It’s one of those days.

You know, the kind when you’re absolutely positive the cat eats the butter–you saw him doing it the other day, in fact–and yet, you now give in to a kind of laziness-induced-denial as you butter your toast with the exact same butter that you are now telling yourself has probably most definitely not been licked by the cat. And you do this because at least this butter is soft and you hate getting out new butter and how hard it is when you do cause then any attempts to spread it usually rips the toast.

And really, there are so many other and bigger life issues that are knocking on the door of your attention right now, that this case of butter that may or may not have been licked by the cat has been crowded out. And if you happen to succumb to some ill-fated obscure disease that is only contracted through a cat’s saliva, then hey–one less problem to deal with: life.

And you let the mascara go for the day because let’s face it, you’ll be crying before you make yourself your usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch anyway. And really, you hate how tears clump up the mascara and make it look like you have maybe four eyelashes, five if you’re lucky. Might as well just call it a wash and though they appear lighter, your eyelashes at least look plentiful.

But then on the bright side, there is your mom and she’s telling you how much she loves your hair and there’s you, soaking this in like it’s somebody telling you the last three months have been the world’s best and cruelest April Fool’s joke ever. Ha ha ha, good one, now let’s all get our lives back, okay?

But your mom–she’s not greatly liked your hair for a while now. Not as much when it was dark dark dark and certainly not when it was one inch long on a good day. She’s a true hippie, the kind that put flowers in the soldiers’ guns to protest the Vietnam war, and just like she wants everyone to live in peace, she wants every girl to live with long hair. So now that it’s getting there, as in, it no longer looks like a baby chick’s fuzz, she’s giving you all the encouragement that goes with it. And the color she finds outstanding.

And you can’t be entirely positive, but you suspect that moms tell their children to make sure they don’t stare directly at your hair for the same reason you should never stare directly at the sun: blindness is sure to follow. And maybe you should invest in sunglasses to hand out to passerbys, just to avoid any possible allegations against you in the future.

And then there’s your sister. She’s cute and she thinks that you are absolutely medieval with your tampon choice. And yes, I said tampon. Does that word really surprise anyone? I’ve been getting my period for awhile now and though I might not have been so bold about it the summer I turned thirteen and carried toilet paper around in my purse because of the irrational fear that, once I got my period, every public bathroom would spontaneously run out of toilet paper, I’ve grown used to it by now. It doesn’t embarrass me so much anymore. As I told my brother recently after an audition, When you’ve been to hell, the littler things don’t tend to scare you so much.

But just because my tampons are green, not as in the color, but as in friendly to the environment and blends in with the grass and the trees, metaphorically speaking, she says they are old fashioned. I guess they should be plastic and eventually float down Lums Pond or something. Which is a local pond that will forever remain stamped in my memory as really really gross.

Because once when I was a kid we couldn’t swim there since it was polluted. When inquiring what that meant, my parents assured me it meant there was all kinds of things that belonged in a toilet that were now in this pond and dear God, I was grateful to have been spared swimming in that.

For years, I couldn’t even drive past a restaurant in the area called Lums without thinking of pollution and then wondering what kinds of things that belonged in toilets were in that poor restaurant.

Let’s just say it made an impression.

And so it’s a mix, which is how most of these days are. And it’s certainly interesting. Life, I mean. It’s certainly not leaving me sleeping through the story, wondering if anything is ever gonna develop or change or if that old plot will just go on and thicken anyway.

Cause it has.

It’s developed and changed and the plot has gotten so thick that it doesn’t even fit in the place that is usually reserved for plots anymore. I’ve had to go out and get a whole new plot spot, folks, it’s changed that much.

But there you go, it’s just one of those days, I guess.