I can't figure out whether it's strange because I'm oblivious...or strange because I pay way too close attention.
Either way, it's very confusing and the quandries are becoming increasingly exhausting.
As I write this, Boo is dragging my clothes through the house.
He's limiting his load to sweats and sweaters. Only the S's so far.
When we left Reston for Vienna, I left behind six of Boo's seven fleece. I figured we'd simplify in Vienna. I figured Boo could drag one fleece around all day, instead of seven. I just chose the most durable fleece.
But Boo apparently needs seven articles of clothing to drag. One just doesn't cut it. So there's my black turtleneck sweater on the floor and here comes the wheat-colored stretchy ribbed pullover. It's so nice to be surrounded by your clothes.
Otherwise, Boo is Boo.
He loves to drag. And he won't acknowledge cranberry juice.
Lately, Boo shows symptoms of either repressed anger or a urinary tract infection. Sometimes, in a cat, the two conditions manifest themselves similarly.
I understand the anger, if that's what he's got. I've moved his litter boxes a few too many times. And cats don't like that.
What a bunch of pussies.
So I bought Boo cranberry juice.
Because I read up on urinary tract infections in cats and it turns out that cranberry juice is as good for our four-pawed pals as it is for us. Unfortunately, as the internet warns, our four-pawed pals don't like cranberry juice. So there are these really hard-to-find herbs and weeds that you can put in your cat's food.
Well, GNC didn't carry the herbs and weed. Neither did CVS. Or Giant.
But 7-11 carried the juice. So I figured I'd try.
Boo's response to the juice was slightly less to his response when I say "No Boo!"
It's like the little bowl of juice was invisible.
Then again, many things seem to be invisible these days.
Kakki's manicure kit is invisible. She's searched. I've searched. It's nowhere to be found. So are those weapons of mass destruction. Just can't seem to find either one. My other blue sparkly flower earring is missing...even though I know it's somewhere in the car where I dropped it.
Apparently, my 10,000 minutes of cell phone time are also invisible.
I signed up for Nextel's amazing new 10,000 Breakthrough plan last year.
Well, now I know why it's called a Breakthrough plan.
They break through the barrier of truth and decency and just make up a story about how many minutes you'll have. And then, those minutes turn out to be invisible.
Last year, I spent at least an hour in the Nextel store. I went over that plan a lot. Probably about...maybe 10,000 times.
Somehow, the salesguy's minutes added up to 10,000. I remember distinctly. He kept repeating: "You've got 10,000 minutes."
I also remember wondering how much talking I'd have to do to make my numbers. That was a high pressure plan.
Well, folks, it's turned out to be slightly less than 10,000. The Breakthrough name's off by about 8,000.
And most of the actual minutes are those Whenever minutes.
You know what Whenever means, of course. You can call - for free!! - whenever your friends, family or foes are asleep, having sex or getting dressed for work.
Great plan.
When I finally called Nextel to figure out how the damn plan really worked, the very nice customer assistance person was equally perplexed. She couldn't figure out where the 10,000 was. Finally, after asking me to hold, she came back and told me that's just the name of the plan. The 10,000's not related to the actual minutes.
They should have called it the Nextel Weapons of Mass Destruction Plan. I'd have paid more for that. Just for the monthly laugh.
So I go to see Fleetwood Mac. Thanks to my great wifey who works for a great company (it's in my best interests to say that). A great company that, by the way, sponsors important cultural events and activities.
And luckily Fleetwood Mac hasn't disappeared. Well, except for Christine McVie. She's disappeared. I won't mention the argument of some that she was always known to disappear anyway...even when present. I think Christine held her own. Who wouldn't tend to disappear next to Stevie Nicks.
So there I am. Looking kind of downtown. Looking kind of smart. Not as in "didn't I see that look in Vogue?" but as in "are you a librarian?....or just a lawyer..."
And there were, of course, the Nickers. The Stevie Nicks wannabees. Dressed in long black unevenly hemmed flowing dresses. Big hair. Glitter on their eyes. Boobies a boobin'...it was quite a fright. The amount of fringe was, I'm sure, illegal.
But the concert was amazing. Mostly because Fleetwood Mac is amazing. Their music is amazing.
I won't obsess about the fact that they ended a tremendous show with one of their worst songs ever. It would have been their worst song even if it hadn't been further massacred for political use - and previous gain - by a former presidential fan. Former president, not former fan. I assume he's still a fan since there was a rumor that his business partner was in the audience.
No comment.
Anyway, I was glad my hair was tied back.
I thoroughly enjoyed the show. Rocked out. Got down. But I knew I was beyond wanting to sleep with Stevie Nicks.
Although I wouldn't turn her down if she asked.
Mostly, though, I was beyond wanting to be Stevie Nicks.
The weird thing was that Ms. Stevie didn't look like her witchy devilish self to me anymore. She just looked incredibly talented and somewhat eccentric.
Lindsay Buckingham? Incredibly talented and still very very sexy. Incredibly sexy.
But the Witchy Woman just didn't have that glow she used to have.
It may have been age, but I think that's too simple.
I think it was wisdom. I think she got wise and lost the innocense and hopefulness that always made her seem so vulnerable and open to life. Open to pain.
Watching her this time, I felt like I was just watching someone wearing a uniform - albeit a cool, scary one - and putting on a dramatic show.
Or maybe it was just the Reeboks.
Stevie Nicks was wearing her usual layering of black lace and draperies.
And ankle-high, wedged Reeboks.
At first I thought she was wearing ankle boots from Target. But later, when wifey hooked us up with Mick Fleetwood's assistant (I picked a good housemate), we found out they were specials from Reebok.
Or maybe the band's personal trainer told us that.
It's so hard to keep your celebrities straight.
The Stevie Nicks I wanted to be - and to be with - wouldn't have worn Reeboks. And she wasn't wise. And she wasn't confident.
She was just really of some other world and wanting. Really really wanting. And really beautiful.
That Stevie was invisible to me now. She's still quite beautiful, but not wanting. I'd argue she's better now, but clearly still trying to evoke the image.
But, apparently, Stealth Stevie was still there in some way. Because the Nickers saw her. And they threw scarves and more drapes at her. Man, she must have some collection.
Sometimes you're looking so hard you can't see.
And sometimes when you're not looking you find.
This week I saw - I mean really saw - the discounted cap rate.
It was there all the time, but invisible to me.
And just when I couldn't take the mental obsession over Stevie's ankle boots anymore, the lights dimmed and Lindsay moved back on the stage and Stevie moved forward and I heard the first chords for Rhiannon.
And when she started singing, I saw the vulnerability.
Maybe I just wanted to see it.
Or maybe I just remembered what it looked like the first time around. The first time I heard Rhiannon.
It doesn't really matter.
My earring's still missing. As is Kakki's manicure kit.
And there's an Excel shortcut that I just don't see even though I've done it now a bunch of times.
Sometimes you don't see it because it's not there.
Sometimes it's there, but you don't see it until you're ready.
And sometimes, you just make fleece out of sweats and sweaters.