jamelah.net

(Note: This is a continuation of this.)

Dear My Future Husband,

Earlier today while I was standing on my head, I did some thinking. What? I stand on my head a lot. Several times a day, actually. It’s good for the… I don’t know. But it’s fun. Which is the point. Anyway, I was standing on my head, thinking about things, as I am wont to do, and I thought that it had been awhile since I’d last written you a little note about the awesomeness that’s in store for you, so I thought I would get to that now. Aren’t you excited? Me too! Okay.

1. I cannot sit still.
Is ADD still trendy? Like where everyone says “I’m so ADD right now! Tee hee!” Or is it still trendy to hate on ADD where one must scoff and say it’s fake? I can’t keep up. All I know is that I was diagnosed with a complete lack of an attention span when I was a teenager. I was diagnosed by a doctor who wore socks with Birkenstocks and blazers with those leather elbow patches. He had a ponytail. And drove a Lexus. Anyway, Dr. Socks-and-Sandals was right, because dude, I have no attention span. I do not take medication. I have learned to cope with my lack of attention span over the years and have figured out ways to deal with the fact that I’m always entertaining about 100 different thoughts at once, but I’m still really scattered and oh yes, what was I going to tell you? Right. I can’t sit still. I mean, I can, but not for very long. Over the course of this paragraph, I have gotten up and walked around three separate times. I can sit through an entire movie in a theater, but I have to shift in my seat every few minutes. I fidget a lot. I’m not really nervous, it’s just that I always have to be doing something. Anyway, please be patient with me. I mean well, but I’m very easily distracted and I need to be reminded of things a lot, often while I’m in the middle of them. Sort of like, oh? I was cleaning the kitchen? Is that why I’m taking photos of knives in the bathtub again? Do you smell something burning?

2. We will always be late.
Is punctuality really important to you? Gosh, I’m so sorry. I try, I really do. It’s just that I always run out of time and then I’m supposed to be somewhere but I’m shaving my legs in the bathroom sink and yelling “HAVE YOU SEEN MY RED NECKLACE NO NOT THAT ONE THE OTHER ONE! NO THE OTHER ONE!!! I THINK I JUST AMPUTATED MY LEG HELP ME OH GOD THE BLOOD!!!!!!!!!!!” And then I have to stop the bleeding and iron a shirt and put on mascara and still I’m only like, 10 minutes late, so that’s not too terrible, is it?

3. I wake up in the middle of the night with brilliant ideas.
Not every night, but I often wake up with brilliant ideas. Provided, of course, that we have a very limited definition of the word “brilliant.” I promise not to wake you up with those ideas, though I may stare at you until you wake up on your own so I can tell you about them. Sort of like this:

Me: Stare stare stare.
You: Sleep sleep sleep.
Me: Stare stare.
You: Stop staring at me.
Me: Oh! Are you AWAKE!?!? Because guess what?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?! I just had an idea!!!!!
You: …
Me: …
You: …!
Me: It’s okay. I’m sure I’ll still remember it in the morning. It’s BRILLIANT.
You: Sleep sleep sleep.
Me: Stare stare.
You: Sleep.
Me: Sigh.

But I am forgetful. I never remember my ideas in the morning.

4. I have a lot of clothes.
A lot. I also have a lot of hats, purses and shoes. I keep hoping that I will get better about not leaving my shoes wherever I kick them off but I am starting to think that maybe I won’t. This can be a problem, especially when walking across a room in the dark. I know all about it. How many times have I nearly fallen to my death because I tripped over a shoe? I lost count years ago. I’ve been berated about it a thousand times and I am always very very sorry, but it just keeps happening. I’m terrible, I know. In some of my more horrible, self-centered daydreams, I fantasize about converting a spare bedroom into a closet. Wouldn’t that be cool? I mean yes, I would still kick my shoes off in the middle of the living room floor when I come home, but I would finally have a place to store all my sweaters! I don’t really know what this has to do with you, other than I hope you’re good at obstacle courses!

5. Now we know why I’m still single.
Um, yeah. But I have a really cool dog. So there’s that.

XOXO,
Jamelah

Dear Hypothetical Potential Future Boyfriend,

I’m not a bad person. Sure, I have my hangups and baggage like everyone else, and I make my fair share of mistakes, and then I often spend a lot of time feeling guilty about my mistakes like I’m not allowed to make any, but overall, I’m pretty decent. I try my hardest not to hurt other people (occasionally to my own detriment, which is something I’m working on not doing anymore) and I’m really good at baking. So I’m okay as far as people go. You could do worse, is all I’m saying.

