my ridiculous yesterday

Yesterday was the kind of day where nothing went right, but nothing went quite wrong either. Observe.

I got up early so I could go to Walgreens and pick up a prescription before I headed to church. As I’m gathering all my belongings, I realize I need a new Nalgene. Because mine is probably 5 years old and is starting to smell like old plastic, which no amount of washing can fix. So, leaving that home. I get to Walgreens and don’t have any refills left. (Dear Pharmacist: Thank you for giving me a 3-day emergency supply.) I also pick up a 1-L Aquafina.

So then I head to the Bagelheads. I grab a bagel for breakfast, a coffee (or something) for the day, a salad and a pistachio muffin for lunch. I get it into my car; the bag carrying everything smells like red onions. Damn. That’s gonna make the choir room smell great. I’m making the 45-minute drive to church, eating my bagel, and find one side of the bagel didn’t get cut through. It’s still attached. Makes for a mess.

I get to church. I play through the one piece of actual sheet music we’re doing. I take it to the real piano in the Sanctuary and realize the page-turns are impossible, since the music won’t actually stay open. I come back, grab another copy, and re-work the page turns. Creepy red-headed dude has come in and started hovering. He has zero social skills and just hovers me. Constantly. I ignore him.

I sit down at the piano and work through the new page turns. I feel something on my arm. I figure it’s one of my shirt-loops (that help it hold its shape on the hanger) come unhidden. It happens sometimes. I look over at my arm. It’s my bra strap. Not like it fell down and needs to be tightened – the strap came unhooked from the band (ladies, if you’ve ever worn a convertible bra, you know what I’m talking about.) How in all creation did that happen? Well, nothing for it but to fix it. I hide it best I can, head to the bathroom. I figure all five people present have seen, but really there’s nothing I can do. No biggie, it happens. I come out of the bathroom, all fixed, resume my place at the piano, and Creepy Redhead looks at me and smirks. (Dear Creepy Hovering Redhead: Go to hell.)

Service at 11 is uneventful, and goes somewhat long. On the way back to the choir room I discover (what I later found to be) a giant black caterpillar – about 3″ long and as big around as my thumb. Fuzzy, like a Woolly Bear. Kind of cool. Everyone leaves, I stay to practice. I discover I am getting a migraine. I get out my red-onion salad. I am reminded that red onions, and the smell of them, makes my migraines worse. Oh well. I also discover the salad is full of black olives. Not my favorite things ever. But I’m eating it – not only did I pay for it, I won’t get to eat anything else until about 9pm. I head outside with my salad. This lasts a grand total of 2 minutes due to bees and other stinging insects. I go back into the choir room and let the red-onion aroma run free. I down half my coffee in an attempt to alleviate the migraine. I wander back outside and check out the caterpillar. I come back in to practice.

I head into the main hall (Sanctuary) and set up shop. I metronome from 1pm to 4pm, finish the coffee, the muffin, and most of the water. I manage to keep the migraine at a dull roar. I wander back into the choir room at 4:10 and find a rehearsal already in progress, that I’m supposed to be leading. I wonder why nobody came to find me. One guy says he was banging on the door, but didn’t I hear him?

Another rehearsal at 4:30, mostly me teaching the altos their parts on absolutely awful Christmas music. 5:30, wander back into the Sanctuary and set up for the 6pm service. I let the “organist” play the preludes today, as I don’t want to deal with it, or her. During the sermon I head up to the balcony and tally the preacher’s recurring words with the choir director’s wife (Preacher said “bottomless pit” 20 times). (Dear Preacher: You’re a lousy public speaker. Find more words and a less megaphone voice.)

Service ends, go home. Get back into town. I’m at the corner of Blair Stone, facing north, turning left onto Miccosukee. I’ve got my windows partway down, and I’m playing “You Can Call Me Al” pretty loudly. A car of people about my age pulls up next to me. The guy driving starts pointing upwards, like he’s pointing to the light on the left. Or maybe the sky. I have no idea. I never figured it out. He never said anything. (Dear Pointing Dude: What?)

I get to Seventh. I’m waiting to make a right-on-red onto Monroe. I feel a jolt from behind. I just got rear-ended. SONOFABITCH. I look in my mirror. Obviously I can’t see anything because dude’s in my trunk. I pull into the gas station on the corner. (Dear Self: Thank you for going from shock to anger to reasonable within three seconds. I appreciate that.) Thankfully, Dude pulled in after me. I took a breath, got out of the car. He gets out of his pickup, and the first thing he says is “Are you okay?” That was nice. We determined that I am okay and my car is okay. No damage, no scratches, nothing. He said he was driving barefoot and his foot slipped off the brake and he drifted into me. What do you say to that? (Dear Dude Who Rear-Ended Me: Thank you for pulling in after me, and I do appreciate your courtesy. However, if you’re gonna keep driving barefoot, I suggest pressing harder on the brake. Perhaps literally standing on it.)

I get home. I immediately take out my contacts, change into pajamas and make some leftover lamb tagine. I check my emails. I find one that says, essentially, “Can we rehearse my most ridiculous pieces tomorrow?” Still on the adrenaline rush from being rear-ended, I freak out a little bit. I stop tasting my dinner (a real pity, because it’s delicious). I send an email saying how-about-later-this-week-instead. I change back into real clothes and realize the migraine is gone, but I’m a little dizzy. I refill my water bottle, grab my music, and go practice for a few hours.

I come home, beyond exhausted. I need to make granola. Because if I don’t have breakfast, I will have to add about 30 minutes onto my commute to get a bagel. I pull together a batch of granola, stick it in the oven. It’s not getting crunchy. Why isn’t it getting crunchy. I added too much honey. I can do this in my sleep, what the hell? The consistency is more of a granola bar now. I quit. I went to bed.

So that was yesterday. How do I have the time to write this now?

I’m nursing a mug of tea. Because sometime yesterday, between the 6pm service and making granola, I developed a cold.


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