So today was a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad day but not to worry because I have a secret plan. Basically, I'm going to get a time machine and stage a massive life re-do. Don't look at me like that; this is way more realistic than the five years I spent wanting to be a Southern Black gospel singer.
I'm going to take my machine to 1996. Then, when my parents refuse to co-sign the loans for the tuition at Georgetown, I will not petulantly say, "eff, you and your money. I'll just go to the U of MN and pay for it myself." Instead, I will say, "That's a reasonable position; why don't I just go to a mid-cost school like Notre Dame or St Ben's. I hear they're pretty good."
But if I'm still petulant and stubborn (because I'm prone to be those things) and I still go to the U of MN, I'm not going to major in something pointless like Women's Studies, and I'm not going to rush through it in three years. Instead, I'm going to spend five years getting a finance degree.
But if that can't happen and if I'm still compelled to get edjumacated for the sake of knowledge, I'm at least going to wake up early on the morning of the 36th anniversary of JFK's assassination. That way I'll catch the number 19 bus. But if it's still icy and I still oversleep (because even with a time machine, I'm still just me, right?) and the 19 still slides by without stopping and I have to walk over to the 16, I am definitely not going to talk to that secret agent from the future.
But let's say that I do talk to him (just to ask about where to find a time machine), I am definitely not taking his $600 or his audio tapes from the angel that had appeared to him the night before.
But it's $600 so if I do take it, I'm going to invest it in an IRA. I am certainly not going to buy myself and my best friend two round trip tickets to London where I'll just end up wasting a year and a half backpacking around and falling in love and other bullcrap (I'm cutting down on the swearing for my favorite little person, but only for a second or so).
If I do go to London, I am not taking acid in a park in Brixton. That way I won't convince myself that I'm going to catch pregnancy from my knocked-up roommate. I was pregnant within the year and clearly that micro-dot is to blame so I'm just going to say no to micro-dots. Ya gotta think about this stuff.
If I can't say no to the micro-dot, I guess I'll have to catch pregnancy, but if I do, I am going to tell Dan that he's stupid when he recommends the Continuum Concept, and I'm going to laugh at Jennifer when she gives me the copy of Mothering magazine, and I am definitely never reading any stupid books by the Sears.
I'm going to stick the babies in little cages (cribs or whatever they're called) and take them to daycare and get a job so that we can avoid festering near the brink of financial ruin all the time.
But maybe none of those are the right things to do. Maybe, Judith Viorst was wrong when she said there's no bad days in Australia because I've been there, and I never had a bad day there. So, I'm going to take my machine back to Sydney circa early 2001, and I'm going to break up with the Canadian just like I had been thinking about doing. Then, I'm going to hang out on the beach until I meet an old rich guy. I'm going to marry him for money, and when he dies, I'll find Howie and marry him for love and share the windfall.
That's it, it's a perfect plan.