Maybe it’s because I’ve been reading so many magazines in the last few days, while nursing my neck (thanks for the kind words, by the way). But lately, I’ve found myself feeling entirely too familiar with celebrities. Take Sheryl Crow, for instance. I’ve loved her forever, since Tuesday Night Music Club (I know every word to every song, by heart) and then she fell in love with my married-girl crush Lance Armstrong, enabling me to live through her vicariously during their courtship and engagement and all that. Then, of course, they split up, and soon afterwards she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Not a great year for Sheryl, but it wasn’t until yesterday, when I watched her on GMA, that it hit me how truly invested I am in this, a total stranger’s life. First, I got all teary when she was talking about the breakup and her diagnosis. Then, when the interview was over, all I could think was that I really hoped that the universe would send her a good guy. You know, someone who is nice and kind and opens doors for you and brings you flowers for no reason and laughs at all your jokes, even the stupid ones. I remember years ago I worked with a girl at the Burrito who was telling me that she’d recently gone to visit her grandmother, who told her not to worry about her latest romantic troubles, because “a man is being prepared for you.” Like a good mate is a batch of dumplings, or something. But still. I liked this expression, the idea that forces were at work, even when you don’t know it. (And my friend did end up falling in love within the year, and having a gorgeous baby, so maybe her grandmother was onto something.) So I hope that somewhere, somehow, a man is being prepared for Sheryl Crow. I hope that right now he’s buying bagels or working on a spreadsheet or pumping gas, completely unaware of it, but that soon enough, something will happen and bring them together and she’ll get flowers and her door opened and tell her stupid jokes and it will be all good.
*reads over entry*
Man. I don’t even think I should post this. It’s the painkillers talking. Oh, well. It is Friday.
In other news, I’ve been batting my own forces of the universe while dealing with various technological aspects here around the house. I think I’m probably the only person who, during a week when I’m supposed to be relaxing, decides to both buy a fancy new phone/organizer AND try to add a second receiver to her Directv system. Suffice to say I’ve spent a fair amount of the last few days (when I haven’t been thinking about Sheryl Crow, that is) online reading tech support forums, calling customer support, and cursing, though not necessarily always in that same order. The phone thing went pretty well, save for a few software snafus, but the DirecTV thing has been a bit of a nightmare, mostly because when I first called up I got this very angry man who kept snapping at me because I didn’t understand what he was saying. I was at my most uber-polite, just asking him to explain, but he kept getting frustrated. I think he was having a bad day, or something. Normally I would have snapped back, but I just didn’t have it in me, so instead I just thanked him and hung up. Sometimes, you just have to let the universe deal with people, I guess. If a man is being prepared for Sheryl Crow, hopefully something else in the works for the DirecTV guy, and if the world is a just place it won’t include flowers and opening doors.
Now, though, everything is working—although I knock wood as I say that—and I am grateful. So much so, in fact, I’m about to turn it all off and go outside to look at the sunflower I planted from seed that just bloomed today, so amazing. No manual, no support call, no reboot or signal strength check required. You gotta love that.