How little should a screw be to be relegated to the tiny
screw bottle? Should I measure the
length to decide? Determining the circumference
seems a little ridiculous—and time-consuming.
You’re probably thinking that “ridiculous” is organizing a tool box all
the way down to the nails and screws.
You might even think I’m insane for taking on such a task on one of the
few days I can skip work (some people call these days “holidays”). My therapist says this craving to organize is
a method of asserting control. I think
his “analysis” is dead wrong . . . especially given the fact that I don’t
*have* a therapist. How crazy do you
think I am, anyway? (Who *was* that guy?) Back to the important topic: categorizing the screws. I’ve divided them into flat-end and
pointy-end. I’m surprised at how few
nails I have, by the way. Wouldn’t you
be too? Don’t most people have more
loose nails lying around than loose screws—and that last phrase was completely
unintentional, I swear. Once I split the
screws into their two basic categories, I had to use *two* tiny screw bottles,
thereby dramatically diminishing the number of tiny screws in each bottle. To justify using such large bottles for so
few items, I began cheating: identifying
screws a tad bit larger than my original criteria. Hence, the initial questions. Any suggestions? Besides “go outside and enjoy the day, you weirdo,”
I mean. Thanks.
Seriously, you might be able to help me out by answering a sincere
question. What song includes the backup
lyrics “Everywhere, all the time”? I’ve
been trying to remember the answer for about a week now, and I can feel my
brain tipping into the realm of insanity by the failure to find it. PLEASE, SOMEONE, TELL ME. PLEASE!
One of my brothers asked me if I knew, and, being the loyal sister that
I am, I began my quest. It has recently occurred
to me, though, that my brother might have been messing with me, like that time
when I was a teenager and had come home really high, having told my parents
that I had gone to see the movie “Close Encounters of a Third Kind” with
friends. I had not, in fact, gone to see
that movie, although I have since tried to watch it and not seen it yet again
because I found it quite boring—not to criticize anyone who *has* enjoyed it,
because my boredom probably resulted from having a drug-addled brain (“drug-addled”
meaning damaged from prior drug use as opposed to defective from the effects of
drugs at the time). So, after having
gone out with friends and having smoked a good deal of weed, an activity that
actually gave me little pleasure and a lot of paranoia and discomfort and
causes me to this day to puzzle over my stupid behavior, I came home, stopped
in my mother’s bedroom to let her know that I was home safe. I knew that she, being somewhat of an addict
herself, would be drunk on wine, as she usually was in the late evenings. I assume my father was at work. He often worked the night shift at Ford. I miss my father, by the way. We all do.
(He’s dead.) Instead of a quick, “I’m
home, I love you, good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite” after
which my mother would return to her book, wine, and cigarette (unless by then
she had quit smoking, which she had done around that time, much to her credit;
quitting wine came later), I found one of my brothers—the one who posed the
song lyric question mentioned earlier (a time that right now seems so long ago
to all of us, I’m sure, and I’m referring to the mentioning of it rather than the
occurrence itself)—sitting at the foot of my mother’s bed. We often did that, sit at the foot of Mama’s
bed and talk to her. She was the most
fun when she had been drinking wine, she being a fun drunk rather than an angry
drunk. (She was an angry sober, but not
anymore.) That’s where my brother (a
different one) and I got our sex education:
at the foot of my mother’s bed. (I
just read that last sentence and realize the perversion it implies—at least to
those of you with perverted minds. Settle
down, you frickin’ freaks. My mother,
being a nurse—she was the top of her class, straight A’s, student Number One—explained
anatomy, sex, reproduction, etc. to us as we sat at the foot of the bed.) I keep referring to it as “my mother’s bed,”
when, of course, it was my mother’s *and* father’s bed. The distinction is merely to identify who was
sitting in it at the time. I recall only
rare instances of sitting at the foot of my mother’s and father’s bed, probably
because in the instances during which it would qualify as my mother’s and
father’s bed there would have been either sleeping or sex going on. Anyway, so I stop in to say good night, and
there they sit, Mama and Bad Brother (the name I’ve just given him because of
my increasing suspicion that he is secretly trying to make me go mad), chatting
away. One of them asks me how I liked
the movie. I don’t recall my answer, but
I am absolutely certain that I did *not* invite further commentary. Nonetheless, Bad Brother began his incessant
questioning. At the time, in my confused
and paranoid state (KIDS, DON’T DO DRUGS), I vacillated between frustration
over Bad Brother’s innocent naiveté (is that redundant?) and suspicion of his
ulterior motives. He either wanted to
discuss a movie he sincerely believed I had seen or he knew (A) I was high, (B)
I had not seen the damn movie, or (C) both, and he was tormenting me as he
watched my strained efforts to avoid exposing my sneakiness to my mother. His questions got very, very specific. He asked me what it meant when, I don’t know,
some character did some kind of motioning with his hands. WTF?!
Did such a stupid scene really take place? (Another reason not to see the movie.) I gave him my (fake) opinion, intending to
head to bed immediately afterward, and then the annoying kid *proceeded to
argue with my theory*! I do not now
remember how I extricated myself from the interrogation, but I do remember that
my mother could not have cared less and did not suspect a thing. There are benefits to having a drinking
alcoholic parent. So, do you know, any
of you, what song has the backup lyrics “Everywhere, all the time”? Thank you.