Ouch

Must buy a nail set.

I woke up, on time, for once. I then proceeded to gouge my foot on a nail that is every so slightly sticking up from the hardwood floor.

I then went back to bed (because that is no way to start a day) and woke up twenty minutes later than the emergency last second get up time.

Everyone has a emergency last second get up time right? The last moment giving you enough time to just get ready and sprint to the car? Where you can't think too long about your outfit?

And my foot still really hurts.

Raise High the Roofbeams . . . .

I found notebooks for 10 cents each and even though I wasn't supposed to be in that evil store, due to their horrible treatment of the people who work for them, I bought those notebooks . . . and liked it. In fact, I'm going back to Mr. Walton's store to buy some more for next semester.

I'm not supposed to go into Mr. Walton's store and buy supplies because my union wants teachers to boycott the store. However, if my union would fight a bit harder for my working conditions, so that I would not have to BUY 300 single subject notebooks in the first place, then I would follow their advice more closely.
(It is a capitalist society and if they feel they are being treated badly, they are welcome to find another job . . . Old Navy is hiring . . . )

I also bought some short sleeve shirts because my workplace is 106 degrees with no air conditioning (except in the office) and new underwear because everyone should have new underwear for the start of school. And dry erase markers because they didn't come with the order . . . so no one can write on their boards.
While I was at Mr. Walton's store, some middle school boys started to talk to me about my "cool hair". Being unsure if they were making fun of the hair or complimenting it (it's so hard to tell with middle school boys) I kept walking. I think they were trying to pick me up in the toy department. How unseemly. I hope they knew they were talking at someone in her thirties.

So three hundred dollars later, I'm all ready to start school tomorrow. Now I just have to do my nails and my hair.

The Empire Strikes Back

Ahh, back at the evil empire. So much to do, so little time. I set up one of my rooms today and now am all sweaty and gross. Read a few too many books at a "book club" last night and my friend kept ordering more and more copies for everyone.

I refuse to plug in my phone at the evil empire until Monday because I know that I have 47,542 messages (When do I pay? Do I have to get my picture taken there? Can I get another yearbook from 1904?) and I don't want the phone to blink at me. The angry blinking message light would burn holes into my brain at this point. So if anyone wants to get a hold of me, they page me on the P.A. system.

Somehow the intricate wiring of the P.A. system makes everyone's voice sound as if everything is extremely urgent. A tone like "I have a rabid squirrel chewing on the back on my neck and only you can get it off, due to your extensive knowledge of rabies and squirrels, so could you please come because this is very uncomfortable. OUCH . . . stop that . . ." click. (I've been told that I sound very nice on the P.A. system, but I had that one radio class in high school)

So between dealing with the diseased squirrel attacks and the amazing amounts of dead insects in my room (how do they get there and why do they have to die in my space?) I hot glued some posters on the wall, put some of my books on the shelf, wrestled with the "marker problem" (but I ordered three boxes of fine tip markers . . . I know you ordered eight and we only received seven but that doesn't mean I shouldn't get some), considered how feasible it would be to put a large curtain up along the tape line dividing my office (brought on by the marker problem), and laminated the world. I'm nowhere near ready but neither is the evil empire so I think it will be alright.

And I can put up a curtain . . . a pipe, some flat connectors on the wall and alot of fabric . . . maybe bed sheets . . . it would be so worth it.

Sometimes . . .

Sometimes you get reminded that you really are an a*%hole . . . sometimes.

Putting the strings back on

Ahhh, my first day back at the evil empire. So exciting, engaging, and full of lovelyness . . . well, maybe I'll choose to remember it that way anyway.

Came home and dropped on the couch. So much for getting off bat schedule.

One of our graduates is working at the high school . . . which made me cringe a little, since he wasn't the most stellar of human beings when he was a student and now has keys to all the rooms. L liked to flirt with everyone and hasn't changed all that much.

"Like your hair."
"Thanks."
"So the administration doesn't have a problem with that?"
"Not yet. We'll see."

I really hope, having seen the entire freshman and sophomore classes today at registration, that if they had a problem, they would have voiced it by now. The damage is already done.

Still everyone bringing it up . . . makes me feel like I'm not supposed to have muppet colored hair or that somehow I've become an impostor. I know I couldn't do this with my hair if I was a mortgage broker, but that's why I didn't become a mortgage broker in the first place (that and the math thing).

See what happens when you don't let me be the art teacher?

Only in my neighborhood

There was too much social interaction while I was mowing my lawn today. I hate mowing my lawn. I bribe myself to do it usually and have the headphones on so I will fall into a mowing trance where I mow pictures in the lawn for the planes and aliens overhead.

