At first I thought writing texts by hand would be fun, but then I quickly realized that it wasn’t and then I started thinking about the space I’m taking up in my friends’ phones, and what a horrible idea this is. (Except that it isn’t, but really it is.) Anyway, before I kicked off the experiment, I decided to create several standard messages that I tend to use fairly often when I’m texting so that I didn’t have to grab a notebook for every tiny bit of communication.
Let me just pause right here to tell you that my photo editing fallback (Aviary on Flickr) has been down for something like 43 days now (I’m exaggerating by 39 days) and if only I could fix the white balance on these photos… But I CANNOT.
(Someday soon we’ll talk about what a lazy eater I’ve been lately. It’s almost like I’m punishing myself. But why?)
Also, this is yet another reason why I know I’m at the right church:
As you know, I own this shirt.
(I’ve never worn it to church mainly because of the line that refers to grabbing.)
Earlier this week, I noticed that the church Facebook account proudly posted this pulpit pic.
My roommate at Camp KIP was a friend who used to work at the yarn store with me. After we both left the store she moved to Las Vegas, and I was so excited when she flew in to go to camp. We spent that weekend knitting and she taught me how to spin and we occasionally left camp to eat Mexican food and one night we went to a beer tasting and to a bonfire. On the way home? Dehydrated green beans at an Amish grocery store! It really was a perfect weekend, and I absolutely hate that I later lost touch with my friend, because she is a gem.
Two days ago I was really stressed out about a freelance deadline, so I did what anyone does when they’re feeling a nearly unmanageable amount of pressure—I wasted time on Facebook. While there, I was told that I may know a woman who shares the same first name as my friend from Camp KIP. I looked at the photo, and yes! It was her!
I know this story is making you yawn. I know it is. I’m just trying to get back into the groove after spending so much time obsessing about politics. Wait. Here’s a photo of me being all “Hey, Buddy!” with Sarah McLachlan at Lilith Fair in 2010.
This morning the photo of my friend (not Sarah McLachlan, but the Camp KIP friend) appeared once again on my Facebook profile. I closed my eyes and hit the “Add Friend” button. Not much time passed before she accepted my request. That’s when I sent her this message: “Hello there!!! I was so excited to see your face popping up on my ‘You might no this person’ feature on FB! I hope you’re doing well and that this message finds you ridiculously happy and healthy.” (Yes. Because of my excitement, I misspelled the word Know. I will stop kicking myself for this error sometime in 2024. Maybe.)
I then started looking through her profile and it didn’t take long before I realized that this may NOT be the woman I thought it was. But they look exactly alike! They DO! She responded to my message asking how we know each other. I confessed that we don’t know each other and I’m so embarrassed and also so sorry for interrupting her day.
And that’s when she told me that although she didn’t attend Camp KIP, she wanted to. She is a fiber artist and a writer and she said something about wondering if there is a higher reason that we accidentally fell onto each other’s list of friends, and that’s when I decided that I’m living in a Richard Bach novel.
We chatted back and forth a bit and I now have another favorite person to add to my Favorite People list. Tonight I’m pulling out the spinning wheel to celebrate.
I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Seriously. What in the hell has to happen for me to stop WATCHING the news and THINKING about the news and wondering NOT what I can do to HELP turn the world around, but what I can do TO turn the world around? (I am most definitely not a team player, but not because of the reasons you would suspect, if you are one who tends to suspect reasons.)
I used to have stories to tell you. Stories of haHaHA! adventures and stories about me crying at school functions because of spelling bees and little kids singing and stories of Jeff hitting the cable guy in his only functional eye with a rubber bullet, thereby scoring extended cable to our house for free. (I may have not shared that story. Trust me. It was horrifying until enough time passed for it to be hilarious.)
Now? NOW? I have no adventures to share, other than adventures that might get me into a lot of trouble if overheard by the wrong people. (I may (or may not) be exaggerating.)
I’ve been doing a lot of this:
I’ve got coffee in my hand and Meredith’s shoes on my feet and Senator Chuck Schumer on the television.
Also, I spent nearly twenty minutes a few days back playing with a ridiculous app that makes everyone look like a lovely Asian woman. (Or maybe a lovely Asian man. I don’t know who you are.)
I can’t figure out if the photo is offensive or just ridiculous. All I know is that it smells a bit like I should find better things to do with my time. Like rescuing dogs!
I found this guy walking the streets about a week ago, and when I opened the car door to talk to him, he jumped in and sat right down in the passenger seat. (No collar. Very muddy.)
I took him for a ride, fed him, gave him water, and then a little of this and then some of that and something about a space heater and a rug and I found his owner and everyone was (and is still) happy.
We watched the Super Bowl but not really because although I attended nearly every home football game during high school and college, I don’t care enough to figure out what’s happening.
Truth: When football is on the television, I stare into the television and think about all the lives I’m not living.
I’m very selective when it comes to stickers on cars. I once had a sticker on my Volkswagen that said Peace. It was given to me in 1992 by a guy named Victor who purchased it at a music festival. I placed the next sticker on my Nissan in 1999. It said Nader. (I know.) About five years ago, I added a 0.0 sticker to my back window to celebrate the fact that my legs are made of porcelain. Last year I made a removable vinyl little yoga lady for the Sonata’s back window to let people know that I AM MINDFUL.
