Got a haircut. Way too short.
I needed a haircut. It had gotten to that "are you growing it out, or loving the shaggy-bad-hair-day-look?" stage and I had a scant 30 minute window between work and camp pick-up. So I flew into Azima, my favorite instant-gratification-no-appointment-necessary cuttery and took a chance on someone other than Nonna or Azi.
A friend has had scheduled ankle surgery for most of the summer. In the week before her hospitalization, she managed to arrange both kids' schedules to the minute, prepare the house for her incapacitation (at least two weeks off her feet), arrange for a freelancer to pick up some of her graphics work backlog, and sundry other things only a mom can anticipate.
Only, the car broke down on the way back from a short weekend beach trip. (AAA totally stinks, by the way. I don't know why any of us pay them a dime. They sit in their tele-center in Florida, absentmindedly call for aid, tell you the thousand things they CAN'T do for you, and create lasting memories of sheer frustration.) They got into town at FIVE AM the day she had to meet with the anesthesiologist and sign all the dire warnings of death, dismemberment, and disability the insurance companies force us to read.
I like to plan ahead because most of life can't be predicted. That's likely a good thing, since who would want the crappy things that fill the hours day in, day out?
It's always something.