Interruption one: Large group of boys in a truck speeding down the street, who screamed something at me, making me jump. I gave them the one finger universal greeting and then felt awful because my ninety year old neighbors were outside and I want them to think of me as wholesome and good.

Interruption two: Some blonde willowy girl stops my diagonal mowing to ask for a phonebook. I don't own a phonebook (that's what the internet is for). She is lost . . . looking for her friend's street, where she is staying, but doesn't know what street it is. Does not know her friend's address (not even city) and does not know her phone number. At this point, I'm wondering if she is a decoy and if someone is rifling through my house or something. I mean, she doesn't even know what CITY she is staying in? She remembers a restaurant . . . "the gay one with sandwiches" which is "near" her friend's house. I point her in that direction and tell her what street the restaurant is on. Good luck blonde girl. Next time bring your cell phone to go running in a strange neighborhood.

Interruption three: It is now getting dark when my neighbor calls me over. I'm hoping she won't mention the previous one finger salute. "I just wanted to tell you that we called Detroit Edison." Yeah . . . and . . . Sweetest lady in the world but spent 30 minutes on the tree branches around the electrical wires and how if I call it will cost me money but if she calls is won't and then there was another ten minutes on the "I think that weed is deadly nightshade but I'm not sure because the flowers are purple but otherwise it looks like deadly nightshade and I get it in my yard too . . . "

It's dark. The lawn is mowed. I have deadly nightshade. Not just nightshade, but deadly nightshade. So don't mess with me.

Secret Code

Evidently, "Well, I have your email" and a handshake translates to "Yeah, this didn't work for me . . . we won't be talking again."

I will admit "I have your email" IS much nicer. The rejection stings but it's just the first time. And I am scary in person . . .

Besides, he didn't know what Pottery Barn was . . .

Would be much easier if they had one of those U.N. translators though. In the little blue background box with an earpiece, (don't know how that would work in real space, a cardboard box with the inside painted light blue?) repeating the phrases in English that I could understand.

In That Hair

I begrudgingly went to the evil empire this morning. I had to make sure that I had ordered yearbook receipts for the masses and somehow every spring lumps together in my mind. So three Junes ago I ordered yearbook receipts and I keep thinking it was last June. Just a matter of searching the yearbook room (Ha! What a mess.) and then calling the supplier to have them overnight them. Do it every year (except that one time . . . was it last June?).

On my way out of the parking lot, I run into . . . let's call him Football Player D. I am glad to see him, one of the nicest people you could ever meet, and I stop my vehicle to talk to him.

FPD: Wow, what happened to your hair?
Me: (shrug) It changed.
FPD: Looks cool. (Pause) Are they going to let you work in that?
Me: (confused) In what?
FPD: In that hair?

I guess we will find out soon enough. Let's hope they'll let me work in it.

"Oh, no, you shouldn't do that."

Spend too much time in Borders today. Fruitin' around and looking at Husker Du CDs. Bought three books (3 for the price of 2 sale) and now have more Chuck Palahniuk than anyone really needs. Also bought a copy of the new Juxtapoz. Stood in the velveteen roped area waiting for the cashier to notice me, which he didn't until the other cashier nudged him.

Borders Guy: "Oh sorry, I was spaced"
Borders Guy: (looking at Juxtapoz) "Wow, I love this magazine."
Emily: "Yeah, I do too . . . I should probably just subscribe, but I never get around to it."
Borders Guy: "Oh. No . . . you shouldn't do that"

No explanation about why I shouldn't do that. Perhaps so I could keep paying a dollar more at the Borders? Because he wants me to come see him in a month?

In case any Borders executives ever read this . . . so you never hired me because I didn't "pass" the written test A.K.A I didn't have any facial piercings and therefore wasn't cool enough for the Novi store . . . but your cashier starts with "sorry, I was spaced"? Now that's good personnel practice, I tell you.

What the h. e. double hockey sticks was I thinking

Once upon a time, in the mid-ninties, I tried this new service on the internet called "internet dating". It was very cutting edge. There were no digital cameras then . . . so no pictures. Just a lot of words.

I did a lot of emailing after work. Didn't even have a computer at home, let alone an internet connection. Eventually went out on a few blind dates . . . they were all terrible. Then my world blew up and I made all my friends crazy with the phone calls. I stopped the internet dating and became focused on the world falling apart.

And this is bringing all that back . . . mostly memories of the bad dates, with a smidge of the other stuff.

As Dory says: "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming . . ." but as I recall Dory had a memory problem.

One Last Thing and I'll Stop. I Promise.

