Whipped Topping

7:30 a.m.

Dear Daylight Savings Time,

I hate you. I wish you would die a horrible death.

Sincerely,

Kara

8:30 a.m.

The weekend was short, so short. Not helped by that bastard of an "energy conservation" method mentioned above. In addition to the normal house cleaning/laundry/playing with the dog, we also:

1. Bought a fish. Named Meatwad.

2. Dyed my hair red. Reddish?

3. Watched Adaptation, Major League 2, Spinal Tap, and enough of Eraserhead to give me horrible nightmares. Mutant babies? Whimpering mutant babies with long garden-hose-like necks? Whimpering hose-necked mutant babies who are wrapped tightly in bandages for a whole movie, only to have said bandages cut open at the end to reveal that the baby HAS NO SKIN OR CHEST CAVITY, JUST LOOSE ORGANS.

And that baby took a long time to die. Even when Eraserhead stabbed one of the limp organs that was just LYING there on a table in his stupid creepy apartment.

Gross.

4. Um...Ate steak? Watched some Aquateen? Picked up dog crap in the back yard? Battled raging PMS?

I'm done with this list. It's getting too wild.

In other news, I suspect Justin likes Jelly Roll. The cat, not the food. Even though he refers to him exclusively as "the fat one."

12:30 p.m.

I'm ready for this week to be over already. I have made another list.

Things I Could Not Survive the Work Day Without (I have a feeling the grammar is wrong in there, somewhere, but don't really care)

1. My African violet. The only way I can keep it alive is to station it next to my phone, where I am constantly reminded of its presence (and its water needs). Sometimes I squash the urge to talk to it.

2. Various photos of animals, family members, and a lumberjack.

3. Tea. Specifically, a honey-vanilla-chamomile blend and then something that is made for stress relief. I don't know how it works...it has various ingredients which include peppermint, ginger, licorice, tilia flowers, lemon grass, cinnamon, chamomile, vitamins b6 and b12, and CATNIP. Catnip? Is that weird? But I know something in this tea has the miraculous power of killing my tension headaches, something even "Excedrin Tension Headache" was unable to do. So I'll keep drinking my catnip.

(I mean, it turns Coltrane into a drunkenly mellow lazy slob. And she's reeeeeally uptight. I've SEEN her eyes after a roll in the nip. Count. Me. In.)

4. The Royals travel mug. I only bring it to work on days it's particularly hard to, well, get to work. It usually cheers me up. (Especially if it contains a catnip mixture, apparently.)

Dying my hair red made me think about a coat I used to have.

It was a point in my college life in which I had a small degree of control, a point before weight-gain/weight loss or stretch marks, after getting out of a particularly bad relationship, a break between antidepressant runs. Eye of a storm that lasted a few beautiful months. At that point my hair was red and brown, with messy blonde highlights. I had a dark red vinyl coat that matched the color of my red hair exactly, trimmed in a red muppet-like fur that fluffed wildly around my neck and jaw. I also had silver lipstick and a pair of pinkish aviator sunglasses. I'd waltz around campus in my red coat and lipstick and tall sandals, plugged into my discman, listening to Simon and Garfunkel or Badly Drawn Boy, and wearing my favorite low-slung jeans to death.

I particularly liked walking clackingly over the cobblestone street the office building was on, and listening to the line from the song that went, "Kickin' down the cobblestone..." I liked feeling my bag slap against my hip, I liked pretending whatever I was listening to was some sort of soundtrack to my day, my life. That as I walked, I was the opening sequence to some funny/dramatic/cleverly shot movie.

I liked pretending that walking down a cobblestone street mattered, somehow, in some bigger scheme.

I doubt it did.

That was when I worked as a personal assistant to a disabled man. I typed for him, helped him blow his nose occasionally, carried things for him, answered the phone. He'd zoom around town in his wheelchair, and I'd struggle to keep up, as I am a chronic slow-walker. He loved bagels but often was feebly attempting to stick to the Atkins. He bought the book from Barnes and Noble about it. It was the first time I'd heard of it.

It sounded fairly terrible.

Frequently he'd just send me downtown or over to Osama's for coffee. He kept a bag strapped to the back of his chair. I'd pull out his wallet, dig around for a few dollars and shove them in my back pocket. He'd always urge me to get one for myself, although I felt funny spending his money.

If I REALLY wanted a coffee, I'd only let him buy me a small of the darkest roast they had. Black.

Or I'd pay for it myself and lie that it was cheaper than he had expected.

The guys working at my favorite coffee shop were brusque, but when I came in they'd grin and call out, "Here comes the movie star! What's it gonna be today?"

My boss was elderly, a former lawyer who had been quadriplegic for about 20 years. Once he looked at me and said, "Why weren't you this age in the 60's? It would have been perfect, it's where you belong." Another time he said, "You're so laid back all the time. You don't care what I ask you to do, you just do it. Are you messed up on pot? You can tell me."

But I wasn't.

That was a good coat.

He was a nice man.

Red hair, but now I wear a pink peacoat or a pink boucle jacket. And I don't drink coffee, I drink tea and bottled water. And I rarely wear lipstick, although I am addicted to Burt's Bees lipgloss.

The eye passed, the storm rolled away. Etc. Etc.

I still have an affinity for tall heels and worn-in blue jeans.

8:09 p.m.

Lately I have realized I also have an affinity for low-fat Albertson's whipped cream. "Whipped topping." And for the word "affinity."

Seriously.

SO. GOOD.

Love,
black sheep