Tonight I had to dump someone I wasn’t even dating. It’s a long story that manages to be both frustrating and stupid, but frustrating and stupid seems to be my relationship MO so I shouldn’t be surprised. I feel like an asshole because this had to happen via text message, but current geographical distance coupled with the fact that homeboy doesn’t seem to enjoy talking to me on the phone made it inevitable. I really thought dumping someone via voicemail (another horrible inevitability from my past chronicles of shame) was the worst, but the text message wins. I know this. You don’t have to berate me.

So, Hypothetical Potential Future Boyfriend, listen up. Or read up, rather, and read well. I’m going to make a very important request. Could you not be a totally horrible weirdo? And I don’t mean starting out not being a totally horrible weirdo before getting comfortable and revealing your horrible weirdo self? (Insert evil giraffe laugh here.) Granted, not everyone has been a totally horrible weirdo, but I think I’ve really had more than my fair share of weirdos (as those who know me well say, I am an amazing crazy magnet), and it is exhausting. I prefer not being exhausted, so if you could make an effort, that would be great. If you do that, I will work on not being emotionally distant and I will also try not to dump you via any method offered by the wonders of cellular telephony.

Also if you could not pick your nose and then touch me, I think I might love you. Seriously, don’t do that. It is completely vile on at least 150,516 different levels.

That’s it for now, Hypothetical Potential Future Boyfriend. Despite my history, and because I am a hope junkie, I have hope that you won’t be insane or mean or verbally and/or emotionally abusive or creepy or a total stalker, so please don’t let me down. Thanks.

Love,
Jamelah

Okay, I lied. Let’s not. That’s an entirely horrible idea.

Anyway, I was reading this post yesterday, and then I said I kept thinking of things and was going to have to write a post about it. You know, because why come up with my own ideas when I can just take other people’s? Exactly. Of course, when it comes to dating, I am also picky and lazy, which is a nearly lethal combination (I hold out hope that it’s not entirely lethal), and then I tell myself I need to stop being so picky, which often manifests itself as “Okay, whatever I think is a good idea, I’ll just do the opposite.”* Oh, the hilariously disastrous results.

Anyway, in reading the above-linked post, I was distressed to find out that despite what they may think, dudes are actually looking to date other dudes. I’ve always thought that part of my charm is that I am not a dude. (But I can belch really loud. And I’m really good at putting together flat-pack furniture. Just so you know, I guess.) Alas. Even so, despite my non-dudeness, I figure it’s not all entirely futile. So, excluding important things like, “Is literate” and “Is not a serial killer,” and the no-brainers, like “Is funny” and “Does not have facial hair resembling that of a member of ZZ Top,” I present to you my list of tiny things that could potentially seal the deal. I am looking for** someone who:

– As I always say: can kill bugs, can find my missing shoes.
– Makes a good cup of coffee.
– Likes dogs (actually, not liking dogs is a total dealbreaker).
– Does not need to fill every moment with talking.
– Enjoys a good, occasionally incredibly elaborate prank now and then.
– Can handle the delightful weirdness that is my family.
– Dsnt wrt txt msgs lk ths.
– Also doesn’t use LOL in a non-ironic way.
– Smells good.
– Has nice teeth.
– Can put up with my inexplicable Timberlake fascination.
– Doesn’t dress like a douchebag (neckties with t-shirts, wifebeaters, tracksuits, gold necklaces lovingly nestled in tufts of chest hair, and speaking of hair, doesn’t have a soulpatch, which is, hands down, the douchebaggiest form of facial hair in existence).
– Cares about the world around him. Volunteering isn’t a foreign concept.
– Has a sense of curiosity. Likes learning and trying new things.
– Has a sense of wonder. Doesn’t have to explain everything.
– Okay, I said “Is funny” was a no-brainer, but I mean it. Can make me laugh until I think I’ll barf.

Is that an impossible list guaranteeing that I will die alone?

*Just like George Costanza.
**Looking, in my completely lazy, not actually looking sort of way.

Hi. Did you think my blog died? Well it didn’t. It was just taking a nap while I was busy with some other things. Because you know what? There are a lot of other things going on right now, none of which are actually interesting enough to write about here, but they’re still keeping me from the truly important things in life, such as blogging about my boobs.