As I peruse the land of match dot com, I am noticing a trend in the 30-40 year old set. A large of amount of these men have "skinny dipping" listed as a turn-on. For the people out there who have never witnessed the over-stimulating world of match dot com, there is a place to check "turn ons" and "turn offs".

I don't know if I'm taking them too literally or what . . . I didn't check any turn ons or turn offs (maybe I don't know yet? It really depends) personally, but evidently there is a lot of skinny dipping out there. Where are all these people skinny dipping? It just sounds like something that would be best left to eighteen year olds. Maybe it's just the idea of skinny dipping that is appealing. Perhaps Maxim should get a skinny dipping section.

How do sick for real people do this?

I just spent the entire morning at doctors' offices . . . 8:45 a.m. appointment that had been rescheduled by the doctor (like I would schedule an appointment for anything in the morning) and I didn't even see the guy until 9:30. He then wants me to call my insurance company to see if these orthodics are covered . . . aren't there seven people in the office to do that? Go get the allergy shots (they admonish . . . has been 10 days) and spend an hour on hold with my insurance company. They tell me yes, the orthodics are covered, as long as they are attached to leg braces. I then call the doctor's office who tells me they won't order them with leg braces (can't we just rip those babies off?) and that will be $350 please and thank you. That's more than the bathroom sink I have my eye on . . . though I suppose I have to be able to walk.

So how do sick people do this? There's nothing really wrong with me. Well, really minor stuff like not being able to breathe out of the left side of my nose and the alien in my face. Oh, and I walk wrong . . . but I've always walked wrong. I can't imagine doing this while feeling like crap or while working. I'm sure there is much more screaming involved. Hell, I also screamed at the chicka on the phone at the doctor's office after the "can't you just send it in to Blue Cross and then if they don't cover it, I'll pay for it" circular conversation.

Really my own fault for not working for a district with MESSA.

Who Knew?

-- that it takes seven years to become a nun.
-- that cranberry juice "should be consumed within two weeks of opening for the most freshness and satisfaction. (I wonder if the addition of vodka negates that . . . ) (not that I would ever put vodka in my cranberry juice, kids)
-- V8, same thing, but one week.
-- that Meijer's will indeed never be stocked with yogurt, ever. See past entry.
-- the Royal Oak post office doesn't pick up the mail outside until 1 p.m. I guess I'm going to have to go inside.
-- You can make light switch covers with your face on them . . . or anything you want really . . . from cafe press.
-- The caller ID of work is the same number no matter who is calling . . . so don't answer it because it might not be who you think it is . . .

But I Thought I was in Generation X . . .

Remember when you first read Generation X by Douglas Coupland and laughed at the definitions in the margins? My friend Stuart had suggested the book to me . . . or it was lying around in his apartment. That was before "Generation X" as a social nametag started. There were just Baby Boomers all around.

Imagine my surprise when the headline in the Free Press today claimed "Gen X turns 40" with a little MTV logo next to it. It then listed Gen X's "defining moment" as Kurt Cobain dying. ACK! First off, I'm no where near 40 in my head . . . that's six years away. But then reading the article caused me to have this little tiny panic attack in my head -- oh my god, that's only six years away, actually five years and a half years away, what if I'm not married by then? My parents had already had all their kids by now. I'm going to be the old aunt that you have to come visit because she has no one that HAS to take care of her . . . Crap, I have to get my life together --

And then, there is no way that my defining moment is Kurt Cobain dying. Yes, I remember where I was . . . in the basement Montie House phone booth returning a page . . . but I also remember where I was when the Challenger blew up and when 9/11 happened and when the Berlin wall came down. I think the Berlin Wall is a much better defining moment . . . heroin addicted rock star (though very talented, don't get me wrong) dying seems so . . . slacker, to use their term.

And the Shopping Gods Smiled Upon Her

Setting: Marshall Field Warehouse Sale

Time: Due the vampire circadian rhythm problem and the stop at Starbucks, 8:15 a.m. (plus did not have to wait in the line)

Amid the young families, B-ham mother/daughter teams, and over-dressed 70 year olds, the Shopping Gods smiled and then presented an ottoman. It was exactly what I was looking for, same brand as my other furniture.

I had eyed it at the clearance center several times, coming back once every two months to watch the price fall. But the price never went below $150, which is what I paid for the chair, so I could never bring myself to buy it. Then I would go sit in my chair and really wish that I had bought the damn ottoman. So I was committed to spending the $150 this time, if I found one.

There it was . . . with the other orphaned ottomans, with no one else sitting on it or leaping toward it. I sat down, Starbucks in hand, and turned over the price tag. $97.50, first and only mark down, brand-spankin' new. I then physically picked up ottoman, which was awkward with the latte and the purse.

