Thursday, March 30, 2006

Man Boobs

I had a whole conversation about "man boobs" with someone today. Had never given the subject much thought. Evidently, it is quite a concern.

My advice: "Those aren't man boobs . . . those are "huge pectoral muscles". (must be said in Ren voice from Ren and Stimpy)

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Walking B Movie

I've had the same headache for 36 hours now . . . and my palate hurts, so my sinus "thing" might be back (sounds like a sci fi B movie, "The Girl with the Thing in her Sinus).

My days are being spent in either the 5th or 9th circle of hell and the sad thing is I can't tell anymore . . . logical thinking is not in play.

But as I'm supposed to cheer the F&*k up . . . good news. The yearbook is done!

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Miss Crankypants

I don't know whether it that I just spilt my dinner on the floor, or if it's because I'm turning 35 in less than a month, or my hormones are outta wack, or that my profession is currently located in the 6th level of Dante's inferno, or what . . .

but I'm really cranky today. I've been cranky for the last few days and I can't seem to shake it. Princess has suggested that it's the haircut. I pointed out that my ovaries are shrinking like raisins . . . so maybe it is a "I'm turning 35 and this is not what I pictured my life to be" crisis.

Anyhow, I need to get over it.

Monday, March 27, 2006

What Do You Mean I've Been Tagged?

Yes, I know this is dumb.
Four jobs you have had in your life:
1. library page
2. meat processing

3. lifeguard
4. teacher

Four movies you would watch over and over:
1. Sixteen Candles
2. Sin City

3. To Kill a Mockingbird
3.5 La Femme Nikita
4. Romeo and Juliet (since I have to for school anyhow)
4.5 Shopgirl

Four places you have lived:
1. Cleveland, OH

2. Wyandotte, MI
3. Canton, MI
4. Detroit, MI (my friends from the west side of the state would argue that Canton, Plymouth and Berkley ARE Detroit, MI)

Four TV shows you love to watch:
1. Alias

2. CSI
3. NCIS (mmm. . . Mark Harmon)
4. Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Four places you have been on vacation:
1. Paris

2. Miami
3. NOLA
4. Hawaii


Four websites you visit daily:

1. dooce.com
2. blogger
3. hotmail
4. dailymumps.com

Four of my favorite foods/restaurants:
1. Strawberries

2. Vanilla Yogurt
3. Guinness
4. "Stout" in Brighton

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. in my bed

2. on the sun porch in Milford
3. 1976 (very little responsibility that year)
4. on a random road trip

Thanks to M1 for providing the topic of the day . . . otherwise I would have gone on a rant about genetic engineering.

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Exhibit B

Junior year picture for yearbook . . . as we can see, I really liked this hair style for some reason. Posted by Picasa

Exhibit A


I'd say around 1992 . . . maybe 93, since it seems grown out. Posted by Picasa

I Swear it Looked Good When I Was There

Okay, back to the hair crisis . . .

Back in 1986, I willingly submitted to a haircut that would be later be described by my boyfriend at the time as "You look like a little skater boy." I will scan in the yearbook picture as soon as I get home, but I did look like a skater boy.

Yesterday, Jennifer (my "hair care professional") was stacking clients, so I waited a little longer than usual. Therefore, I had more time to look at the hair magazines . . . always a dangerous activity. I'm a firm believer that my hair stylist does not tell me how to teach art . . . so I should not tell her how to cut my hair. She is a professional and knows much more about cutting hair than I do. So maybe it was the fumes . . . or the goo on my head burning into my brain, when I marked two pictures and said, "Hey Jen, look at these!"

"Oh, fun!" was the reply.

It looked great in the salon. The color looked right this time, which is always a challenge. My hair looked good. All was right with the world. I swear they pipe nitrous oxide into that place.

Later, as I was talking to my brother in Miami on the phone about the motorcycle debacle . . . "Damn it! My hair is orange." My brother, who used to dye his hair bright orange ON PURPOSE, was less than sympathetic. "I don't know why you go get it done in the first place. You could just do it yourself." As he was talking, I'm noticing that some of the hair is bright yellow . . . Big Bird yellow and I sigh, knowing that I will now have to go dye my hair immediately. So he is probably right. And then I catch my head again out of the corner of my eye. "S&*%! and this haircut looks dykey . . ." My brother laughs.

So my hair looks very much like it looked in 1986 and in 1992 . . . as pictures will show. Have to remember to stay away from the hair magazines. Luckily, it grows out . . . but right now it's way too short.

Saturday, March 25, 2006

I Now Have a Free Pass

or . . . no paternity test needed.

