A few hours before Michael Jackson died I was looking for my car. At one point, I decided that it must have been stolen. That's when I remembered that I had parked it near the beach. (This used to happen all the time until I accepted that I have a bad case of Lost Car Syndrome).

I drove to my New Coffee Shop, having broken up with the old one because "the vibe got weird." I have since run into other defectors, including one employee, from The Other Coffee Shop who agree with me about the vibe change, though, we disagree on why. Burnt grilled cheese sandwich smell, or too many homeless people? However, the The New Coffee Shop might be headed to Weird Vibe Land as they keep bringing in a guy to make repairs using a power tool during prime hours. If you ever wonder how you might run a coffee shop business into the ground, start using loud power tools every day around 1:00 pm. Both yesterday and today the Repair Guy managed to clear the room.

An hour after MJ died, I was crying and talking to my father. Only, I didn't know that Michael Jackson, the voice that sang the soundtrack to my life from the 6th to the 8th grade, had passed away. I was crying over something else. But later, I wondered if I was just picking up on the vibe of MJ's absence from this world.

Facebook has gone mad with statuses about Michael Jackson.

Just for today, I can mourn Michael Jackson.

I was sitting in the massage chair at the Nail Salon, and looking up at the television set when I caught a glimpse of a shot of what looked like dead sea creatures. "Hmmmm...is this some Vietnamese cooking show?" I wondered. It took a good five minutes for the protective layers of denial in my brain to realize that I was watching an anti-abortion show on a Vietnamese stations. Yes, I was getting a pedicure and watching footage of dead babies...so much for a relaxing spa day.

"What happened to them?!" cried the Vietnamese Pedicurist who owns the shop (I should probably know her name by now) as she sat glued to images of dead infants and body parts.

"It's an anti-abortion show..." I said while I tried not to puke.

The other Pedicurists gathered around and also watched in horror. I wanted to advise them to turn it off as it might not be good for finding new clients, but they were hooked.

"Would you like a magazine?" asked the woman filing my toe-nails.

Are you kidding? Dead babies or Kelly Clarkson's weight fluctuations?

Just for today, I can support the local nail salon.

"How is the special?" I asked the waitress at the organic Thai restaurant.

"Oh, no...no like."

"Ok...then maybe you might want to consider erasing it off the chalk board....how are the peanut noodles?"

"Too sweet."

Later, after we found something on the menu the "waitress" could swallow (literally), another woman brought us our dishes, but forgot the appetizer.

"Ask her if she knows the woman who took our order." said my father.

"She's probably the old aunt that they had to employ, but don't normally bring around the patrons."

I gave my father his Father's Day gift (a travel barbecue kit). The strange thing was that the wrapping that I had chosen matched his outfit perfectly. I had gone to the paper store and, after much deliberation, had bought a red gift bag, and some camouflage patterned tissue paper (very masculine). When my father arrived, he was wearing a red sweatshirt and a camouflage patterned hat.

I'm psychic. Or, I really know my father. He seemed pretty nonchalant about the whole matching thing, so I didn't get a picture.

Just for today, I can celebrate an early father's day with my dad.

Putting aside what this might mean about my emotional state, many thoughts these days seem to end with the word "motherfucker."

I'll be sitting behind a car at a right turn, and I'll think "Turn right...motherfucker!" Or, I'm trying to grind some coffee beans, and I'll think "Grind...motherfucker!" If I'm waiting for my pre-intel processor 4.5 year-old computer to load word, "Are you trying to kill me, motherfucker?!"

I'm going to temporarily blame the increase in my use of swear words in the interior monologue on unemployment. It's also making me tardy. I have nowhere I have to be, and, yet, am late everywhere I go. My Inner-Project Manager is in sleep-mode (though, let's face it, I've never been on time...).

Just for today, I can regress in middle-age.

"Someday, Chica, you're going to be 52 and single...," said Jewish American Salsera to me last night. She's been regaling me for the last few years for not trying harder to find a husband. Actually, come to think of it, I don't try at all.

"I wasted my thirties on guys like X Salsero...and look where it got me. You get de-sensitized and then you don't know how to find a real man."

I've also got Grandpa Salsero on my case. Every time he runs into me he gives me a lecture on finding a man "who has love."

I appreciate the concern. But, am I reaching some threshold point of no return? Is it now or never? I don't really see how 37 is easier than the fifties. At least in their fifties, there are more divorced people walking around.

Just for today, I can heed warnings from Middle Aged Singles.