I bought a bath mat at Ikea.

Pig thinks this is the greatest thing I've ever done.

He might be right.

I read two new novels titled like self-help books.

They also both share a similar jack hammer like subtlety in terms of their book jacket imagery:

"Are You My Mother" (Alison Bechdel) and "How Should A Person Be?" (Sheila Heti)

I read them both quickly...probably because they were so embarrassing to be seen with on the subway.

I didn't particularly like either one of them--in fact, I pretty much hated, Are You My Mother? Beyond the issues with the book and the therapy happy (ther-happy? yeah, no.) protagonist (and yes, author),  I realized this is mostly because I loved Fun Home more than anything.

I think this is telling and maybe the exact kind of revelation that one could hope for after actually reading a self-help book. So there you go.

A better title for this post might be: I read two new self-help books masquerading as something else.

And I guess they helped. Similarly, I've also been watching Girls.

About once a month I get paid $40 to improvise on morning radio shows around the country.

Usually this takes about ten minutes and involves me staying in my pajamas and waiting for some station host in Tulsa or Phoenix or somewhere to call me, set up the situation, give me a restaurant or locale to plug, and then I improvise an argument with a pretend boyfriend or a guy I went out with once and never called again. But sometimes, like this morning, it's weirder and even more indicative of how stupid everything is.

Today I was playing a young wife, one whose husband just got back from his second tour of Iraq. And things just weren't the same (obviously). He was distracted, he was distant, he just wasn't THERE. And of course, like the dumb little lady we all must secretly be, I was to assume that he was cheating on me. Of course, I said, I talked to my preacher, I talked to my friends, I TRIED to talk to him, but talking is hard. I needed the radio station to help me to know, once and for all: is my man my man or is he just a man that I am married to that uses his manness for someone else, man or woman? ...Well, that's a little deeper than we've ever gone, but hey, that's my motivation.

The station had a little trick up their sleeve to help little old "me" with this burning question. They were going to call my husband, pretend to be a new florist in town offering a promotion to send a dozen roses to ANYONE that he wanted to for free. Now, if he was cheating, wouldn't he send them to his mistress? We all assume.

So we call him up (also an actor, or perhaps, more aptly, someone else in their underwear in Brooklyn), he takes the bait (after a decent performance of, "Huh? What? Is this going to cost me anything? Anyone I want? No hidden costs? Whelp. Okay.") And he decides to send the flowers to...his wife. ME. Aw. Except GUESS WHAT SUCKA!! I'm on the other line! This is a 90s style party line prank and you're the butt of it!

Except, he's not...I am.

After taking the time to thank all the men and women who fight for our freedom (I assume they mean the real ones, not just the pretend ones they have on the line), the radio DJs turn it all on me. What's wrong with me that I don't trust my man? What's wrong with me that I can't understand all that he's been through, all that he's done in the name of me, my country, and my freedom? Am I selfish? Naive? Just plain dumb? Because I'm good at my job (or I realize that my job is only good if I keep it short and sweet and minimize the amount of time I have to "work" for my $40) I apologize (not for needing to call a radio station to figure out my marital problems in the first place), but for not trusting him, for not giving him the space he needs to re-navigate the world of mini-vans, church groups, and new florists with wildly generous promotions...I say I love him, that I love the radio station for helping me to see that trust (never mind the essence of the prank) is really the key to any relationship. "Do I get the dozen roses anyway? Haha?" I sweetly ask with a subtle southern drawl.

No.

That after all, was part of the ploy to get at the truth. But what is the truth? For the first time, I was compelled to hunt down the radio station on the internet and try and figure out when the segment aired so that I could call in and give my real two cents, push some buttons, stick up for myself, myself! Tell Mr. Part-time PTSD that he's just as responsible to his wife's deep dark insecurities as she is to his deep dark war things and maybe ask if his mistress is allergic to flowers...yeah! What about that scenario?! Huh?! HA! It's not so cut and dry faithful listeners of the southern US! No matter what I said this morning sometimes with an accent and sometimes without one!

But I couldn't find the station.

I watched Michael Heneke's Amour.

Now I'm set on greeting old age with a crime spree. It reminds me of that poem "Warning":
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And then I'll also rob banks
And maybe kill people
Since they won't let me kill myself.

I think that's how it goes.

It inspired me to try for the better part of an hour to try and find a book club for my grandma to join in her small town in Pennsylvania. I bought her Gillian Flynn's "Gone Girl" for Christmas and really like the idea of her and some old lady friends hating on Nick, hating on Amazing Amy, hating on Nick, hating on Amazing Amy, and then hating on the book all together. But I called the library and the librarian said that there are some in town, but she doesn't know anything about them.
"Then how do you know there are them?" I asked.
"Well I've heard some ladies come in saying they need a certain book for their book clubs," she said.
"So they're like private things?" Me.
"Oh yes," She.
"Well maybe you should start one, you know, at the library, so other people who's only friends left are deaf and blind (or dipshits)*Grandma's words* can talk about the books they read?" Me.
"What's your grandma's name?" She.
"Why?" Me.
"I may know her," She.
"You don't," Me.
"I might!" She.
"She has a kindle!!" Me.
The lady hung up.