Now everyone has a part to play at the MF warehouse sale . . . they do not multi-task. The write-up people only do write-ups on little clipboards, the cashiers only do (as Z would say) cashierin' and the mover men only move things. You cannot pay for the ottoman perched on your knee as you struggle to hold on to it and your coffee unless you have a write-up. The cashiers are only cashierin', they will not put a sold sticker on the shiny ottoman. Okay, put the ottoman down near a write-up person. Wait as rabid shoppers eye your ottoman (and the couch that was convenient to sit on) and snarl. Get foot run over by three strollers. Tackle the write-up person before anyone else gets her, ottoman in tow. Physically carry ottoman to mover men, who then do not want to take the ottoman with the big pink "pickup today" sticker. Cajole mover men into taking ottoman to loading dock.

I then continue to shop. I now need nothing. My life is semi-complete. My feet will be up while watching T.V. I was below my budget. Life is good. And then . . . there was the chair. Lovely black leather cigar chair. Better leather than my other furniture (I have the "Simply Living" Leather set, this chair was not simply) and a recliner. Not my favorite of the genre . . . it has this headrest in the back that pops up, which is "just more to break" as my Grandpa B would say. But I look at the price. The tag says originally $499, which I know is wrong, it's a least a $1000 chair. The markdown is . . . get this . . . $179. I have clothing that cost more than that.

Now one should always bring a "sitter" to the warehouse sale, preferably one without any agenda of their own. That way they will not wander off when you find best deal in the house. I, however, had no sitter. So I had to sit in the chair and try to get the write-up person to come to me. I also had to beat off a man (with a life partner) with my purse. He came up, while I've got my big butt planted in the chair, and was fiddling with the price tag. "This is a really great deal", he said. "I know. That's why I'm buying it." I think he was seriously considering wrestling me for it but instead backed off two rows, still watching, waiting to pounce if I got up. After a lot of gesturing, I was finally written-up and was able to stand.

I looked for an orphan mattress for my trundle in the guestroom but there were only sets. I then waited in the cashier line for an hour and a half (evidently there is no fast cashierin'). The chair was originally $1750, the ottoman $460. The Shopping Gods are very benevolent today. I, somehow, am their favorite girl.

Mr. Crabbypants and my mother were nice enough to meet me at my house to help me get the chair inside. The back leg needs to be fixed (didn't notice that but . . . it was cheap) and Mr. Crabbypants told me what to do to fix it. I'm sure it was dropped when it was delivered the first time. I will now have to make an offering to the Shopping Gods . . . as I now have more places to sit.

Decisions, Decisions

The girls go out on Thursday nights. M2 is done babysitting (her summer job) and so we'll trade weeks . . . one week out by Princess and M2, the next near me. So yesterday I called M2 to see if we were going out "because I need to make a decision. I'm not going to put my makeup on if we are not going out." M2 was very amused. It was 5 p.m. and it was the big decision of the day.

So I admit it . . . I putter around. I don't get dressed until 4. I stay up until 4 a.m. Soon enough, I will have to join the real world again. I know it's awful.

Tonight, I'm going to Lord and Taylor to shop for school clothes (that whole English teacher wardrobe problem) and tomorrow is Marshall Field's warehouse sale, so I'll have to be up by 6:30 to get to Starbucks before. Ahhh . . . Starbucks . . . (Homer Simpson donut voice here)

The problem with the warehouse sale are there are two schools of thought: get there early and stand in line with all the B'ham daughters and mommies and deal with the riot, or come at 3 p.m. after everything has been picked over, with the shopping philosophy that if it was meant to be yours it will be there. This time is the line standing, cause I need an ottoman. Thank goodness I have a truck.

Oh, and match.com is way more fun than eharmony. Who knew.

Just wanted you all to know

I LOVE Johnny Cash (folsom prison on Quicktime)
among other things.

I know . . .

The self portait of the day is not as good as the last one (and yet better than the first one) but I'm working with a $37 digitial camera here. I'd have pictures of the zoo but I can't get them to work . . . darn camera phones.

E-Disharmony

The nerdy e-harmony demons sent me an "urgent" email this morning . . . they had been reading my profile again and, darn it, I was a bad, bad, girl. Very bad.

"During regular site maintenance, we noticed some content written by you that violates our terms and conditions. . . If you want us to reactivate your matching, please log into your accountand change the content sited above, if possible. Please email usexplaining why you wrote this content. Mistakes and misunderstandings will happen, so if you feel we are in error or do not understand your meaning, please let us know."

