July 2, 2002
I Don't Know

miles to go: 1,190.16

I don't know where the 65th Avenue project folder is.

I can tell you where it isn't.  It isn't in the file drawer, where it's supposed to be, hanging with convenient logic between the 64th Avenue and the 66th Avenue project folders. It isn't in the Project Manager's office. It isn't in the Dirt Company library. It isn't in my "In" box or in my "Out" box or in my "To Do" basket. And it definitely isn't in my bottom desk drawer, where I keep my purse and my bag of dried plums and my top-secret girl stuff. (So please quit poking around in my bottom desk drawer. Do I rummage through your briefcase uninvited, looking for a spare pair of No Nonsense? No I do not.) I can tell you with absolute certainty that those are the places that your project folder ISN'T ... and when you come and stand in front of my desk again, ten minutes from now, and you ask me if I've suddenly/magically/miraculously managed to locate the 65th Avenue project folder, I'll tell you the same thing I've told you the other 43,897,621 times you've asked about it today.

I don't know.

There seems to be a lot of stuff I don't know today. I don't know what time the UPS Guy is going to get here. I don't know what time the California Overnight Guy is going to get here. I don't know what time the Fed Ex Guy is going to get here. The only reason I know what time the Mail Guy is going to get here is because he's already been here.

Here's what else I don't know: I don't know how a person can go from an Incredibly Fabulous Hair Day on Monday to an Absolutely Ridiculous Hair Day on Tuesday without any significant change in the shampoo/blow-dry/little-rubber-rollers coiffing routine. I don't know why there are proportionally more butterscotch drops than strawberry bon-bons in the bridge mix this time. I don't know why it's called "bridge mix." I don't know the difference between AT&T "night" and "evening" rates.

I don't know how anybody could leave small children locked in a hot car for three hours.

I don't know why KFOG-FM feels compelled to play "I Melt With You" every single fudking day, without fail ... sometimes two or three times within the same nine-hour workday. I find it difficult to believe that Bay Area listeners are calling the radio station in droves every day, simply to request this twenty-year-old piece of pop mediocrity ... along with "Roam" and "Brass In Pocket" and the other eleven and a half tired, just-shoot-me-now songs they beat to death every day.  I don't know why it annoys me so damn much every time I hear "I Melt With You" ... but it does.

I don't know why they don't play Jill Sobule instead, once in a while.

I don't know what I'm going to get David for our first wedding anniversary later this month. I wonder how he would feel about a new electric hairsetter?

I don't know why I've had Drinking Dreams every night for the past three nights running. I don't know why it was Dream Beer the first night, or Dream Cheap Chablis the second night, or Dream Undetermined-Mixed-Drink-But-Probably-Something-Involving-Vodka last night. I don't know why the dreams leave me feeling so sad when I wake up in the mornings. I don't know whether it's precognition or pastrami that's causing them.

I don't know for sure how much money I've got in my checking account right now.

I don't know why it's illegal for dogs to poop on the sidewalk in San Francisco, but not for people to do the same thing.

I don't know how Daughter #2 is doing. I don't know whether she's back with Abusive Unemployed Auto Mechanic Guy, or if she's looking for work, or whether she's ready to start talking about another rehab. I don't know what color her hair is this month. I don't know if she's convinced that I love her.

I don't know why the thought of the Fourth of July is filling me with more dread than usual this year ... and not because we're having brunch in Nevada City with a bunch of people I don't even know.

I don't know why I waited so long to try a sports bra.

I don't know why my wrist is getting worse instead of better, almost a full month after my tragic plunge from the Bay Farm Island bike bridge. I don't know why it's ten times more painful to clutch a computer mouse than a pair of bicycle handlebars. I don't know whether we should get it looked at before or after we do the Healdsburg Harvest Ride.

I don't know what I'm going to do for my weekly Reality TV fix when "Bachelorettes In Alaska" ends on Sunday night. 

I don't know when my &$%# period is going to start again. I've got three months' worth of pricey prescription relief sitting in my kitchen cupboard, waiting to help me get all nice and regulated ... and I don't know when I'll ever be able to start taking it, because I have to wait for my &$%# PERIOD to START before I can begin taking the meds.

(I don't know if anybody really wants to hear about this stuff anymore. Including me.)

I don't know why I go through these bouts of emotional/intellectual/creative constipation every once in awhile ... when simply typing a few paragraphs into an empty journal template suddenly becomes tougher than negotiating bedtime with a cranky toddler. I don't know why I occasionally feel like I've said everything I'm ever going to need to say, to anybody, about anything, and now all I really want to do for the rest of my life is lay in bed and read People Magazine. I don't know why it always seems to happen when things are getting really interesting: when I have a lot to do, a lot to think about, a lot to look forward to, a lot to write about. Wouldn't you think that increased *input* would equal increased *output*? And if you ask me what I think will snap me out of it this time, or if there's anything you can do to help (like slapping me around a little, maybe? or canceling my subscription to People Magazine?), or how long I think it's going to take to get un-constipated finally ... all I can do is look at you and shrug and say the three most infuriatingly useless words in the world.

I don't know.

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or earl peterson. why don't they ever play earl peterson?