I went out to the neighborhood of Stately Wayne Manor to get my hair redone (which we will talk about later). I called my father, Mr. Crabbypants, on the way to plan lunch for after. My father was chipper . . . amazingly so, considering that he has been trapped in the house all week "resting" with his Frankenstein scar. I was to call after my hair was done.

Two hours and some bad decisions later (again, we'll talk . . . with pictures), I called Stately Wayne Manor, figuring since I was in town, I could walk and get the table. My brother D. answered the phone and for a moment I thought that I had accidentally called him instead of my parent's house. After a short conversation about who I had actually called, I told my brother to ask Mr. Crabbypants where he wanted to go to lunch. "Dad dropped the bike."

It was snowing. The freeways were all clogged with accidents. The statement didn't register. "What?" "Dad dropped the bike." What bike? What was Dad doing on a bicycle in 32 degree weather? "No, we were going to sell the motorcycle today . . . " Oh shit, THAT bike.

When my father bought the motorcycle from a friend, my brothers and I all took the motorcycle safety course at the community college. My father passed the first time, D. decided that motorcycles were not for him, J and I had to take the course twice to pass.

My father had also bought a little 250cc bike in pieces, thinking that it would take J. all summer to rebuild. J. had the bike built in less than a week. Dad's bike was more than I liked to handle (850cc and too high . . . plus you could drop the little Kawasaki without guilt, but not wreck Dad's) so J. would ride Dad's and we would ride the back roads of the west side. My father was very serious about being properly prepared to ride and I have never been on a bike without gloves and boots. Even spent $300 on a full face helmet (a huge amount in those days . . . ) because I had spent too much on orthodontics to chance it. We were not so serious about our motorcycles (though I would still like a little 500cc one) but very serious about safety . . . or at least calculated risk.

D. didn't know what was going on, it had all happened so fast. All I got was "on the way to the hospital" and I hung up the phone. Ended up at Stately Wayne Manor to do the vigil with my brother (my mother didn't want us at the hospital). I really freaked when I found that she had driven to U of M. St. Joe and Providence were broken arm locations . . . U of M was serious.

D. had thought my father was talking about taking the motorcycle for a ride ON THE DRIVEWAY. "I kept saying on the driveway . . . and I looked up and he was gone." D. then mentioned that he had told my father not to put his helmet on as to not "mess up the scar". But he was just going to be on the driveway. D. told me there was no blood. Father was talking.

So my father, my so responsible father, upstanding citizen that he is (the Bush's Christmas card still on the fridge) decided to go see if the motorcycle's brakes worked, while it was snowing . . . without a helmet, or gloves . . . and wearing loafers. And kids, this is where I share with you that I am so lucky still to have a father . . . with his brains still in his head, even though they weren't working very well to begin with, obviously.

He had the brakes lock up at the gazebo in the neighborhood, less than a mile away. He had called my mother on his cell phone, telling her to come get him . . . that he had broken his leg. At this exact moment, D. had noticed that Mr. Crabbypants was not still in the driveway and had gone done to the end (Stately Wayne Manors have really long driveways) to look for him. (My mother insists that D. was futzing in his car and NOT looking for Dad, or even noticing that he was gone) (either way, D. is no longer in charge of Dad wrangling . . . for a while) Some neighbors were walking their dog and came upon my father lying in the middle of the street (not the first time this has happened) and one was a nurse. They loaded my father into my mother's jeep, leaving my brother (who doesn't like motorcycles) to deal with the bike.

In motorcycle school, they warn you to never have a bike that you can't lift upright from the ground. This is the other reason I never liked that bike. My brother somehow got it up and pushed it back to my parent's house. Managed to get it up the driveway, bravely using the clutch. It was already in the garage when I called. It wasn't sold yesterday. I'll sell it to you now, cheap. Slightly dented. Be careful with the brakes, evidently the master cylinder is too full.

My father has a broken shoulder and a messed up knee. The knee is so swollen that they don't know how messed up yet. Broken shoulder means no crutches, so we have a fun wheelchair. Both injuries are on the same side, so getting up and down are interesting tasks, as is getting him to the bathroom. He seems very realistic about his bout with stupidity. However, J. and I are doing a little dance . . . we are usually the stupid ones. And we now have a free pass for at least a year.

"Oh yeah Dad? Well remember when you wanted to check the brakes on the motorcycle?"

Friday, March 24, 2006

All Dressed Up . . .

. . . and no place to go.

I need a new wingperson . . . one that doesn't get all headachey and tired at 11 p.m. Now I'm home with too much lip gloss on (for home anyway) and nothing to do. Would just go to the Front by myself, but I think that is asking for trouble, in more ways than one. It has been promised that we will go "out" tomorrow . . . but I hate that bookclub, all older men and weird oldest profession types.

