Time's up

Sunday: I was going to live-blog the Golden Globes, but then I got bored. Because it was boring. So so so boring. Boring and predictable. Not only did I predict the hours of insufferable, preachy identity politics (not that this took any special psychic powers) but I also predicted the very predictable post-show social media backlash.  Seth Meyers was funny, and I was happy to see wins for Rachel Brosnahan and Sam Rockwell and Elisabeth Moss (who also wore my favorite dress of the night), but I couldn't watch the rest of it. Because I was SO BORED.

So I missed Oprah's speech, and I haven't gotten around to watching it. Another thing that I predicted (again, this didn't require a sixth sense, nor even a fifth one) was the proliferation of Oprah 2020 enthusiasm. I don't mind Oprah. I'm not a particular fan, but I certainly admire what she has accomplished, especially coming as she did from virtually nothing. And she'd be better than Trump, of course, but so would I, and I'm an idiot.

I think that what bothers me about the Oprah groundswell is that people keep expecting politicians to be saviors, and when the politicians fail, they expect celebrities to do the job. And they can't do it either, because someone already did.

Monday: I have been without a day planner for a full week of 2018, which means that I don't have a to-do list, which means that I don't know what to do.

I ordered a planner, which came right after Christmas, but it wasn't quite right. I thought about going back to my beloved Filofax, but then I decided to order another of a pocket planner that I had in 2015 (which is actually also pictured in the Filofax post from 2014, rereading which has prompted me to ask myself why I wrote an 800-word illustrated post about day planners, but that's a question for another day).

Wednesday: My new day planner arrived in the mail, and not a moment too soon. It's exactly the same one that I had in 2015, as I'd hoped. The second week of a new year without any sort of calendar, or agenda, or to-do list, and my life was in shambles. Another day, and the whole operation would have fallen apart.

Thursday: Just for fun, I decided to get the worst haircut that I have ever had in my entire life. Not so much too short, just crazy angles and layers and choppy ends that yielded the overall look of a crazy woman who impulsively cuts her own hair, And not necessarily with scissors.

Friday: I spent 25 minutes with a flatiron this morning, trying to organize and subdue my hair, but to no avail. 25 minutes might not seem like much, but I'm accustomed to a five- to seven-minute hairstyling routine. 25 minutes puts a serious dent in my day. I mean, if I have to spend 25 minutes a day fixing my hair, then when will I have time to blog about nothing? It's an issue.

My husband texted me later in the day, to tell me that he felt a bit flu-ish. I texted back:

I'm sorry to hear that. But I have a shit show growing out of my head. There are worse things than flu.

Though I was loath to let anyone wielding scissors near my head again, I made an emergency hair-fixing appointment for Friday night. The hairstylist looked at my hair with a mixture of puzzlement and dismay. "Wait," she said, "a hairdresser did this?"

"Right?" I said. "I know that you're thinking that I must have cut it myself, but I promise you that I paid someone actual money to do this to me." My hair was horrifying, but validation is always satisfying.

"Hmm," she said. "Well, I can give you a really good haircut, but it will be much shorter than you're probably used to. Or I can just clean this up as best I can. It won't be perfect, but you'll be able to live with it."

I opted for Plan B. It's not perfect, but I can live with it.

Saturday: My house is full of teenagers, only two of whom live here. It's loud, so I'm holed up in a bedroom, reading and writing and watching "Breaking Bad" reruns.  I emerge every so often, just to prevent breakdown of law and order.

Sunday: I went with friends to see "Lady Bird," which I loved; except that we had to sit in the front row, which I hated. The front-row seats, which were the only ones available, cost exactly the same as the seats from which you can actually see the screen, which doesn't seem fair to me. It's an artsy theater, which prides itself on offering a superior movie experience, so later on, I sent them a sharply worded email, just like my grandmother would do, if she knew how to use a computer. I don't expect them to do anything, but I'll probably troll them via email for a few weeks, just for fun. 

Hmm. Maybe I should spend more time on my hair.