It was just my luck that I canceled my three magazine subscriptions–InStyle, Real Simple and Elle–to subscribe to Blueprint Magazine. The new mag from Martha Stewart was set to “design my life” with everything from fashion to decor, entertaining to chic recycling. Then the next day as I was getting my daily fix of CasaSguar, I discovered some heartbreaking news: Blueprint is folding.

Shut yo mouth and say it ain’t so!

I guess it’s for the best, considering I have magazines from September that I haven’t read yet. And I didn’t actually pay for the mag yet.

Wait, who am I kidding?! I’m dying inside!!! I don’t want to subscribe to Martha Stewart Weddings in order to get my Blueprint fix.

So for now, the little ray of hope I’m left with is Bluelines, the magazine’s blog. It was already a Google Reader subscription of mine, so it’s not the best parting gift. (Martha should know better.) That’s not to say that I don’t LOVE the people behind Blueprint/lines. They are my people. The truest example would be the post (entitled “Pop it like it’s hot”–same brain waves people!) about a travel mug that will not leak after the popping of a button. I love them even more because, like a shrink with an impeccable sense of style, humor and grace, they are listening. Leave them a comment to say what you loved about the magazine so they can BRING IT BACK FOR THE LOVE try to bring enjoyable content to the blog.

I’m ending my 22nd year potentially spending $895 on shiny new pumps. Only problem is, they aren’t made by Prada or Christian Louboutin. They’re made by Volkswagon. Oh happy day. I don’t think life understands that that wasn’t on my Kaboodle birthday list:

Birthday! by moemarsita

Something has to be said about my mental state when I’ve been deja-dreaming of the next workday’s tasks for three nights in a row. In these dreams I recall yelling the police’s non-emergency phone number over and over again. Perhaps because IRL, nobody calls me back. Another dream was that I was lost driving around and yelling “press conference!” all over town. This did in fact happen this morning. Then there was the dream where yells were directed at me after the printing of two words. Oi. Lots of dream yelling can’t be good.

Anyway, if that paragraph didn’t fill you in, life’s been a bit more rough than usual with vacations and intern trainings and oil fill-ups and, oh, have I mentioned how nobody calls me back?

When I was getting my minutely Perez update (I’d hook myself up by IV if I could), a part of me felt for Paula Abdul as he slammed her for needing assistants. If this week taught me one thing, it’s that I could use some professional assistance. If my diet alone isn’t proof, then how about the fact that my renewed library books are overdue. Again. You think I would have learned last time. I would return them, but, I bought special Post-It flags to highlight the pages and that would mean facing the mean library lady and forking over cash (not coins, but cash!) to renew. Also, I don’t know if I could find all the books in the time I have before leaving work. And dare I mention that it was my mom who finally returned everything last time? Borrowing from the library isn’t worth it for lazy busy, working professionals.

Maybe Paula’s got it right.

Okay, maybe not about the jerk thing. Or about the gobbling of meds. But definitely excusable, nay, it’s imperative that she have hired help.

So I hear farthings are worth about a quarter … of a penny. Any takers?

“I’d like to return those and renew these,” I said to the librarian as I passed the mountain of wedding books and DVDs in her direction.

“Card please,” she said, in a robotic manner, like Rosie the Jetson’s maid.

“Oh, and I think I may have a fine,” I added. It happens to everyone and this time wasn’t a big deal. My worst would have been when I borrowed “Sideways Stories from Wayside School” for upwards of a year. When my mom discovered it and made me return it with all my garage sale loot in tow, it turns out it belonged to another library a couple cities away, so they said I could keep it. Oh the memories, I thought, chuckling to myself as I juggled the dollar bill and quarters I had scrounged up for the late fee damage.

“Father of the Bride. Twelve dollars.”

Those words were a verbal sucker punch to the stomach, rendering me speechless. My left hand embraced the aching gut as my left hand feebly forked over a $20 bill. I hovered over my renewed items cursing my laziness and stupidity … for not buying the stinkin’ DVD online.

I could definitely use some CASH MOHNEEE after a day like today. But I feel like I lost the YoMamma challenge that life threw at me today.

Tomorrow: Touche life.

Life, your momma’s so stupid she sat on the TV and watched the couch! (Oooooooohhh!!!)

Don’t get in an accident. *
Don’t get a ticket.
Don’t get a speeding ticket.

Ah, San Francisco. Where my zippy Jetta feels like an Expedition, crosswalk signals are only a suggestion and where turning from westbound California to Montgomery is illegal.

