The magic car key is fickle.

Nothing went smoothly last Tuesday. I was supposed to be at school at 11:30 for my environmental science final. My car's been making horrible squealing noises when driving slowly, so I didn't want to risk driving it to school. My mom said I could take her car and she would take my dad's truck (my dad had driven to work in his other car). I was running late, so I grabbed the keys off the table and drove my mom's station wagon to school. After I parked on the street, I realized that I'd parked a bit far from the curb. It was ten minutes to 11:30, but I didn't want to get a ticket, so I got back in the car so I could move it. When I tried to put the keys in again, they didn't fit. I struggled with them for a minute before I looked at them closely. Why does her Saturn key have a Dodge logo on it? I realized that it was the key to my dad's truck! Somehow it had worked to get me to school, but they wouldn't work again. I called my mom on my cellphone and said, "I don't know how I got here- it's a miracle, I'm at school and I used Dad's car key to drive your car." She was as amazed as I was, and pissed off because she had to be at a meeting at 12:30. We figured out a way to swap keys, I left Dad's key under the mat, and left the driver's door unlocked. She called our friend Kristin who lives a block away. Just one week earlier, Kristin had come to the rescue when it was storming like a bitch, I had a meeting with my teacher, and my car wouldn't start. I'm so grateful to her. Anyway, Kristin drove my mom to her meeting and they switched the key under the mat with the correct one. I speed-walked to my class, where the final was supposed to start in five minutes. When I got to my class, out of breath and cramping, I was one of only three people there. Needless to say, we were all confused. One of the guys tried to call the teacher, but he didn't answer. We sat there for an hour, thinking the final might have been rescheduled for the normal class time an hour later. We quizzed each other, but it was hard to focus when we were worrying about what the hell was going on. Sometimes they have finals in different rooms than usual, but I've never experienced that. It seemed unlikely, anyway, because the usual room was clearly available. I talked to the other guys and asked if they were late to class last Thursday. They were, and I must have been too, though I don't remember. If the teacher had made an announcement that the final was rescheduled, it must have been in the first five minutes of class Thursday, because Tuesday, the plans were still the same. So, I went home, and just as I walked in the door, I got a message on my phone from one of the guys who had been in the class. He said that the teacher had changed the final to Thursday. Fucking lame that he hadn't written it on the board or repeated the announcement at the end of class. Oh well, at least I had more time to study.

Is it ok to be a bitch sometimes?

If my boyfriend David's sister hadn't been in the girl's bathroom, I wouldn't have had to use his, and I wouldn't have thrown trash on his floor. Yeah, that sounds crazy, and it is, but I'll explain myself. The fact that I'm posting this and subjecting myself to possible insults, should tell you that I do feel guilty. But I want to know if you think what I did is justifiable under any circumstances.

I was at David's house for band practice with our friend Luke (yes, we're in a band, but we're not that good yet). It wasn't a very productive practice for me because I had a headache before we even started. I wanted to leave early, but I have a policy of working through whatever is blocking your creativity. Maybe I should have left early. It didn't seem like it at the time, but I probably wasn't in the most stable of moods because of what happened yesterday. I'll tell in my next blog what happened.

Anyway, it was a good practice for David and Luke because they both wrote some new stuff. So did I, but I wasn't very satisfied with it. After practice we went into the house (we had been practicing in the garage). I needed to go to the bathroom, but somebody was in the girls' one, so I decided to go in the one next to David's room. His room was in the usual state of chaos, but I ignored it and walked through it. When I opened the bathroom door, the first thing I noticed was the pile of hair sprinkled around the edge of his inadequate trashcan. Either the mountain of trash had caused the hair to roll off onto the floor, or he had just let it fall where it may- as if being in the vicinity of the trashcan was good enough. It disgusted me, but I averted my eyes because I didn't want to get mad- it had never done any good to complain to him about his messes before. Then I noticed a collection of shampoo and body wash bottles on the floor of his shower. Really?, I thought, He needs that much? I picked one up, and not surprisingly, it was empty. A flash of anger was ignited in my chest. Is it really that much of a hassle to throw those bottles in the recycling in the kitchen? I know it's on the other side of the house, but he could throw it away when he's getting something to eat- which I know he does, because he's alive. I tried to suppress my anger, and reached for the toilet paper. As I grabbed it, the whole roll fell into the trashcan. When I picked it up, there were some ants on it who had been eating out of the trash. The level of laziness appalled me- he really thinks it's too much trouble to take the old roll off of the thing and put a new one on? He'd rather rest the new one on top. I noticed a daddy-long-leg spider in the corner, with a pile of dessicated ants on the floor below it. The trashcan was alive with ants. My boyfriend's bathroom has it's own fucking ecosystem.

