Sittin' and Thinkin'

I'm what you might call an obsessive over-thinker, and I've taken a lot of flak for it. Believe me. I suppose the real issue is that I rarely spend inordinate amounts of time excessively ruminating on important or likely matters. The stranger and more obscure, the better. And, uh, I tend to like to share my thoughts. Hence, the flak. Let me tell you about my Thursday. Maybe then, you'll understand.

First, I dragged myself out of bed at the crack of noon with a splitting headache. I usually like to lie in bed and think about things (Armageddon, extraterrestrial life, my chances of becoming a famous actress) for a while, but not today. No, the pounding behind my eyes pretty much obliterated that desire. So, hunching over in agony, I made my way out to the kitchen for an aspirin and noticed, to my horror, that Oliver was happily munching away at my sofa. Great. A new destructive habit. Hank licks and chews plastic bags -- so, clearly, it could be worse -- but I like that sofa. Then, it happened. I began to think about the statistical likelihood of adopting two cats with Pica. This thought almost (almost) distracted me from the jackhammer in my head. I even looked up the disorder online. Yep. They definitely have it. Only my cats, people. I swear. But it's a good thing I spent so much time wondering about it and looking up that information ... since there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.

Once the aspirin kicked in, I was off to the clinic. As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed a fire engine and ambulance, lights flashing, blocking the driveway. And again, I began to think. But perhaps not about what you'd expect. Did I want to know what had happened? Did I wonder if someone had died? No, not really. As I walked past the spectacle, I asked myself, Are sexy good looks a job requirement for all firefighters and male paramedics? I mean, do you have to include a head shot with your application? And, no, it's not the first time I've considered this matter. One of the firefighters, before hopping behind the wheel of his rig, caught my eye and we exchanged a smile. And then I wondered if he'd still be smiling at me if he knew that, inside the nondescript paper bag dangling from my hand, I was lugging around a jug of urine, painstakingly collected over a 24 hour period under doctor's orders. Seriously, there are times a penis could really come in handy. (No need to point out that pun. I'm fully aware.) And what I meant was -- for peeing. This sort of thing is not exactly a walk in the park for the female of the species. Ugh! I am so sick of being sick. Hopefully, I didn't just suffer through that embarrassing fiasco for nothing.

The good news is that I didn't have to wait long at the lab. The bad news is that the lab lady greeted me by name. Considering all the blood tests I've had so far, I think I'd have a better chance of maintaining my blood volume while dating a vampire. Yeah, I'm pretty much ready for a diagnosis. Any day now.

On my way home, I was shocked to see that the interchange ramp from Hwy 680 to Hwy 101 S was movin' right along. Normally, it gets really backed up and I have to find an alternate route. I never, ever drive on that thing if there's a backup. Why? Well, for many years, I have imagined that this particular ramp will be the death of me. And I think about it all the time -- exhaustively. I remember watching the construction crews retrofitting it for earthquake resistance, but I still don't trust it. I mean, it's gotta be at least ten stories tall with a slanted curve in the middle. Every time I drive across it -- which, I have to admit, is often -- I picture myself desperately clutching the wheel, the ramp crumbling under the force of the quake, as Big Red and I plunge hundreds of feet to the pavement below. I can see it in my head so clearly ... like Ally McBeal's dancing baby. Somehow, I feel 100% certain that this scenario will only occur during a traffic jam. Now that I think about it (again), I realize that doesn't make good sense. I still believe it, though. And wouldn't you know, traffic came to a complete stop before I'd made it halfway across. So, that was a good ten minutes of deep breathing exercises and forced happy thoughts. Alas, no earthquakes today. Phew!

I did mention this fear to my dad once, expecting derisive laughter or, at the very least, eye rolling. But no. He shares my fear, right down to the last detail. Well, maybe not the last detail. I'm sure he imagines himself belting out a manly yell instead of my girly scream. But it's pretty close. So, who knows? Maybe I get my over-thinking trait from him. It's nice to know I'm not the only one.

Recently, I've been thinking a lot about what it must be like to live in a homeless shelter. I've never really seen one, but I looked them up online and discovered that there are four shelters relatively close to my apartment. I've even been thinking about moving in to one. No, really. I could sell all my stuff -- except for Big Red, of course -- and move on in. Then, what the heck? Maybe I'll write a book about it. I figure that most people who experience this don't have the skill or the education to put it down on paper. I could do that. And when Paramount and I cut a deal for the movie rights, I'll insist -- as a part of my contract -- that I get to play a part. And this is how I'll finally realize my dream of becoming a famous actress, which is one of the topics I like to think about, as I've said, when I wake up in the morning. I just hope this all happens before aliens take over the planet or Armageddon strikes.

B

Pet peeve of the day:
Irregardless. This is not a word, people. I'm not throwing around any accusations here, but ... if I ever hear you use it, I'll be forced to stitch your mouth shut. It really does drive me crazy -- and I think we all know I'm plenty crazy without your help. Just keep that in mind.