Speaking of my boobs, which I wasn’t, though I did just type the phrase “my boobs” which seems to be enough, yesterday I was having lunch with my grandma. Is this the Jamelah’s Grandma blog? Maybe. Anyway, we were having lunch, and I was wearing a white button-down shirt, which wouldn’t bear mentioning, except I guess it’s kinda see-through, because at one point during the meal, my grandma asked me, “Are those flowers on your shirt or your bra?”

Even though I knew that there were no flowers on my shirt, I still pulled my shirt away from my chest and took a gander at my boobs. I’m smart like that sometimes. “It’s the lace on my bra… and why are you looking at my breasts?”

No answer.

“You’re still staring at them.”

And then my grandma started talking about bras and her boobs, and I will spare you.

Anyway, there’s that story.

In other news, I guess my brief whatever with Mall Boy is now over, or something. I’m actually a little bit unclear on matters, which is always a good place to be, right? Yeah. See, he was in Michigan for work, but he’s not working here anymore, so he’s back in New York, which is where he lives. We’re still talking, because it’s not like we have any reason to hate each other, which is nice, and… yeah. On one hand, I don’t know that I really want anything else, because it was kind of perfect as it was, and I’m not sure if messing with something that was kind of perfect is a good idea. But on the other hand, he uses vowels in text messages now, and that shows real improvement. So I’m torn.

And there’s that story.

In other other news, when I woke up this morning, I couldn’t turn my head to the left. Now I can turn my head to the left, if I do so very very carefully. Progress! I just hope that if something startles me, it doesn’t startle me from the left.

I have to fold some laundry now and think about why I can’t ever like local boys. And not make any sudden movements. Should be fun.

So. Yesterday morning while I was on my way to work, Mall Boy (whose name also starts with a J — what are the odds, people?) sent me a text message asking if I was free in the evening and I sent a message in reply saying that indeed I was, and we determined that we would meet after I got out of work and then there was a blizzard, because sometimes the weather is a bastard whore that way. And then I did some work. Then I had lunch with my friend Missy, who I have lunch with every Friday, and we talked about very important things like what I was going to wear and whether or not my legs are indeed fantastic (she voted “Yes” and I voted “Really?”) and I made her listen to this message he’d left on my phone and she said “He sounds so nervous! It’s so cute!” and I said “I know! God!” and then we parted ways so I could go back to work. I did some more work. Then I came home and changed clothes and my dog got mad at me because she wanted to go play in the snow and I had to say “Dude, I’m leaving. Sorry.” And then I headed out into the blizzard.

I hate driving in blizzards. Just so you know.

Anyway, I was late, because of aforementioned blizzard and hazardous road conditions, and driving in bad weather stresses me out, but I got there fine and didn’t end up in a ditch or anything, which is always nice. I have ended up in ditches before. It is not fun. In fact, there was one winter I ended up in so many ditches I kept wondering why I didn’t start carrying a shovel with me, though not carrying a shovel meant that I got to stand pathetically by the side of the road until some guy who had a shovel would take pity on me, stop, and dig out my car. And sometimes it is entertaining to be a damsel in distress. Yeah. But I digress.

We went to dinner, and the restaurant was crowded so we ended up sitting at the bar. This was fine because I sort of like sitting at bars because of the whole bar camaraderie thing. We talked, and there weren’t any awkward pauses in the conversation, which is something of a small miracle, because I’m like Queen of the Awkward Pause, and it was comfortable and friendly and bantery and he was interesting, which interested me, and he seemed interested in what I had to say, which was good, because I’ve dated people who always just seem to be waiting for their turn to talk and only seem to need me around to listen to their stories, which I hate. Hate! And I was so glad I didn’t have to hate him. He talked about growing up in Israel and I talked about growing up in Michigan and he understood my convoluted family situation without me having to explain Middle Eastern cultural mores to him, which was really impressive because I think that marks a first. Ever. In my entire life. And he speaks, like, five languages. And I never said anything horrible and inappropriate while my brain’s guard was down, and I never tripped over anything or spilled anything or dropped anything or went into the bathroom only to discover that I inexplicably had guacamole in my hair when I didn’t even have anything to eat that involved guacamole (these things happen sometimes).

In short, it was the easiest first date I’ve ever been on in my entire life.

So anyway, he is smart and funny (despite the fact that we disagree about the inherent comedy in the word “pants” — back me up: “pants” is just a funny word) and charming what with the taking my arm while we walked and helping me on my with my coat bits (how cute is that? seriously) and I like him.

