Harangue should rhyme with Merengue, but it doesn’t. It rhymes with Meringue.

I went to Dayton for the WGI Percussion World Championships and I returned from Dayton with a kid who now has pneumonia.

Harangue: If your kid is super sick, you shouldn’t let them share a six hour bus ride with a bunch of healthy kids. Those healthy kids? They will slowly drop like sleep-deprived drummers who have been exposed to a highly-contagious virus. Because that’s what they are. A drumline trip isn’t the same thing as an anti-vax chickenpox party. Similarly, please don’t use the Notre Dame fire to promote your passions. “If only people would cry for the unborn babies as much as they cry for the burning of Notre Dame.” “Notre Dame was 759 years old. If we don’t start taking care of the Earth, it won’t be around for 759 more years.” Listen. I get it. We all feel very strongly about the things we feel very strongly about. Surprisingly enough, I’m able to feel sad about the Notre Dame fire AND pissed about injustice AND concerned about political corruption AND distressed about the homeless population AND I like to think most of us are capable of multitrack mindedness. We are amazingly complex and beautiful humans, because I always try to finish harsh statements with pleasant ones.

Meanwhile, in Indiana:
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Me: I’ve got your eyeballs in my left hand, Ronald McDonald.

Ronald McDonald: (perturbed silence)

Me: Oh, Ronald McDonald! You never had real eyeballs. Someone painted eyeballs onto your face and then someone else scratched them out and you can’t see that you’re contributing to the health crisis in the United States, can you?! (Your fries are delicious, because I always try to finish harsh statements with pleasant ones.)

Just give me a day or two to cheer up. It will happen. Perhaps on Thursday.

Rick Astley is not a good role model.

I am an organ donor. Hell, I’ll give you an organ right now if you need it. I read up on living donations over the weekend, so I’m ready to toss a kidney at you. A lung. One of my two liver lobes. Part of my pancreas. A few feet of intestine. Blood. Bone marrow. Skin. If it can save someone, I’ll give it up.

Warning: My transverse and descending colon are no good. You wouldn’t want those guys. Similarly, my uterus flaked a few years back so I had to kick it out.

Crazy Uterus

When I’m no longer living, I want to be stripped for parts. I won’t need to pack anything for my trip, and I would hate to think that I’m holding on to something that might make a huge difference for someone else.

A friend of mine lost her husband last week. He was waiting for a liver. He had been waiting a long time for a liver.

The back of my license has been signed and I’ve told everyone who might have to make a tricky decision someday that my organs are up for grabs. My whole body. Whatever.

My promise: I’ll try to stay healthy from now until Go Time. To do that, I’ll be dropping a few lazy habits and picking up a few hearty ones.

The photo below shows my proudest moment from 2016 and it’s bullshit that I can no longer do it. Had I kept practicing, I would probably be able to balance (and maybe spin!) on one finger by now.

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Damnit, let’s all take care of ourselves. Let’s all take care of each other.

Let it fly in the breeze and get caught in the trees!

Let’s see. I’ve been drinking grey lattes: Oat milk, honey, and activated charcoal. (The charcoal has no taste (neither does Cameron Diaz. HA HA HA HA!!!), but it definitely has a job (unlike Cameron Diaz. HA HA HA HA!!!). It traps your toxins like a toxin trapper and suddenly you are much less polluted and much more polished. I might be talking about your colon.) Magic absolutely exists.

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I finished reading How to Change Your Mind, and suddenly the idea of a controlled psychedelic reset really appeals to me. To be kept safe while jumpstarting creativity and emotions and LIFE sounds so refreshing. (Admittedly, I’m in a bit of a rut right now and the typical “buy a new notebook and re-ink a pen!” scheme hasn’t kicked me into gear. I need something that isn’t some thing.)

Also, I occasionally need Delhi’s Chaat, which is the technical term for Indian Nachos: Wheat tortilla shells topped with boiled potatoes, chickpeas (regular and black), onion, tamarind sauce, mint chutney, yogurt, sev, and chaat masala. Dear Lord. Today I needed Delhi’s Chaat.

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That photo was taken less than six hours ago. It is a photo of my lunch. (I do what I can to make you (and me) happy.) Tempe and I skipped out for nachos and then dipped into St. Louis Art Supply to check out their pens and inks. (Go there. It’s such a happy place.)

I saw a commercial last night that showed a woman shaving her arms. Meredith assures me that women now shave their arms and that the commercial was NOT a joke. Great. I’ve just been walking around like a damn gorilla for the past 49 years.

By the way, I started growing out my head hair at approximately 11:07am on March 5th because I really liked when this was going on back in 2016.