So I checked out the town's Senior Community Center homepage. January's calendar is filled up with exactly three things happening every day: Computer, Pool, Puzzles. Except on January 23rd, at 11AM, there's some sort of talk with Beth Sawyer of the American Red Cross called "Preparing for a Disaster." I can only hope it involves some sort of craft.

When I'm an old woman I shall wear purple
And pay all my bills with elaborate structures made of pipe cleaners
And tears 
And cat hairs
Until someone pays attention to me.

The movie was highly depressing...mostly because it's still not as depressing as real life end of life is. Why? They had each other...oh, and a super nice house and money for a nurse and a guy to bring up the Evian and fresh flowers and French accents and no TV on the premises. Heneke deserves 100 awards for not including one dramatic push-in with the camera or one dramatic swell of strings to enhance what again, is already the most depressing subject matter in the world. It's dangerous territory. I imagine if there was a wall-to-wall game show soundtrack, everyone in the theater would have turned to the person next to them with a pillow in hand and a determined look on their face that says: end it all right now. right here. i don't care how well the SPF has been working on my under eye area! do it! do it now!

2013: I will get older. I will watch more movies. I will visit my grandma more. I will do the things I say I will.

I bought a nice little leather pencil case.

At first I thought it was a real indulgence, and then I told myself to shut up because it wasn't really leather and was only seven dollars. I tend to quantify everything in terms of the orders of Pad Thai I could get for the cost of something--and unless it's a lunch special in a small town, you can't even get a serving for this price, therefore quantifying the cost as a pittance.

Anyway,  it was back to school time and I enjoyed putting my favorite pens in there and a couple of pencils too. I put my favorite casual, long-shaped lipstick, and even a tampon. Finally I had a place for things like that! Finally something that I always had a youngster that made me feel more like an adult, or at least feign the appearance of an organized, female one! Overall, I felt really together. Overall, I felt really happy.

Within a week I lost it.

I realize this post would really benefit from the inclusion of a photograph of it here. Maybe this is the whole issue. I think this is a case of my love and admiration for a thing only really happening after it is gone. Otherwise, why didn't I take a picture of it anyway? Why do I only have pictures of objects that have since been sold?

Well, that's not totally true. To prove it, here are some pictures of things that I also don't have anymore for a variety of reasons--none of which could be classified as "lost":

I got this for a dollar at the Bins and sold it for 50 on Craigslist--BUT! I still own the horse...even though all of his legs are broken off.

Dolphin Temporary Tattoo. Go figure.

My first cat, Bonnie. She's dead. I do still have my sister who is alive and well.

I gave away Bruce Willis' debut cassette as a joke at a Christmas exchange. This dress is also gone. As is my natural hair color. I still have those earrings though. They are made of beads attached to paper attached to a stud.

And so so so much more. I can only hope that heaven is a lot more like the TV show Hoarders than any religion is comfortable discussing.

I Stole One Story Element From Each of the MFA 1st Years and Wrote the Worst Movie Pitch Ever.

______________
The year? 2041.

A demure, tabloid-writing WOLF with a penchant for romance discovers that two big time USC recruiters are going to be at this week's big high school football game. Putting aside the angst he feels about his parents pending divorce, Wolf, decides to taint the local dairy's milk so he can then break the story first! However, MONICA, an esteemed, and highly attractive archeologist turned special agent, along side her effeminate, porker of a brother, ANDREW, who have just been hired at the dairy's super-secret-so-secret-I-don't-even-know-how-I'm-writing-this-right-now-it's-so-secret organization, FIND OUT.

In a mad dash to stop Wolf, save the milk, AND the big game, Monica and Andrew blackmail him with the lone VHS copy of his stage debut... A mix of anger and nostalgia force Wolf to choose between the story of his life (wolves don't live that long) and the last relic of a younger, more idealistic version of himself.  Is Wolf's quest for tabloid-writing glory the ultimate cover-up? Of himself???

Monica and Andrew (whose father had a beloved horse that sort of looked like the wolf), begin to fall for Wolf and vow to help him reclaim his former self and passions. Soon Andrew realizes that this was just displaced affection for their father whose death Andrew wasn't able to mourn until meeting the wolf. He paints his room pink and is fine while the couple rework their "meet cute" story and turn it into a hit Broadway production!

In this wacky Woman vs. Beast football drama, love story, no inciting incident is too big and no midpoint too middle-ish to take this trio on a wild ride through time, milk, and the 40 yard line.
________________
I wouldn't watch it. Maybe it's actually a good thing that we all can't hold hands and succeed together. In other news, the year 2041 is trending.

I left a bar and ran home.

I remembered that I had two episodes of Breaking Bad left as well as whitefish salad in the fridge.