It wasn't a mistake or misunderstanding . . . I posted a hotmail address on my profile. I was reaping the wonderful benefits of eharmony "matching" me without paying them. I wonder if they search the profiles for "@" or if they have way too much time.

So I have been kicked off of eharmony . . . well, that's too harsh . . . I have to go stand in the corner and not see anyone until I email them and apologize. Who knew that they had a tiny button at the end of a page that says "close account".

4am -- Really can't sleep

So I've resorted to listening to Matthew Good on Quicktime evilness because I really can't sleep. Perhaps it is the awakening that Yes, I do in fact have to go back to work. Received the letter today . . . and then remembered that I have to go in two days earlier for yearbooks. Ahh, the pit in the stomach dread. The awful dance I do in my head -- not the art teacher, not the art teacher . . . think of yourself as an English teacher.

It's a whole different wardrobe really.

Oh, and I do evil things when left to my own devices and then rationalize it by saying I'm really "helping" them. On a certain online dating site, there was someone who had a spelling error in his first line and I advised him to correct it. Not because the spelling error bothered me . . . because it ruined the whole tone of his arguement. His first line was something like -- can you beleive that I have to resort to internet dating -- and while he was cute, the "beleive" really ruined it. Because the first thing I thought when I read it was "well, yes . . . ". It was evil. My karma is ruined for weeks. I'm sure I'll get hatemail and get kicked off. I'm sure he will come and find me with my inadequate windows and give me a piece of his mind. But really . . . if I had something on my face you would tell me, right?

Now the Matthew Good "Audio tunes" player has just crapped out . . . so I guess I will go watch some infomercials until they put me to sleep.

When I'm an adult

Direct quote from the nephew: "When I'm an adult, I'm goin' to do whatever I want." I tried to explain that it was much, much more complicated than that . . . that the world was full of compromises. Nope. In, let's see, eleven more years, Z is going to do whatever he wants. All this because Mean Aunt Emily wouldn't take him to McDonalds for lunch. (part of the conversation did degrade to "well, I have the car keys . . . ")

As it turns out, a Cuban sandwich is quite good and ordering off the ADULT menu is even cooler. The music is very good to bounce to at the Cuban restaurant, also. So we don't want to say that Mean Aunt Emily knows her business or anything but . . .

The newest linguistic phase in Z's life is making everything a gerund. A gerund is when you make a verb out of a noun by adding "ing", such as skiing from ski. (for all of you who aren't English teachers out there) Z is obsessed with "spooky" and cemetaries and scary stuff so driving by a funeral home will peak his interest. The people inside the funeral home? Well, they must be "funeralin' ". "Are they funeralin', Emily?" People visiting the cemetary are "cemetarin' ". No concept of going to visit anyone's grave . . . they must just be "cemetaring", which I think is the act of going into a cemetary to look around. "Funeralin' ", I'm afraid, is going to stick in my vocabulary.

After going to the "skeleton" store (Noir leather) and buying a skeleton button (though not the one we wanted because Mean Aunt Emily thought the ax and blood was too violent) , going to the zoo (that would being "zooin" ), NOT eating at McDonald's, and pointing out every train crossing in Royal Oak (will there be a train? How about now? When do the trains come? If a train comes can I go look at it? will there be a train now?) -- Mean Aunt Emily bought him a jean jacket, which he then would not take off, even though it was 90+ degrees. "Jean jackets are cool."

Yes. Yes they are.

It was all that Slam Dancing, wasn't it?

So I had the session to look at my CT scans today. Turns out I have a severely deviated septum with a maxillary cyst. Something about a bone spur too . . .

So I get everything fixed in three months, after my insurance checks out. I wonder if he can straighten it while he's there?

I did, at one time, slam my nose squarely into someone's shoulder when I was in high school. We were being goofy "squids" (or alternateens) at some band camp function on the tennis courts . . . a dance perhaps . . . and were slamming into each other, just to show that we were cooler than the other band geeks. The doctor assures me that it was not that incident . . . just a birth defect instead.

Evidently when it's done, I'll be able to breathe. Since it's evidently been this way forever I don't know what that will be like but it seems like a nice idea.

They won't let me have the CT scans until after the surgery. Look for the black eye at the beginning of November -- plus they shove "splints" up your nose. They told me that I could go to work the next day . . . hee, hee. I won't be doing that however.

Asking for it?

Yet another window guy story:

So I'm standing in my living room with "Mark", who is wearing a "dress" T-shirt (like the ones boys wear to the bar to go with their gold necklaces and hair product), very nice shoes and a tattoo with an anagram on it. I am making the assumption that he owns a motorcycle. I am also assuming that he has seen the inside of Gusoline Alley. He has no I.D. but he has a binder with him.