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Get your mind off of the Mueller Report and onto my hair. (Disclosure: I do have the right to assert privilege over certain parts of my hair.)

Lose It! just might have a crush on Goodreads.

Several months ago
My doctor: You should drop some weight. The Lose It! app can give you insight into your habits.

Me: I love Lose It! I lost 20 pounds with Lose It! a few years back.

Several months later, but more specifically, this morning
Lose It!: Tink, tink, tink! Hey! I’ve been thinking about you and all of the foods you love, so look what I made for you!

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Me: Wait. That can’t be right.

Lose It!: Mokokoma Mokhonoana once said, “While facts do kill ignorance, ignoring facts does not kill them.”

Me: Okay.

Lose It!: Edith Wharton once said, “Genius is of small use to a woman who does not know how to do her hair!”

Me: What?

Lose It!: Heather O’Neill once said that you are often only an ethical question away from being a prostitute. She also said that if we all knew that we were all perverts, we might all be a lot happier.

Lose It!: Madame Bovary wanted to die, but she also wanted to live in Paris.

Lose It: You loved it when the guy in the Family Fang said, “Right now, right this very minute, I’m sitting on my childhood bed, drinking Percocet-laced orange soda out of a straw that I’m holding in the gap where my tooth used to be, before it got shattered by a potato.”

Lithium can treat major depressive disorder.

I went to one of those UPS grocery store mailing spots a few days back, and although working at a UPS grocery store mailing spot *might* really suck, I think the business hours plus the proximity to corn bread could potentially turn that suck into dreamy.

Two people were in line ahead of me, and both of them (not surprisingly) were mailing packages.

UPS Guy: Can you give me a brief description of what’s in the box?
Guy in a Misfits shirt: A present.
UPS Guy: Okay, can you be more specific?
Guy in a Misfits shirt: It’s a gift I’m sending to my friend.

Me (to myself): This is fantastic.

When Misfits Guy was squared away, it was Orange Shirt Grandma’s turn.

UPS Guy: Can you give me a brief description of what’s in the box?
The OSG: Just junk.
Me (to myself): YES!
UPS Guy: Okay, can you be more specific?
The OSG: It’s just a box of funny stuff to make her laugh.

It’s just a box of funny stuff to make her laugh. And the UPS guy let it pass without knowing if “she” thinks fragile, liquid, perishable, or potentially hazardous things, including lithium batteries and perfume are hilarious!

And then it was my turn.

UPS Guy: Can you give me a brief description of what’s in the box?
Me: Shoes.

Clearly, I have some work to do.

Unintentional F Words and Cookies

Our winter drumline competed in Indianapolis over the weekend and Jeff and I couldn’t make it, so we grabbed a quick subscription to FloMarching to watch the competition live.

Watching the competition from the couch didn’t even come close to seeing it from Franklin Central High School, but if I HAD gone to Indianapolis, I wouldn’t have seen this.

This is Matrix Open from Ohio. They were very good. (Most of the groups we saw were very good. Go get yourself to an indoor percussion competition.) Anyway, do you see those U mirror props? I was so jazzed at the thought of those mirrors being rolled and centered between the F and the C at Franklin Central. Alas. They did not move. UNTIL THEY DID.

It was brief, but it was SO thrilling. For me. Only for me. I squealed and jumped up from the couch because I’m ridiculous, and it made up for not being there by about 23%.

Have you guys been following the news about the rich folks who are paying people to take the ACT and SAT for their kids to get them into pricey colleges? I lived through that game 30 years ago when a mom strong-armed me into taking the ACT for her kid so she could get into the College of Education at our university. In other words, what I’m living right now may be predicting the superstar games of 2050.

In the year 2050, Felicity Huffman will be reading a book about psychedelic drugs and saving a neighbor’s dog, for which she will be paid in Girl Scout Cookies.

(I helped my down-the-street neighbor’s muddy limpy dog get back home on Sunday morning. The fence had blown down and Snoopy had escaped. Two hours later? That neighbor showed up with two boxes of Girl Scout Cookies and I think to myself What A Wonderful World.)

Kidneys. Gallbladder. Colon.

Sometimes you run into someone you haven’t seen in a while and you ask them what’s new and they say something like, “Not a whole lot, except I had a hysterectomy a few months back, and oh wait! Someone gave me a kidney!”

On the outside, they don’t look much different. But their innards? Things have gone and things have shown up in there and you just have to take your friend’s word for it because you’ll probably never gain entry to check things out for yourself.