*Accident was in 2002.

Will someone please tell the weather that 65 is not an acceptable temperature for summer weather?! Don’t let the sunny blue skies fool you, it’s just the same temperature as yesterday’s gray cloud cover.

Besides waking up an hour before your alarm is scheduled to sound, your day starts pretty well. Class is easy. The day is sunny. Assignments are managed. The anticipated end is near. One could easily make the mistake of assuming nothing could break this nearly perfect chain of good fortune.

So what would you do when you open an email, with the subject line “Graduation??????????” that reads: would you like to be removed from the spring graduation list because of your outstanding exam?

Would you:
* calmly reply saying, “Even though the idea of paying for another semester of private college does sound tempting, I’ll have to pass this time. Thanks.”?
* curl up in the fetal position on the floor, hoping to drown in your own tears?
* drop kick the computer into the faces of those who screwed you over?

I cried. Cursed. Conspired. Condemned the day I signed up for an online LSU class. I can’t believe that someone’s inability to call and say that my credit card did not go through (the first, second, or third time) would put my graduation in jeopardy.

The title is a darn dirty lie. Once I sang its praises. But now, technology has failed me. We need counseling. All those hours I spent with my beloved technology were harmonius. It was a blessed union. A joy of joys, if you will.

Slowly, as it usually begins, the relationship grew sour. Phone decided that it didn’t want to exercise its receptive powers in my room. Fine, I’ll talk on the phone in the blue room.

Bitch, please. I won’t work in the blue room, the kitchen or the living room.

*Sniff, sniff* Yes!

Jeni insists that her phone doesn’t work in the house either, that sometimes she must even cross the street to talk. Tonight, Phone made me cross the street. But even then, Phone said it had full bars, yet wouldn’t connect. Full bars, but no service, Phone said.

Phone didn’t understand. I needed to call Matt. I needed to gloat. Florida won and he owes me a Coldstone Ultimate Bucket. So I grabbed my keys, shoes and Phone, hopped in the car and drove. Full bars, five blocks and no service.

Phone, we used to be so great together. What happened? You woo me with your palm and camera functions then take away your basic purpose. And I think you’re becoming a bad influence to other technologies in my life. Lappy says I have no disk space left and Camera’s battery life is shorter than a hamster in the Dodd’s household.

The sun is on vacation and it’s raining in the suburbs of Los Angeles. Storms are often used as literary tools to bring change to a plot. I know this, you see, because I am currently eating literature for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Even when I am full, I must shove in more large portions of Harlem Renaissance fiction and modern poetry in order to complete my online English class. The binge would be worth it, however, because the end is in sight. A couple more clicks and all assignments would be complete. My fears could rest on the hope that my foolish procrastination would be hidden. Godspeed.

Unfortunately, it only took one click to have the hope stripped from me. My storm came in red, bold letters. Arial, size 24 font: Maximum number of lessons per week exceeded.

It is impossible to make the deadline if I have to wait any longer. This newfound knowledge stung so badly; my pride proved unsalvageable. Even my tears were too shamed in showing their faces. On the warm and sunny May day, I would not walk along the stage in goofy, yet dignified costume. What would I tell my family? My friends?

Only yesterday had we discussed how we are responsible for that which we don’t know. It is the mark of adulthood, we concluded. And let’s not kid ourselves here. An online English class was not about the literature, but the self-discipline to get it done. And I am not going to pass.

Why did I let it get to this point? How could I have not improved on my procrastination in the past four years?

I went to my room for comfort, but I’m overwhelmed with the clutter that grows like ivy on all surfaces of my room. You see, Mrs. Online Instructor, I sleep without sheets on my bed so I can finish your class. I stay up during ungodly hours to wake up shortly thereafter for my other classes. I can’t even get lost in my studies. Tomorrow I will go to Proverbs class only to learn about the differences between the wise and the foolish. Try a lecture from my life! (Exhibit A and Exhibit B.)

The reason the class is not finished by now, I tell myself, is because I’ve put together an entire newspaper practically by myself. This took months and continues to steal all my energy. And the most poignant confirmation for a job well done is an e-mail about the crossword being too difficult. This person has the time to do crosswords and complain about them. Thank you so much for your feedback, I robotically reply. I’m so glad I spent hours upon hours revamping the newspaper, when all I had to do was find a different crossword puzzle.

Even if, by a great measure of God’s grace and sense of humor, I have my class completed by the deadline, I have myself to live with. I’m my harshest critic, though I’ll gladly place the blame on someone else.