This obviously means I am trying very hard to figure out what is horribly wrong with him.

He called me and left a message. So I called him and left a message. I should not be allowed to leave messages because I say things like “Hi! This is Jamelah! I’m returning your call! Ummmm…… yeah.” And then there is a long pause where I try to think of something clever to say that is also not wildly inappropriate, and fail, and say “So you can call me back, and we can… chat? Okay. Uh, I guess that’s all. Um, okay, bye.”

Anyway, I will keep you posted on this highly important situation as it develops.

Update: As it turns out, I apparently left that weird voicemail on someone else’s phone, because I am an idiot and wrote his number down wrong when I was listening to his message. So I decided I should check again, just to be sure, and realized the error of my ways. I called the right number this time, and actually talked to him, though I did not point out that I am an idiot who wrote his number down wrong and left an awkward voicemail for someone else. Because, you know, there are some things that just aren’t worth mentioning, unless I’m mentioning them on the internet to an audience of, oh, dozens. So anyway, had I not called the wrong number earlier, we probably would’ve gotten together today, but because I did call the wrong number earlier and only discovered the right number hours later, he is now getting ready to leave town and we are not getting together today. It’s a shame. My hair looks really good. So, what lesson can we learn from all of this? Well, it’s really very simple. The lesson we can learn is that when you flip open your phone and it says, “You missed a call from ***-***-****. Call or Dismiss” don’t think you’re so smart and write the number down and call later. No, just call. Right then. Let the phone do the automatic dialing for you. It’s an unfeeling machine and doesn’t get middle-school-girl excited about things and write down incorrect numbers, thereby causing you to a) leave awkwardly-worded messages for those whom the awkwardly-worded messages are not intended, and b) not have dates when you could’ve had dates on days when your hair looks really good. Take it from me. I know from experience.

Hi. I thought I was taking a break until after Christmas, not for any real reason other than I haven’t felt like writing anything, which, now that I think of it, is a real reason. But as it happens, I am wide awake with nothing better to do and I figured I might as well type for awhile, so here we go.

I’ve sort of been in denial about Christmas this year, not because I have bad feelings about it or anything like that, but it just seems like it can’t be happening so soon. Plus, I’ve had a busy month and I haven’t really thought about it. What this means is that I haven’t done anything even remotely seasonal, unless you count putting reindeer antlers on my dog’s head and making her pose for pictures so I could use one for my site banner. She got treats for it. It was fine. So anyway, I haven’t sent out cards and I didn’t make up packages of cookies and things to send to people and I didn’t actually start Christmas shopping before last night. Oh my God, how much do I hate Christmas shopping right before Christmas? So very much. I finished it all up today (I am a very efficient shopper — ha, that is totally not true) and it’s all wrapped and la de da, and I had an interesting experience today, which I guess I’ll write about, since I’m here and writing and all.

So. Earlier today I was in the mall (have I mentioned how much I hate the mall?) and I was walking toward a store, as one does when one is in the mall, and out of nowhere this guy appeared and asked if he could talk to me for a minute. I was so completely caught off guard that before I even really knew what was happening, I was telling him my name and he was switching over into Arabic and I was answering back (awkwardly, because I have the conversational skills of a two-year-old in that language) and then we switched back to English and it was much better, and were talking about work and our families and where we were from and he was funny and I was funny back and I didn’t mumble or blush or stare at my feet, and it was the most weirdly natural conversation I’ve ever had with a complete stranger in my entire life. It was kind of like I was hypnotized or something, because — and if you know me in person, you know this about me — I’m not generally the most immediately forthcoming of people. And it was strange, because while all of this was going on, there was this part of me that was somehow kind of standing off to the side observing the whole thing and thinking “Wait — what? Are you kidding? These things don’t happen to you. How have you managed not to fall down yet?” And then he asked me for my phone number and I gave it to him. What? I KNOW! I don’t just go around giving my phone number to people I’ve only known for five minutes, but I guess I was spellbound by his cuteness or something. He asked if it was really okay if he called me and I said yes and he took my hand for a second and I suddenly felt like my blood was carbonated and then I had to go because the reason why I was in the mall was for shopping and not for being picked up by completely random guys. So I walked off in a daze and then when I got far enough away, I shook my head a little bit and asked myself what the hell had just happened, and to be honest, hours later, I still have no idea.

