This morning, I could not get the BART ticket machine to take my perfectly crispy $20 bill. Nor did it want my second crispy $20. Or my crispy $10. I eventually had to give up and go to another machine, and that machine didn't want my old BART ticket. The people using the machines before me and after me had no problems. The machines hated only me.

When I got to my stop I tried to exit the train but I was standing in front of a door that doesn't open. One guy said: "It doesn't open" and I stood there like an oblivious moron. "IT DOESN'T OPEN," he said, louder. I finally got the hint when everyone but me got off the train through a different door.

Every time I've taken the elevator today, I've gotten off at the wrong floor. I forgot the building security code and almost got trapped in a stairwell. Little things like that, signs that my world is not operating as it should.

And my eye doctor basically rejected me as a patient because I can't work with their appointment times. "Can I see a different doctor in your office?" "No." "Why not?" "Because Dr. S is the one who first examined you." "But his appointment times don't work for me." "Sorry." "But can't the other doctor just look at my chart?" "Sorry." "But now I have to go to a different doctor anyway. It might as well be another doctor in your office." "I can't switch you to another doctor." "Right. Thanks." The hell?

It's probably the thing with my dad that has me worried and feeling uneasy. My parents are notorious for lying to my sister and me, and hiding the truth from us. When we were in Holland three Christmases ago, my dad had some type of seizure-looking episode that they claimed was "fainting" which I always thought was horseshit. I found out that he had "fainted" before and they hadn't told us.

My sister just found out yesterday that he had a recent MRI, revealing a series of small strokes. It all makes perfect sense; what happened to him sure looked like a stroke. Apparently it contributed to his decision to retire, to cut down on stress or something? I don't even know what's going on; my parents haven't given me any information. We need to sit down and force them to tell us the truth. With maybe a list of questions. What medication is he on? How often has this happened? How recently? What haven't you told us? What's the prognosis?

Of course something like that would be very unsettling, especially when all I am getting are glimpses of the truth. Now I am stressing about the Christmas holidays-- should I go home sooner? When is our office closed? How much vacation can I afford to take?

And of course I am dealing with anger at my parents. Why they feel the need to lie to grown women, I'll never understand. But they have their way of doing things, and they will tell us whatever we want to hear, "Okay, we won't lie anymore" and then go right on rationalizing the lying whenever information comes to light. Argh! Maddening.

This compounds the guilt I feel for not being in Los Angeles with the fires going on. This is how native New Yorkers must have felt a few years ago. When tragedy hits home, you want to be there, even if you can't do anything but sit and watch the news with your friends. And cough.

And then I have friends upset about some big life crises; some of which involve me more than others and none of which I can get into, and I'm a tangled mess. It's hard to have friends going through stress when they are literally halfway across the world from you. Among other people, among other things.

Sigh. Why don't I have a bathtub? I need a bubble bath.