As we are starting on the "hello"s and the handshake and the "would you like some water? . . . diet Coke?", he asks if "my husband is around" . . .

Now I should have not skipped a beat and said, "Yeah, Buck's in the basement . . . sharpening the knives . . . " but the comment threw me. Here is a man I don't know, that I just let into my house, who is asking if I'm alone. I instead made some quip about window companies and single women. He apologized and stated that he was required to ask that "because home improvement is a big decision that should be made by both parties". What a load of crap. Like I wouldn't share with Buck that I was buying new windows . . . I'm sure he would notice when they came to install them. (Actually, since Buck is imaginary I don't have to share much with him . . . imaginary husbands are very agreeable)

So I can't figure out if they ask (and they all ask) so they can figure out how much money you have . . . thus how much they can jack up the price . . . or if they have a "man" speech and a "chick" speech and he just wants to know which to start with. Or maybe they are planning the rape scenario . . . I don't know. But it's scary to say to strange men . . . yeah, no husband . . . without a large dog around anyway.

To his credit, "Mark" was the nicest window man yet. Didn't do the hard sell. Admitted that there was flux to the final, best price. Trusted my measurements and didn't walk all over my house. So maybe he was just flirting. Still, my brother is coming for tomorrow's estimate. Enough of this bulls#*t.

Six Degrees: 3hive

So in the perpetual putting off of the lawn mowing, I was surfing and found this : 3hive

Turns out in reading the bio that two of the guys live in Plymouth/Northville and one teaches in Northville and therefore knows my friend Robby (the A.P.). So I guess that's only two degrees but I haven't seen Robby for a while so that counts for the other four. Another of the authors is Jon, the husband of Dooce, which I read frequently.

In puttering around on the site, cause I'm always for more music, I find a thing on the Weakerthans, one of the cooler bands in the world. Mp3s from obscure Canadian bands can never be a bad thing. So check it out.

Decorative lustreglass, oh my

So I have been MAC'ified for the year. I'm trying to think of something that men have to drop $150 bucks on for the year . . . their shoes are more expensive, I guess. Princess was very helpful, though she did lecture me about how I'm "not assertive enough" with the service personnel. Interesting . . . me, not assertive enough . . .

(I don't think Princess never really worked in the "service industry". There was that stint at the video store, but I just watched "Clerks" so I don't think it counts.)

So I now have colors named "Nocturnelle", "Anti-Establishment", and "Seedy Pearl" in my make-up basket. How do I get the MAC name job? I let the nice tattoo girl upsell me some lipliner and bought some awesome eyeliner. It's high maintance eyeliner with "rules" (gotta make sure you keep the lid really tight, have to wash out the extra and additional brush everyday, have to use make-up remover, not just soap) but it paints on nicely. So nicely, it's almost worth the extra trouble.

As an aside . . . I became addicted to department store make-up (which is much more expensive that drug store make-up . . . for the boys reading this) because of one of my best friends in college. She did the expensive make-up thing but got her haircut at Bo-Rics. I believed in expensive haircuts (still do) but was using "Wet n' Wild" (still have their black lipstick for special occasions). So I convinced her on the haircuts and in return she convinced me on the make-up. One of the best things ever done . . . though pricey, even still. One of the coolest girls I ever met at State, we were both in the art ed program together. She liked me because I made a comment about her shoes one day in class. Googled her yesterday because I was thinking about her . . . nothing. (Unlike when you google my name and get ten hits with the name of my employer, cause I need ex-boyfriends to call them for my email address, NOT) . She's moved, like, twenty times since we left school. So Heather, as I call out into the nothingness of the internet, thanks for the make-up addiction and I hope everything is going well.

Drunk Monkeys and Doorbells

After the Concourse d'Elegance, my family came over to visit. During this visit, my brother D. managed to get everything electrical checked and, more importantly, magically made the doorbell work. I have a doorbell. A doorbell that chimes (actually plays stupid songs like "Camptown Races" in a random order) when you push the button next to the door. No more signs for the windowmen, there is a doorbell. I am eternally grateful.

Because of the "my house was wired by drunk monkeys" problem, the doorbell doesn't work exactly like is supposed to . . . separate doors were supposed to have different chimes, a front door chime (stupid song) and a back door chime (ding-dong) . . . we can only get both buttons to do one thing (so either stupid song or ding-dong) so I don't know if the caller is at the front or the back door. My brother and I rationalized the one chime dilemma by figuring that my house is the size of a postage stamp so it really doesn't take that long to walk to the back door after you have figured out that there is no one at the front door. Besides . . . who goes to the back door and rings a door bell?

