Marry you no matter what you say.” I believe that’s illegal.


“Sun’s out, buns out!” That’s illegal, too.


I don’t read my daily horoscope, but mine must have said “Taureans will have trouble accessing public restrooms.”

At CVS, they’d put up the “No Public Restrooms” sign in front of, well, their public restrooms, as they do at unpredictable intervals. (Whenever they see me coming, for all I know.) It actually says, “No Public Restrooms–Please Don’t Ask,” which infringes on my freedom of speech.

At Walgreen’s–well, if you smell an almighty stench as soon as you turn into the hall leading to the restroom, you know not to go in there.

At Thornton’s, the women’s room had a sign saying “Closed for Cleaning.” Feeling a bit desperate by now, I slipped into the (empty) men’s room. When I came out, I saw a mother and daughter waiting for the Cleaning to come to an end. The little girl said, “Mommy, that lady came out of the men’s room!” I went and got my fountain drink (thus beginning the cycle all over again), glanced back, and saw mother and daughter emerging from the men’s room, looking a good deal more relaxed.


On another occasion at Walgreen’s (see, this is what happens when I post regularly, so be careful what you pray for) (if anyone was in fact praying for this), whoever keeps mischievously locking one of the stall doors from the inside (I’m guessing a poltergeist) had again done so. I thought, What this situation requires is someone able and willing to slither under the door and unlock it. So I did. It meant that my clothes acquired bathroom cooties, which makes them ritually impure until they’re laundered, but two-stall functionality has been restored. I expect a plaque on the stall door for my efforts.


…having dropped a brand-new shoe in the toilet. So that shoe now has toilet cooties (even though the toilet was clean), which will not be removed until I get caught out in the rain wearing those shoes.

OK, I’m tired of this topic. Time to resume arguing with A Certain Person about whether Nick is adorable or not.


Day 29: Has Been Canceled

I had to go home sick after about an hour. Let’s just say that I won’t eat crab pizza again.


How do you know something’s wrong with your society? When a guy with no shirt and yellow pajama pants is cutting himself by the Four Freedoms monument.


In other news, last week I proved unable to open 1.) a bag of Chips Ahoy, and 2.) a soda bottle, in a timely manner. But I was highly motivated to gain access to both those items, so I got someone to assist me.


True Confessions

{Note: There was originally a line here that I edited out, and I can’t figure out how to make the white space go away, so I substituted this line in its place. Carry on.} {Yeah, I know this is more than one line, but I care insufficiently to do anything about it. Proceed.}


On the Anonymously Autistic blog, where I’ve been loitering lately, I found the official diagnostic definition here. (<== Look! Did you see that? I made a link! My first ever! This Blog School is turning out to be worthwhile after all! Maybe I better restrain my enthusiasm until I publish this and see if it actually works.) Leaving aside the obsessive way in which I carefully checked off each of the listed attributes and rated them for level of severity, I think I can put your doubts to rest with two simple observations:

  1. I rock back and forth when I listen to music. They call this “self-soothing” behavior, which I originally took issue with, thinking, “How would I feel if I didn’t do it? Oh–nervous and twitchy. OK.”
  2. As I walk along {“I wonder what went wrong, with our love, the love that was so strong…” Sorry. Too much listening to music.}, I often recite sequential lists of dates. I will not bore you with how these dates are selected.
  3. OK, make that 3 observations: I have difficulty recognizing people’s faces if I encounter them outside of their accustomed settings–colleagues outside of work, parishioners outside of church, Nick pretty much everywhere, etc. (I worked with that poor thing IN THE SAME ROOM, ON THE SAME SHIFT, FOR A YEAR–or so he claims–and don’t remember it.) My husband is the only exception. So if you run into me at Walgreen’s, or follow me down the street in your vehicle hoping to give me a ride, expect a blank stare initially. The only way to avoid that is to live with me for years. No, I’m not inviting you to move in.

Where the “high-functioning” thing (or maybe just “maturity”) comes in is, I’ve learned to not display my weirder traits in public, and I’ve also mastered Life Skills 101 (although I’m not sure about Life Skills 201). For example, not knowing how to dress properly got me in trouble at 3 different jobs. Since there were no dress codes to tell me exactly how to proceed, I just wore what I did when I wasn’t working. Back then, that involved lots of see-through shirts, halter tops, and black goth-y stuff that hadn’t yet become fashionable. So one supervisor told me, “Just because there’s no dress code doesn’t mean you can wear whatever you want.” See, I’d thought that was exactly what it meant. The “obvious” alternative–looking around to see what other employees were wearing–simply never occurred to me. How did I eventually discover that tactic? I read it in an article. Combine that sort of thing with my belief that making sustained eye contact with anyone will turn me to stone, and you can see why employers used to edge me out as soon as they could figure a way that wouldn’t involve paying me unemployment benefits.