I don’t normally go for such smoothness, and I usually think that if I immediately like a guy, that means there has to be something horribly wrong with him, which, well, seriously, that last bit is just common sense at this point, but I did spend a large chunk of the afternoon texting my friend Missy about very important things, like how cute he was exactly and if he’s actually going to call me. He hasn’t, and I’m not going to hold my breath (I generally find holding my breath to be a bad idea, unless I’m underwater or I have the hiccups or something), and if he doesn’t, I’m not going to be heartbroken or anything, because the moral of this story is that heee, that was fun.

The end.

Dear Boy Who Is So Cute,

I just want you to know that even though I have a tendency of mumbling and not making eye contact whenever I am in your presence (though fortunately that one day when we met on the front steps of The Building Where I Work I managed not to fall backwards down the stairs even though I really thought I was going to, twice, even — sometimes I’m lucky) it is not because I don’t like you. On the contrary, I like you so much. I mean, I think I do. We haven’t really ever had a real conversation because you are so cute that it makes me nervous and I can’t ever say anything other than “Oh hi! How are you?” And then you say “Fine. How are you?” And I say “Fine. How are you?” (And in my head I am saying “Dammit! You are stuck in the How Are You Loop. Stop it!” But I don’t stop it, because I am an idiot, and then you stand there thinking I’m an idiot, don’t you? It’s okay, I kind of am. But it’s your fault, because you are so cute and all. Because normally, I am not an idiot. I mean, most of the time, I am not an idiot. Some of the time. Definitely some of the time I am not an idiot. It’s just that I am a bit of a magnet for the ridiculous, and also because I have a tendency of tripping over things and also of dropping things down my shirt, which I do not do on purpose, but it just happens sometimes, and then there I’ll be, changing clothes after work, wondering how the hell I got a paperclip in my bra, but that’s pretty funny, right? I know. I’m hilarious.)

So anyway, Boy Who Is So Cute, here is what I think needs to happen. The next time you see me suddenly checking to see if my hair is sticking out crazily from my head even though I can’t tell because it’s not like I am ever near a mirror, and then pretending like I was not just checking to see if my hair is sticking out crazily from my head, and then suddenly fidgeting with anything I have handy to fidget with — the buttons on my coat, the papers on my desk, my keys, a binder clip, whatever — I am doing that because you are so cute and I am so nervous so you need to, I don’t know, take pity on me. How? Well, the only solution I can come up with is that you make out with me right then. It will make everything better, I promise. I won’t be able to say anything crazy and/or dumb because I will be too busy making out. So, you see, it’s really kind of perfect.

Please consider it. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.

Sincerely,
Jamelah

P.S. Please don’t be a terrible kisser. I have had to deal with more than my fair share of these, and I am totally ready to try something new. Thanks.

P.P.S. Did you hear me telling my boss that you are so cute? Because if you did, um, god I am so awkward.

Tonight my grandma said to me, “Be sure you get you a husband.”

I guess I am going to have to hold auditions.

(Yes, this is all I have for you. It’s been a very very long day.)

Note: If you read Peter’s blog, then you know that he has been writing some letters to his future wife (here and here, to be specific), and I asked him if I could steal the idea and he said yes, which I guess means I am not really stealing it, but whatever. Technicalities. The results of my not-really idea theft are below, officially kicking off the beginning of this National Blog Posting Month business. Cheers.

Dear My Future Husband,

The fact that I am even writing this letter to you shows that there is some part of me, no matter how small it may be, that actually believes you exist. Right away we know that this is impressive, because I am a bit of a skeptic. Anyway, I thought what I’d do for you today is tell you some of the things that are in store for you, so you can be prepared for the neverending festival of delight that is life with me. Aren’t you excited? Me too. Okay.

1. You are going to have to smell things.
Maybe that sounds wrong. What I mean is that I am absolutely incapable of telling whether or not things have gone bad. And by things, I mean milk. I just don’t trust it, but it’s so good on cereal, and sometimes necessary for baking and other forms of cooking. So we’re constantly going to have to have this conversation:

Me: Hey, can you smell this milk and tell me if it’s okay?
You: What’s the expiration date?
Me: Next week, but I don’t trust it.
You: Why?
Me: Because I bought it a long time ago and I just don’t believe that it could still be good. Just smell it.
You: (smelling milk) This is fine.
Me: Are you sure?
You: Yes. You asked me to smell it, I smelled it, and it’s fine.
Me: Well, just taste it. Here, I’ll pour some in a cup.
You: Jamelah.
Me: Please?
You: (tasting milk) It’s fine.
Me: Are you sure?
You: …
Me: …
You: …!!!!
Me: Okay, thank you.