Of course the whole thing is set to random stupid song because that's why I bought this doorbell. I love the fact that it plays stuff like "Mary had a Little Lamb", it's seems so 1950's "look at my modern nifty doorbell" cheese. Love it. I paid extra for that cheese. When you are at the Home Depot doorbell display and you accidently push the "plays 50 different cheesy tunes" button, and the two minute "Battle Hymn of the Republic" plays, you think to yourself, "Who would buy that?" The answer is me.

So this "home improvement" project only took six months . . . and my brother still isn't sure that it won't burn down my house because "It isn't supposed to work that way". Be sure to try it out when you visit . . . I probably won't answer, much like my phone, but you can hear it through the door.

I Love the Internet

There is a whole website devoted to the abandoned buildings that we used to run around in while we were in high school (and by "we", I mean other people, because that would have been trespassing and therefore illegal). A whole "Northville Tunnels" website, complete with "busted" stories and tons of photographs. And you guys thought I had too much time on my hands . . .

They built a subdivision over the Northville tunnels and I suppose that they filled the tunnels in . . . can't really see them leaving large holes in the ground for people to fall into. Rumor always was that they were haunted, that satanists lived there, all sorts of fun. So fascinating to teenagers in the Northville/Novi/Plymouth-Canton area. Back when I lived in Northville, we called the new condos the "haunted ones", because, really, who would buy a condo there?

For the benefit of those who did not grown up Northville or in the 80's, Wayne County Children's Home was a facility for developmentally disabled children. However, we called it "The insane asylum" which was much more dark and tortured than what it really was. There were a lot of buildings and tunnels to connect them so that people could travel more easily in the winter months (or maybe it was just for the utilities). It was all abandoned by the time I was a teen and it was very cool to go there and run around in the dark. It was also very arty to go take pictures there for photography class. They bulldozed it for some condos, so I don't know what teens have to do in Northville now. Hopefully, they built them a skatepark or something. I also don't know what the Northville police department has to occupy their time either . . . I think the $50 trespassing tickets were a huge source of revenue.

Goin' to the MAC Store

So I'm going to Somerset for the big make-up buying trip and decided to invite Princess . . . since she is so very fond of make-up. She is going to be crabby because I'm going to the MAC store (she likes Estee Lauder?) but she will probably keep me from going too crazy (black lipstick is good for everyday now? Sign me up!) or looking too much like the undead. Princess is good for keeping me in the "normal" range . . . and "normal" is good when one wants to keep their current paycheck.

Hee, Hee . . .

Hate Window Estimates

Being the genius girl that I am . . . I measured all the windows in my house and created an Excel spreadsheet, with pictures, so I could just go to places and GET estimates for new windows.

I don't want anyone to come to my house . . . I don't want to get asked about my husband . . . (my imaginary husband for the window people is now named BUCK by the way, though I may go with Horatio) . . . I don't want to spend "just an hour" looking at the cut up window . . . I don't want to feel the "heat through the e2 glass" . . .

I just want someone to tell me how much a window that will fit a 36 1/4 x 54 inch hole will be and how much they want to install it. No one will give me a window by window price . . . no one will tell me how much of the price is window and how much is installation. I know how much windows are at the Home Depot . . . and I figure it's about that price again for installation but I just had a guy quote me 12,000 dollars for 15 windows. 12 THOUSAND dollars . . . that's as expensive as Pella wood windows. These were vinyl . . . nice vinyl but still vinyl. AND he wanted me to sign on the line, right then. "Why do you need to get all those estimates?" "But the 10% discount won't be good after today."

Is it just because I don't have someone named Horatio sitting next to me? Is it the muppet hair? I really can't do math in my head but COME ON, I do have access to a calculator and I can read the price tags at the home improvement store. I just want an itemized estimate for windows and I don't want to sit through an hour long sales pitch IN MY LIVING ROOM. Why can't I just go to the window store and get that?

My imaginary husband Horatio is going to come home and kick your ass, window man . . . and then you might have to deal with Buck.

Bought Batteries

Finally bought batteries for the camera . . .

Bought the batteries so I could collect ideas for the window replacement plan. Then drove around the neighborhood to take pics of the several thousand different versions of my house (though only the ones I like). Didn't think about how creepy it is to take pictures of other people's houses -- felt very much like a burglar and kept expecting someone to write my license plate down. The police haven't shown up yet, so I think it might be okay.

Eharmony Demons

Eharmony conspiracy demons have been working overtime . . . and have gotten smarter. Damn them. I got the marketing email promising three months for the price of one . . . three whole months of multiple choice -- Whee! But I passed on this "opportunity".

