Things did take a turn for the worse this week… somehow there’s a separate season cycle in my own mind. In my psyche, it’s not winter. It just turned Re-Evaluate What The Hell You’re Doing. During the season of REWHYD, the major form of precipitation is question marks. They fling themselves at you. Some of them stick. Like Colorforms to your refrigerator.

I think my car mirror incident was a metaphor for right now. Attempt to rip out the old, watch it dangle by a sturdy cable, and then go, “Huh. Ok then.” and drive away.

A good day…

…Is a day when I go to The Deli and am greeted by Bob and John with soup, sandwich and cookies. I also ran into Jack from my old dorm, whom I hadn’t seen in many years. Now I’m in my pajamas, listening to NPR and wondering when this excess of positivity will run its course.

Unsafe at any speed

I always thought my rearview mirror was only held on by duct tape. I bought the car used, and that’s what it has always looked like. A few heavy strips of black duct tape holding the driver’s side mirror in place. Not in any sort of useful angle. But well enough so that cops don’t think they need to ticket me.

The edge of the mirror started to wear through the tape. And after a few months, I noticed that there were only maybe 4 or five inches of actual tape holding the mirror in place. And then was gradually reduced to 3. And then it appeared to be held on by a corner of tape and some snow and ice that had gotten jammed in there. I started to get paranoid when I drove. I’d keep glancing at the mirror after any big bump, to see if I’d left it in the middle of the road.

Notice that I did not actually fix the mirror at any point and stop this process.

Today it looked particularly precarious, basically about ready to fly off when I made the turn from Irving Park onto Ashland. So I pulled over and decided to yank it off myself for safekeeping. At least I could tape it on later and not have to buy a new one.

I was surprised to find out that, in fact, it was held in by a bunch of cables, which back in the day must have controlled the tilt of the mirror. It looked like a loose eyeball, but it was definitely not about to fall out and shatter like I’d imagined.

Now I will reveal something about my own particular brand of dorkiness. My first thought was: This has to be a metaphor for something.

Muffin details

A reader who shall remain nameless has asked me to clarify my reasons for not wanting a whole English muffin. Here they are: I don’t really like English muffins. And I also had eggs and pancakes to eat. And the only reason I was going to have any English muffin at all was that my dad had undertaken them as his own personal contribution to the breakfast feast and was making scores of English muffins at a rapid pace, piling them on a paper plate and slathering them enthusiastically with mixed fruit jelly.

Stuck for inspiration?

Generate a logline, which in screenwriter-speak is one sentence about your film, here. I am going to write about a puppeteer who discovers the body of a balloonist on an alien planet.

My Secret Santa was…

Kristie. Which, crazily enough, was the person that I had been giving presents to also. So basically we were secretly leaving gifts for each other for approximately 10 days.

I received a framed picture of a pony (I’ve always wanted a pony for Christmas!) plus a Starbucks card and some other random stuff that will be put to good use. The reveal was hilarious, because I honestly could not get my mind around the fact that the person who’d been leaving me presents was the person that I’d been leaving presents for. So even when there was a picture of Kristie taped to my present, I was still like, “Ok. Who’s pretending to be Kristie.”

Not dead

I’m alive. It’s true. I have some stories. I went to Buffalo for Christmas. My mom asked me to fix her brand-new alarm clock. She said it looked like there were double numbers on there and it was annoying her. So I peeled off the plastic sticker that had the fake time written on it. That helped.

My dad tried to get me to eat an English muffin.

Me: I’ll just have half of one.
Dad: You know they shrink when you toast them.
Me: No, I’ll just have half.
Dad: Half of a SHRUNKEN one?

I spoke to my Italian grandmother about my grandfather, because I’m writing a play about him and his boxing career in the 40s. I learned that he used to call her his chicken girl, because she worked on her family’s chicken farm, and that she flew to Florida as he got sicker and sicker from ALS to get snake venom from an experimental treatment center there.

I also said hello to the trees, and told them that they looked a lot better than when I’d last seen them in November.