So, just be okay with that now. Because I’m not kidding — that’s going to happen all the time.

2. You are going to have to be a serial killer of insects and spiders.
No negotiating. I want those things dead. I tend to find them and then run away, and then sometimes as a bonus I run around in circles like I’m a cartoon character. You just need to know what that means and then go take care of the problem, because I am such a pansy little girl about these things.

3. You have to be okay with the fact that I sometimes yell at the television.
If I’m watching something, and people are being stupid bitches, I will yell intelligent, insightful things like “Oh my God, you stupid bitches!” right at the television. It’s like I have TV-watching Tourette’s. Or if The World Series of Pop Culture (which I could totally win, by the way) is on, I will yell out the answers. Or if I’m watching Food Network (which I will do for hours and hours, so brace yourself now) and I see Sandra Lee, I will yell how much I hate her. I’m sorry in advance. Also, if Homicide is ever on, we have to watch that, and if we are watching that, no talking is allowed. I’m not kidding. I worship that show.

4. I really really love Justin Timberlake.
I don’t think he’s hot or anything, and I don’t really get it, but what can I say? It’s complicated. I just thought you should know.

5. Silence is very important to me.
I like having people around, and I like having conversations and everything. Really, I do. But it is important to me to have some quiet time alone every day, or I will start going crazy. It doesn’t have to be a long time, and it doesn’t have anything to do with you or how I feel about you or anything, but I just need to be left alone sometimes.

6. I’m probably going to kick you a lot at night.
What do they say? No rest for the wicked? Well, that’s what you get. Ha ha. But seriously, awake or no, I can’t be still very long. My apologies.

7. I don’t like washing dishes, so I’m going to be honest right now: you’re going to have to handle that.
We can eat off of paper plates for all I care. I’m not fancy. So in the dish department, do what you want. Seriously. It’s all yours. In exchange, I will iron your shirts. I like ironing, for one thing, and for another thing, I cannot stand wrinkled shirts. Plus, you look so cute in that crisp button-down. Mmm. Also, we’re probably going to have to talk about some of the shirts you deem acceptable for wearing in public, but we can get to that later. And please don’t wear white socks with black pants and black shoes. And if we’re going out, you have to wear real shoes. Chucks do not count as real shoes. You also have to take off the baseball cap and comb your hair. Didn’t I say we were going to talk about this later? I’ll stop now.

8. I do these art-type things, which often leads to weird behavior.
I like setting up photographs, and so you’ll probably find things like fruit and knives in the bathroom on a pretty regular basis. Whatever you do, don’t touch these things. I often like to set things up and then leave them for awhile so I can think about them. I’ll clean up when I’m done, I promise. I will also disappear places with the camera a lot. When I’m writing (yes, even blog posts, yes, I’m doing this now), I talk to myself and wave my hands a lot. I already know this makes me look crazy. Just ignore me. I’ll probably make you feel yarn a lot just because I can’t believe how soft it is and need confirmation that it is indeed that soft. I will make you look at the jewelry I make a lot. You don’t have to have an opinion about it, but you do have to look at it.

9. Don’t even joke about using my toothbrush.
I don’t care how many germs we share, the toothbrush is entirely off-limits. Also don’t use my shampoo. Yes, all 15 varieties of lotion I have are essential, thank you. And I really do need all that lip gloss. I need all those earrings. And yes, all those shoes are black, but they’re different.

10. You are going to have to find things.
I can’t find anything. You could staple something to my head and I’d still ask where it was. I can’t find my keys, I can’t find my watch, I can’t find my other shoe (why am I always missing just the one shoe?), I can’t find my moonstone earrings — no, the moonstone ones, no… moonstone! — I can’t find my purse, I can’t find my phone, I can’t can’t find the scarf that goes with the coat I want to wear, I can’t find my book of Adrienne Rich poems and I need to look something up right now, I can’t find the scissors, I can’t find my hairbrush, I can’t find my sweater, I can’t find the extension cord and I’m going to be late, and I’m frustrated, and I think I’m going to get all crymad. Please help me.

Hope that’s all okay. You’re swell.

Love,
Jamelah