Anyway, since last we spoke, I added another sticker. It was given to me by a friend, and it’s little yet mighty.
I have always loved Rachel Maddow. In fact, I really should make a shirt that says WWRMD. Until I do, I guess I’ll just wear this:
Oh, right! Hi there. Sorry I haven’t been around for the past few weeks. It’s just that I’ve been going a little ARGH! and also WAAAAAUGH! but mostly ZZZzzzzzzzzz… Ah, but no worries! My doctor told me that a LOT of people have visited her for a medication adjustment due to the chief executive brain bulldozing. I am not alone!
I don’t even know where to begin, so I’ll do what I do when I don’t even know where to begin.
This photo represents the fact that I found myself topless in a tiny room with a big x-ray machine last week. They thought I had pneumonia, but I didn’t. I still don’t! (I saved the mask. I’m not sure why.) ((Actually, I DO know why. It’s sexy and it’s covered with dried up pleurisy juices. Maybe I’ll strain yogurt through it!))
A friend and I shared lattes and lunch today and we eventually found ourselves talking about where we find joy. I have found a lot of joy in the past week writing down quotes that I love from books.
(I hope I never have to say that terror made me cruel. I know a few people who COULD say it but they never will.)
I’m knitting a thing that will eventually look like this, but brighter. Also, I have it stashed in the sushi bag that Tempe gave me for Christmas because that bag brings me so much joy.
We had a fire last night (hygge!) and in this photo it looks like two fire people are arguing about a fire baby. I sat on the couch and yelled, “Cut the baby in half! That way each of you can have part of him!” (Opportunities to do King Solomon impressions don’t present themselves very often. Always take full advantage.)
Oh, January. Damnit all to Hell. And I say Damnit all to Hell not because I really mean it, but just because blergh. Beautiful ice storms but Donald Trump’s Twitter, and amazing veggie fondue but blue dye on my hands from Harper’s hair and a cough that has lingered for over a month. Knitting a dozen hats to donate to marchers on Saturday but knitting a dozen hats to donate to marchers on Saturday. (People have wildly different views about the hats. Some think they’re great. Some think they’re just another sign of people needing a crap souvenir for a cause they don’t really believe in or aren’t willing to do real work for. I honestly can see both sides.)
Do this for me: If you’re wearing a cat hat to the march and you don’t *really* need/want it afterwards, please consider donating it directly to a homeless person who is cool with wearing a pink cat hat. Maybe put a warm sandwich or something IN that hat. As a friend of mine said this morning, “You’re helping those in the cold and those hats will, for awhile, be omnipresent on the streets, a reminder of the connection between abject poverty and government’s need to be bigger than some sleezy dipshit who conned his way into the presidency.”
When I was seventeen, my world was all about my hair and my shoes. My hair because it looked like this, which required a bit of time. My shoes because I liked to watch them when I walked. (When you’re watching your shoes, you don’t have to make eye contact with someone who might be laughing at you.) ((I had some issues during Angela: The Teen Years. Angela: Forty-Something is only a tiny bit better.)) Seventeen-year-old me read TIME magazine for a Contemporary Issues class, but didn’t retain anything past quiz time. I had no idea who was fighting whom. I hadn’t even thought about voting. All of this to say: Last week I had the pleasure of knitting a cat hat for a seventeen-year-old girl who is taking a bus to Washington DC this weekend to march for the rights and safety of women. She picked the hat up on Saturday and was completely pumped and today’s kids are breaking cycles and showing up and some of them will be wearing cat hats and some of them won’t, and what they have ON their heads is so much less important than what they have IN their heads.
Some of you like it when the Beatles sing Come Together. I’ve always preferred Primal Scream and: We can still be friends. I don’t care what you’re wearing on your head, unless it’s a hat that says Make America Great Again, in which case we can STILL be friends, it’s just that I’ll be spending most of our friendship checking out my shoes.
This morning I made friends with this guy because I think he might be Morley Safer. Or maybe Gene Wilder.
When the nurse giving me the B12 shot yesterday asked if I have a Sam’s Club membership, I lied and told her that I do. She was recommending a brand of chili that she thought I would like and I didn’t want to disappoint her. The sad thing? When I go back for my shot next month, she is going to ask me about the chili and I’ll have to lie AGAIN. Tangled webs. (Now I should probably go out and get a Sam’s Club membership to balance everything out. DAMNIT!) ((We’re Costco fans. Wait. MAYBE COSTCO HAS THE CHILI!!! Wait some more. I can’t even remember what kind of chili it is because I was trying too hard to maintain “I’m not lying” eye contact. Chili lies. What am I doing?!))
I skipped out of the house for 90 minutes last night to share a beer with friends (One is silver and the other’s gold!) who then gifted me that beer along with an Assport. I’ve managed to surround myself with the best people, and I now need to drink 20 beers from 20 different countries so I can earn a t-shirt. (Goals. I’ve got ’em.)
After returning home from my sour stout travels, I tried to convince the girls that I’ve found my new hairstyle.