Along with Life Skills, a structured and/or familiar environment helps a great deal, so I know just what to expect. I also have various Rules, so I don’t take forever to make decisions like, Where should I sit on this bus? What color underwear should I put on today? (Although I actually make those particular decisions in the reverse order from the way I just listed them.) (You know, it JUST OCCURRED TO ME that I could solve that one problem by just buying all-white underwear. You learn something new every day!)

Also, here (again from Anonymously Autistic) is an example of how one can “build” small talk “from the ground up,” so to speak.

Well, that was somewhat embarrassing, but I’ll live. Enough about me and why I’m weird. I’ve already dawdled over this post for too long, afflicted with “but what if they don’t want to read about my problems?” Well, if you don’t want to read about my problems, YOU’RE IN THE WRONG PLACE.


I have scratchy glitter on me from carrying Christmas packages. This is not optimum.


I’m happy because I discovered rose-scented Vaseline for my lips.


“Real-Life Grinch Caught On Video Stabbing Inflatable Snowman.” Yes, Yes, YES!!!



3:26 and All Is Not Well

“…I was up till 3:30 last night,” says Stephen Colbert, as if there’s something unusual about that. I cannot rest until I write. I’m like Cat Esmerelda with petting–“I’VE DONE WITHOUT IT FOR DAYS, BUT NOW I MUST STAND IN THE HALLWAY AND YELL, AND GET IN FRONT OF YOU WHEN YOU TRY TO LEAVE THE ROOM, AND COME BACK AND GET YOU WHEN YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME, BECAUSE I HAVE TO HAVE IT NOW NOW NOW–”

Ahem. Anywayz, the 28th was Rom’s birthday (he’s 65! how did that happen?), and we went to Turoni’s with D. It’s a good thing I remembered what I wanted (3-cheese/chicken/broccoli pizza, yum!), because their current menu struck me like a blow (albeit a very minor one–unlike their bathroom, which thanks to their mid-century modern decorating scheme reminded me of the restrooms of my childhood, so I expected their toilet to do likewise, and instead it was a supersonic TOILET OF THE FUTURE, and startled me when I flushed), because the menu was an over-crowded BARRAGE OF WORDS, and I was momentarily overwhelmed. (The accompanying illustrations did not help. Pictures on a menu should be of food, not cartoon characters.) I had been thinking I might like an alcoholic beverage (or 2, or 3, or 4), but that required a separate menu to present their hellish profusion of beers, so that was Not Gonna Happen. By the way, the pizzas of my table companions were overly colorful. A pizza should not look like it has confetti strewn over it.

This post is reading like a grab bag of World Leader Edicts. And I’ve only just begun.


You didn’t know I had one, did you? Neither did I.

Nothing like a letter from that source which cheerily begins, “We’re NOT accusing your of identity theft!” Oh?

“…but you need to go to our website, and pass a quiz to verify your identity, which will only take a few minutes, and we’ll give you 3 chances to pass it, and then we’ll send you your refund, if you first tell us the exact amount of the refund you were claiming.”


I grumpily went to my pile of leftover tax documents. Well, guess what? After doing the taxes, I had separated the paperwork into 2 piles–one to toss and one to keep–and guess what I did. That’s right, I threw the wrong ones away. Stuff like this would make me think dementia is setting in, except that I’ve been doing stuff like this my whole life. It’s a wonder I can even feed myself. Oh wait, I don’t, Rom feeds me. Well, not by hand, because I bite.

Soooo…I don’t have the paperwork they require, so I need to call them, at their non-toll-free number. How can I prove I’m not the identity thief they’re not accusing me of being? Maybe they’ll tell me to come up to Indianapolis with my state I.D. (it’s like a driver’s license, except that it says Don’t Let This Person Drive) to get my refund.

You know, I carefully arrange my life so I seem normal, to myself and others. But going to a city I’ve never been to, where I know no one, and try and find a building I’ve never been to? That is so Not Gonna Happen. They can just keep my refund, paltry as it is. Identity theft has claimed another victim.

S.G. Is 3 Years Old, For What It’s Worth


It has been a month since my last confession, I mean post. I was attempting to have a period of, shall we say, discernment, because I discerned that I seemed to be repeating myself, and feared I was running out of stuff to write about. But how can this be, as long as there is…


Drug store clerk reporting a theft:

“The guy’s been in here before, and he always takes liquor bottles into the bathroom, and empties them into a container he brings with him. He’s thin, has a mullet and missing teeth, and always brings his wife who’s in a wheelchair, but I’m not sure she really needs it.” Could he be more perfectly-suited to his crime? All he needs is a tattoo that says “100% Honky” (there are actually several people in this town who have that tattoo, although they disagree on the spelling of “honky”) and a car with flames painted on the sides. We can only hope he has a meth lab waiting for him when he gets home.