We've been together for four years, we've talked about moving in together. There's no way I'd put up with even half the level of squalor he creates. It frustrated me that I've told him so many times how much his room disgusts me. He says it bothers him too, but apparently not enough to maintain his bathroom up to the standards of an outhouse. I was tempted to take the trash and throw it on the floor in his room. If the current state it was in didn't bother him, then why should that? I figured it was too mean, so I decided not to. When I opened the door, he was sitting on his bed talking to Luke. I don't know what I expected myself to do, but I picked up the trashcan and asked him, "Do you know what's funny?" An overwhelming impulse made me dump the ant-covered contents of the trashcan onto the floor. "I can't even tell the difference," I said to him. He was shocked and obviously angry. Luke looked sort of uncomfortable, but it's hard to tell with him. David didn't say anything.

After that, I didn't know what to do. I just walked out of the room, said goodbye, and went home. I talked to his mom on the way out the door. He'll probably tell his mom what I did. She'll probably think I'm a bitch, which I am. Today, at least. About a year into our relationship, we told each other what bothered us the most. He told me he hated my outbursts and meanness, and I told him I hated his room. I hardly ever loose my temper like that anymore, but he hasn't made much progress with keeping his room clean. It seems fair to get angry, but I still feel guilty. There must be some way to convince him how important it is to me that he clean up after himself, but I can't think of one at the moment.

My disappearing grandma. This will probably piss you off.

My grandma called my mom yesterday, asking when she was going to come pick her up for dinner. She couldn't remember that she was supposed to eat dinner at the nursing home, or even that she lived in a nursing home. That was the first time she forgot where she lives- where she lives is about the only thing she could still remember; and now that's fading too. A few days before that we had some family over, my grandma among them. I don't think she knew who anybody was. She asked my dad who he was, and couldn't believe that my mom had been married 24 years. At one point, I think she even forgot my mom was her daughter. She couldn't remember what my uncle is- a doctor- something she's never failed to brag about. She can't remember the most important things in her life. I doubt she's happy. How could she be? But maybe her memory-loss is also a good thing for her. She can't remember that she's outlived her siblings, her husband's siblings- and even her husband. I don't know if she remembers my grandpa, she never mentions him anymore.

When someone asks my mom how my grandma is doing, and she says "Not that bad," I have to wonder what her idea of bad is. True, it could be worse. She could not remember how to feed herself, or she could be violent towards people who try to help her. But those seem like feeble things to be thankful for. If anything, I'd say it would be better to be completely out of it, rather than be aware enough to know that you can't remember anything.

It probably makes me a bad person, but I haven't liked my grandma for a long time. She was always forgetful, and seemingly unaware of what effects her actions had on others. She gave backhanded compliments like, "You look good, you used to be so fat before." I don't know if she realized that what she was saying was offensive or not. My friend Ondrea in elementary school used to talk about the fun things she did with her grandparents. I felt cheated because my mom's dad died when I was ten, and my grandma didn't feel like a grandma. I love my dad's parents, but I didn't see them much, and they always seemed a little detached. Especially my grandpa. They seemed to have the attitude that showing affection was embarrassing. When they did show affection, it seemed almost sarcastic; like, "I 'love' you."

Because my grandma (on my mom's side) forgot so much, even when I was little, it was hard to form a relationship with her. When I was a teenager, she couldn't remember anything new about me. She couldn't remember that I played guitar or that I was a vegetarian, so she couldn't remember what was most important to me at that point in my life. It felt like we were no more than casual acquaintances, without a deeper connection. How could I love somebody who I wasn't sure even know I existed?

I know it's fucked up, and it probably makes me sound like a cold-hearted bitch, but I think she'd be better of dead. What is the definition of death anyway? To cease to exist? She barely exists. As far as she knows, she has no past, future, or present. I would rather be dead than exist in such a state and be a burden on my family. I know it's not my grandma's fault, but I hate that my mom has to see her mother go through this. As much as it hurts me to be forgotten, it must hurt her even more.

Castle Dance Umbrella and the pace of Michael Jackson

That was a headline I read on a Finnish website translated by Google. Clearly computer translators have yet to make their human counterparts obsolete. At least it gives you something to think about... Like "What the fuck does that mean?"