8. Shared a few too many beers at a self-serve taphouse with a friend who makes time pass entirely too quickly. I smiled until my face hurt. I tilted my head to the right because that’s what I tend to do when I don’t have words. I walked away with an autographed Anthony Bourdain book and a bucket of beans and the perfect blend of HappySad.
9. Added to my honey collection. I now drizzle honey onto and into nearly everything I eat or drink, which means I’ll soon begin: 1. Communicating by using pheromones, and 2. Growing hair out of my eyes.
And now it’s time to close down this year as we figure out how to make next year better. I’m going to accomplish Better with fresh words and new music and Revolution. Also, the new album by A Tribe Called Quest, blueberry vinegar, a candle that smells like a bonfire, and viciously unconventional revivification.
The past eight days have found me suffering from the same throat and nose thing that has infected everyone I know (along with their extended families and co-workers). I’ve had to cancel on lunches and coffees and cookie baking parties and family Christmas parties and here is a photo that was taken yesterday when I had a fever and a stomach thing along with the nose and the throat thing and I think Jesus was trying to call me home.
I looked toward the light and said, “Please give me more time, Jesus. I have plans for 2017.” And He said, “Okey doke, but make sure those plans are for the Good, because I’m starting to get tired of all the Not Good down there.” And I answered, “You betcha. Good is what I do best.” And He whispered, “Jam on.”
This morning I felt a tiny bit better, so I took a shower (it was time) and swallowed some pills and decided to drive to a store to buy pajamas for the girls because it’s the last day of school for the year and I buy Christmas pajamas for them every year and Right Now! I NEED TO GO RIGHT NOW! (I don’t feel so good.) I’M LEAVING! I’VE TAKEN MY MEDICINE!
I grabbed a coffee and drove to Old Navy and after I chose the girls’ pajamas I started sweating and I felt like I was going to faint so I decided to take deep breaths and focus on plaid shirts because I don’t have one and I think I might need one, where “need” is a huge exaggeration because what do I NEED? Fluids. Rest. (MAYBE a plaid shirt? YES a plaid shirt.)
In a few minutes I’ll be picking up my Glasses o’ Severity and later this evening I’m going to load my new green pen and write down all of my childhood memories into this red notebook. All of them. (Cold medicine was included in the photo just for fun because I’ve taken a lot of it and I’m not embarrassed. Maybe a little jittery, but not embarrassed.)
I’m missing out on another gathering this evening and I’m bummed because I STILL haven’t found Christmas and my head is filled with stories of oranges and live nativity scenes and Oh! The online holiday concert went live a few days back and I’m in it. What I *want* to do is point out all of the bad parts within my submission and tell you to just skip to the very end where I do a special shout out to Prince. What I *will* do is smile politely and tell you that I hope your holidays are filled with pleasant smells and nice thoughts and good health and music that lifts you.
(The (very wise and somewhat spunky) woman who helped me choose my frames told me that you live only once. (She actually said “You only live once” but I’ve never liked that arrangement of words.) She then told me that these frames are “perfectly severe” on me. I’ve never been described as perfectly severe, but I liked it. 2017: The Year of Perfectly Severe Angela D. (Side Note: Step one in my quest to become Iris Apfel? Complete.))
In the spring of 1989, a friend called in the middle of the night to see if I wanted to go out for coffee. I changed out of my pajamas and walked across the street to his dorm, where he told me that I looked like Tracy Chapman. (Fast Car was a big deal back then.) 27 years have passed, and I still don’t see the resemblance.
I walked (very reluctantly) around the mall a few weeks back, and while there I saw a shirt that said “Another Day, Another Slay.” A few minutes later, I saw an “Eat, Pray, Slay” shirt. Oh, people. I know we all secretly want to be Beyoncé, but you know what? We need to just settle down and try to be the best version of ourselves.
The oldest note on my phone is from 12/19/12. It simply says “Jammy Weaselheimer.” I have no idea what it means, and I won’t delete it in case it ever comes up.
Yesterday I wrote something that included an imaginary shivering friend named Darius and my magical ability to stash beans in secret places. I either need to 1) Stop being so afraid to write short stories, and/or 2) Read more Tom Robbins novels. (Wait. Is Tom Robbins *really* 84? (And am I *really* 46?))
NEWSWORTHY ANNOUNCEMENT: Next Wednesday (12/21) will be the one year anniversary for me growing out my hair. (It’s a very big deal, right? Nothing else is going on in the world, right? CNN what? Syria who? Trump how? Russia when?)
Last year I looked like this:
Today I look like this:
(Confession: I don’t *really* look like this. The mascara is totally fake, and I applied the filter that seemed the most flattering. I’m not trying to fool anyone over here. I’m just trying to look scruffy glam. (Always and forever scruffy glam.) Also, it’s 18 degrees outside which means it was time to drag out the huge scarf! WINTER!)
Somebody tell me how to grab some Christmas spirit, because I’m idling at zero over here. (Tori Amos is currently playing as my background music. She’s definitely not helping me with her nine-inch nails and little fascist panties.)
Old man, look at my life. I’m a lot like you were.