Last week my website was hosted by one company, and now it’s hosted by someone else and the uterus and tubes and ovaries might be gone, but oh, this bright and shiny kidney is filtering my blood like a blood filterer should filter!

Good stuff. BUT, please know that complications are to be expected. Like, unwelcome comments about porn and more porn. (As opposed to the WELCOME comments about porn and more porn.) ((I don’t really welcome ANY comments about porn. Or more porn.))

This is what I’ve been eating lately (Chocolate Peanut Butter Cheerios!), and if I don’t stop soon I’m going to need a better gallbladder.

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Ten years ago I showed you my colon, which pretty much negates what I said up there about never gaining entry to your friend’s insides. I would add a link to that post in a way that doesn’t seem harsh and burpy, but right now I can’t! So I’ll just do this instead.

Colon Firth—The Final Innard Entry

Big Things Are Happening

My site may go down for a bit, and I know you may be asking yourself, “What about the Michael Cohen testimony?” To you I say this: I should not be your source of information for such things.

This is the sort of information I provide:
I may be the only person you know who put a battery-operated razor up her nose yesterday.

As the site may or may not be in or out or on or not, I just want you to remember me like this:

toast

I eat toast in the car sometimes.

Saturday Morning Coffee with Cookie Creamer

I went to the district jazz concert a few nights back, and I once again feel like I’m cool with the kids being in charge. I really love going out and watching kids doing their thing, which sounds a lot creepier than it really is. (I watched Abducted in Plain Sight this week and Holy Jesus, people.) I’ve been feeling myself age out lately, and it’s nice to sit in a big room and nod my head at the youngers.

As you probably know, when I’m in an auditorium full of people, I tend to freak out a little—especially if my back is to the door. (I have medication, and I believe I give out a Mostly Sane vibe, so we’re all good. Don’t look at me.) To soften all the everything, I pull out a tiny notebook and my Ira Glass pen.

I tend to write things in my tiny notebook and then forget to revisit the tiny notebook, so sometimes reading it is sort of like finding five bucks in your coat pocket. (Or in MY coat pocket. I don’t like sticking my hands into your coat pocket. Harper grew a bunch of bacteria for a science fair project last month and I don’t want to stick my hands into anyone else’s anything anymore.) One of my tiny notebook pages says, “…the sight of an older woman licking an ice cream cone in a nail salon” and “How easy it is to hear patio party as polio party, but I imagine those are two horribly dissimilar events.” (No idea on context.)

The final page before my jazz concert page says, “Tarp tape. I blocked props for a guy on crutches and I stopped a guy from taking a video.” (Last week I volunteered to do crowd control at a winter drum line competition. I busted through 7 energy drinks before my job started so I was RAGED UP FOR KICKING PERCUSSIVE ASSES.) ((Really though, I’ve had one energy drink in my life. That was back on July 4th, 2002 during an Aimee Mann show. No asses were kicked that night, but I *did* bump into Jack Black. He was sweaty.))

Jazz concert notes?

-Alto sax timbre makes me think someone behind me is singing.

-AM radio jazz, Love Boat jazz, Bob Newhart jazz

-I Hope in Time a Change Will Come. Important piece written during a tumultuous time of racial injustice. Sounds familiar.

-Snarky Puppy

I’ll leave you with one of my favorite quotes, because we all know that blog entries are not successful unless they contain an image or two.

Grief Bacon

I believe I’m very much susceptible to Kummerspeck.
Evidence: My Lose It! app sent this message to me last week.

NiceWork

Andy Warhol would have loved Studio 154.

This is on my mind right now:
I wanted to start this entry by singing a little song about adults being hateful to kids when those adults have no idea what’s happening in those kids’ hearts and homes, but when I started writing the song, the only line I could come up with was: If you’re going to shake up a kid’s existence, do it in a beautiful way. Don’t be a shitty role model. Don’t be a shitty anything.

This is one of the best things that has ever happened to me:
I pick Meredith up from the high school every afternoon, and from there we drive to the middle school to wait thirty minutes for Harper to come out. When we arrived to the middle school pick-up line yesterday, the car in front of us was sitting with a perpetual right blinker. (I immediately started counting the flashes because that’s what my brain tells me to do.)

Me: That is going to annoy me. I’m not going to be able to do anything but look at it.

Meredith: I’m just wondering how fast it’s going. It’s more than 60 beats per minute.

At this point, Meredith pulled out her phone and turned on the metronome.

Meredith: It’s a little faster than 75. Slower than 80. Okay, wait. Listen. It’s 77 bpm.

So then we both started finding songs that clock in at 154 bpm, and the next half hour fell into my top five favorite half hours. Magic.