I then got a flurry of matches . . . which is so, so very sad since they don't know that I don't subscribe to eharmony and therefore if they pick me, and my 29 compatible characteristics, their questions just go into the air . . . into the void of the internet.

THEN I got a bunch of "requests for communication" . . . something that didn't really happen when I subscribed. I'm not saying that they are false requests. That would just be way too eharmony demon conspiracy theory. I'm just wondering why this is happening after I got my "opportunity" email. You can't answer these requests -- five multiple choice questions -- unless you subscribe for $49.95.

Now I admit I was trying to work the system. When I was a paying customer, I would often be crestfallen when I got up the nerve to send questions and then never got any response. Turns out that they still send out your profile after your gone . . . so new people who sign up will get lots of matches. That just doesn't seem fair . . . matching up people who are seriously looking with people not using your service . . . so I worked the system a little. I figured out that you can only have ten matches if you are not a subscriber . . . so once a month you close all your matches. Eharmony then matches you with ten more people, the demons perhaps thinking that you will give in if you get new shiny matches. Or maybe they just want to keep the others by giving them me as a shiny new match.

I was totally upfront in my profile, stating "I do not pay eharmony anymore" and then including an email address for people who were still "interested". With this stated in my profile, I wondered why I was getting so many "requests for communication" . . . so I checked my profile. Turns out the eharmony demons had erased that part of my profile. They left the rest and continue to send it out to people. So eharmony demons, JUST DELETE MY FILE. I beseech you. Stop sending it out to men who think I'm also a paying customer. And stop sending me email.

By the way, I put my email back on eharmony . . . probably violating several things I agreed to in signing up for the thing in the first place. So there demons . . . naah!

Chipmunks Everywhere Felt a Disturbance in the Force

For information about Mr. Cat's killer adventure, see Mom's blog (link in sidebar) . . . he's very proud of himself.

Just a little clue

I am slowing realizing that anonymous posts kinda suck . . . don't get me wrong, I love that people are commenting. For gosh sake, don't stop commenting . . . in fact, comment more because it makes me think that someone might be reading this and that is so much more comforting than talking to air. (I will talk to air though . . . those of you who know me realize this)

But the last two comments posted have been from people I know (or that I assume I know) (who else knows about the lobsters in the yearbook room?) . . . but they don't have blogger accounts. So give me a hint or something. You could always sign it. Princess just gives me a call after she comments (except now . . . she won't be speaking to me now because I mentioned her). So yeah, just a little clue . . . unless, of course, you prefer to remain anonymous.

And it ONLY took five years

Princess was telling this story the other day about her friend who found a boyfriend on match.com . . . and it ONLY took her five years. This story was told as we were sitting in an empty "restaurant" (okay, it was a bar . . . you're all old enough to know . . . occasionally, I'll go to a bar) with no one even there to be interested in us. I used to work at the particular establishment, which usually means a free drink or two, but it was a week day so the bartender was new.

Yes, I do occasionally "milk" my former employer for attention and free drinks but only once every six months or so. The chef did come up and say "hello" but I think he may have already been in the bag because he assured me that he would come back and "chat" with me and he doesn't really want to talk to me . . . this would be okay (he's an okay guy) except he is the person who insisted on firing me. So I don't really like chatting with him because something bitchy might slip and ruin my karma for the night. Chef guy scurried to the other side of the restaurant and disappeared, thankfully.

Back to the original point . . . five years on match.com to get matched seems a bit excessive. It might be my ADD but I only lasted a month on eharmony . . . and only a couple of emails with eharmony guy (do I want to deal with other people's kids? especially three of them?). I guess if you are willing to put up with five years of pseudo-rejection over the computer, you really want to be matched. Let Morrisey get his head around that . . . instead of "it's a club and you've got to go" it's now checking your profile so that the computer matching service will put you at the head of the list (online in the last five minutes) so that you have a better marketing prospect.

For you young ones . . . Morrisey was the lead singer in a band called The Smiths. They have a classic song "How Soon is Now" which is all about longing and not being loved. I've always latched onto the line "it's a club and you've got to go . . . you could meet somebody who really loves you . . ." not really for the longing aspect but for the obligation. My mother always taught me that if you were invited . . . if someone was nice enough to invite you to something . . . that you should go. So it's the "got to go" idea that I connected with . . .
Evidently, the song was a huge anthem for the gay community in the 80's also. Who knew. By the way, the rest of the line is "so you go and you stand on your own . . . and you leave on your own and you go home and you cry and you want to die". (There really are all those "and"s too)

And with that randomness, I'm off to take pictures of houses in the neighborhood that look like mine so I can find windows that I like. Hopefully, I will not get arrested for doing this.