Anyway, I am trying to find ways to make this blog a little less, well, impaired, but, y’know….Interestingly (or not–YOU BE THE JUDGE), no one’s dared to nag me for not posting this time around. Maybe you’ve abandoned hope, or perhaps you feared it would lead to whining.


Everyone says, “Life isn’t fair,” but WHY ISN’T IT? We all agree that it ought to be, so what gives?


There is software you can get (well, you can–I have a special old-folks computer {to go with my special old-folks phone} which keeps things uncomplicated so it’s not overwhelming, and I therefore can’t add software) which will delete your work if you don’t keep writing regularly. That’s supposed to be motivational. I guess it would be, in the same way that someone smacking you if you didn’t write would be–I’m not sure if I’d actually write more, or just curl up in a spiny ball of despair.


“Subject has Asperger’s syndrome, cannot make eye contact, and may become violent when touched.” Since when is it a law that one has to make eye contact? Also, I think that not being touched by police sounds like a pretty good deal. Hey, I’m un-arrestable! It’s like another alert I had to give–“Subject is barred from jail property.” Score!!



Solid Sheet of Iceville

Now that we’ve entered S. S. of I. season, let me remind my co-workers of the SOLID SHEET OF ICE QUADFECTA! If you can be involved with the following:

–A reckless driver is all over the road, hits a solid sheet of ice, and shears off a pole, and then when confronted about it, puts his/her hands on someone, you will win…something with scratchy glitter on it, I guess. Chosen by me. Reluctantly.


Seen on Facebook–“Remember when we used to call stalkers ‘secret admirers’?” Let’s just turn that inside out, shall we? Now we live in an age when we call secret admirers “stalkers.” As if anyone who’s too shy to tell you about their feelings probably means you harm. (Nick takes notes, since he’s keeping his admiration for me very secret indeed.) 


There is a picture of me down at police HQ, along with other exotic dispatchers of the 80’s. (I think I’m the only one in the lineup who still works here.) Nick, who probably has to pass this picture a dozen times a day, informed me that I am a “living time capsule.” I can only hope this refers to my timelessly youthful appearance, and not to the fact that my hairstyle hasn’t changed since 1985.


…as you feared it would…


CHILDHOOD: The Prince Valiant cut. This style actually landed me in the school Christmas pageant in the first grade, as one of the Three Kings’ pageboys. (Yes, schools had Christmas pageants about Jesus back then.) My mother thought I looked adorable in this style, even though my bangs would not lie flat unless they were taped to my forehead while they dried.

TEENAGEHOOD: My dark-blonde hair started growing in dark-brown. My mother was distressed at this sign of her Little Girl Growing Up and insisted on bleaching it blonde again. The problem with this was that the color (Miss Clairol in Topaz, now mercifully discontinued) looked brassy and cheap in the worst sort of way (in other words, not “cheap” in the sexy way).  Girls made fun of me for it (boys seemed to prefer making fun of me for my acne instead), and I begged to be allowed to grow it out, but my mother refused. In sophomore year of high school, I finally rebelled and dyed it back to brown (still Miss Clairol, this time in Sun-warmed Brown.) This was also the Year of the Shag. My best friend drew a stick-figure cartoon of me for the underground newspaper I wrote for back then. You could tell it was me because it had glasses and my hair was sticking straight up, since I had a nervous habit of running my fingers through it.

SINCE THEN, EXCEPT FOR AN INTERVAL IN THE 2000’S AFTER SURGERY (FEMALE PROBLEMS, DON’T ASK OR I’LL TELL) (OK, SURGICAL SHOCK MADE 15% OF MY HAIR FALL OUT, SO I GOT IT CUT SHORT): I started growing my hair out at just the age when most women decide they’re too old for long hair, for whatever reason they decide that. I don’t style it. I don’t “do anything” about all the gray in the front. So, for all the people who’ve said it would look nice if I’d just “do something” with it–no, this is on purpose. Unlike the barbecue sauce I got all over my clothes on Sunday, which I hope no one at work noticed.


I was going to sing a David Bowie song in the shower, but I have a cold and I’m losing my voice. (And it doesn’t take long for me to get tired of brilliant-green snot.) So I listened to Ziggy Stardust instead. Ziggy Stardust inspired my high school boyfriend (actually, it was only a “relationship” on my part) to get his long hair cut into a shag, to my dismay–after he dumped me, to my greater dismay. I hadn’t actually heard Ziggy Stardust at that point–that had to wait until I discovered Rom’s record collection 6 years later.

“I could fall asleep at night as a rock and roll star

I could fall in love alright as a rock and roll star…

Yes, I used to think that was a prerequisite.

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