And now that I'm hyper-aware of being noticed, I did have a boy say good-bye to me at the restaurant. I could go back, but it is my former employer (Princess' choice) and I was tiring of talking to former cronies. Hate doing the smiley nicey-nice, "Oh, how are the kids?" routine with the people who were fired . . . who are now working there again. Worse yet, time has stopped there, no one has done anything . . . and the place has gotten lame. So the "I haven't seen you in a year" (when Princess drags me) conversation is not very stimulating. It's the same conversation from last year.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Monkeys

The Week that Will NOT End

I never wanted an existence where I only looked forward to the weekend . . . but I'm afraid this week has gotten the best of me. I just want it to be Saturday . . .

Have to work late tomorrow. The whole week has been freakshow. Haven't been home before 10 p.m. in two days, and tomorrow is not looking good either. And as I sleepwalk through the end of the week, I cling to the magical moment of being curled up in bed on Saturday morning when I will think of nothing.

And spring break is how far away?

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

I Lived Through Wednesday . . .

So now I get to go buy jeans . . . yay!

With fingernails that shine like justice

"Wow, Emily! You look great. Nice suit." she says in a tone of wonderment and surprise. She doesn't know me very well and this is the first time she has seen me dressed as a grown up. (and personally, I think I should ditch the red shirt I'm wearing . . . but I want to look like I have something on underneath my suit.)

I should just say "thank you" but instead say, "yeah, I clean up nice, don't I?" And I do clean up nice.

Makes me wonder what she thinks of my other clothes though . . .

Excuse the Cake song title. My fingernails do not actually shine like justice . . . and I will never trade my truck in for a Chrysler LeBaron.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

This Took Forever


Luckily, I have to wait for my nails to dry, so I have the time to mess with Blogger and it's issues. Posted by Picasa

Monday, March 20, 2006

Quotes

"It and I have worn away together. The mice have gnawed at it, and sharper teeth than teeth of mice have gnawed at me." -- Miss Havisham, Great Expectations

"Don't think 'cause I understand, I care
Don't think 'cause I'm talkin', we're friends." -- Sneaker Pimps, 6 Underground

"I'll show you mine, if you show me yours first
Let's compare scars, I tell you who's is worst
Let's unwrite these pages
and replace them with all wrong words" -- Rise Against, Swing Life Away

"I'm drunk . . .
and right now I am so in love with you
and I don't wanna think too much about
what we should and shouldn't do . . ." -- NIN, The Only Time

Sunday, March 19, 2006

The Week Ahead

As I prepare for my weekly Royal Oak ritual, I realize that I am dreading this week. The headache I currently have is not helping. I'm trying to be more in the moment lately, but the thoughts still creep in . . .

So after I get home, I will try on all the suits in my closet. Find conservative yet elegant shoes, go buy two pairs of pantyhose. Agonize about whether wearing red makes the hair look "more normal" or accentuates it too much. I hate dressing up as a grown up.

I'll have to do my nails tonight, which means sitting still for two hours, something I do not do well. Redye the hair, so it's not orange. (which is worse than the red, trust me)

I had a dream l last night (this morning actually) that one of my teeth fell out. Just got wiggley, like when you were a kid and pulled out, root and all, from the left side of my bottom jaw. Had to check to see if it was still there when I woke up. So wonder what that means? Other than I should make an appointment . . . I hate weird stress dreams.

Saturday, March 18, 2006

Saturday Night

Oh, the exciting life of a single girl in Detroit on a Saturday night. With Princess staying in . . . which she is allowed since I left her hanging with the "sorority" sisters last night, leaving her to win the Euchre tournament while being the only person under the age of 45 . . . and others somehow getting lives (and not calling me back), I have no wingperson. So I went grocery shopping instead.

Topped off a shopping day really. Went to Twelve Oaks on the way home from Stately Wayne Manor and tried on at least 142 pairs of jeans. Princess was right, the DKNY bootcuts DO make your ass look amazing . . . but they don't come in the right length. I'm tired of stepping on my jeans and I don't care what Vogue says, I'm not wearing heels with my jeans.

Came home and took a long nap. Went to Somerset to try on more jeans. Then tried on this amazing Calvin Klein suit . . . and lusted for it. Decided that I needed to audit my closet before paying $200 on a suit (on sale from $300). So didn't buy anything . . .

So going back and buying the DKNY jeans as a treat after parent teacher conferences . . . maybe I can get them hemmed. Oh and grocery shopping was a blast, as always. At least they had yogurt this time.

Friday, March 17, 2006

Stargazing

As this is one of my least favorite holidays, despite my quasi-Irish heritage, I went out to Stately Wayne Manor this evening. Mr. Crabbypants only lost a dime-sized piece of this face and basically then received a free face lift . . . but only on one side. He has to "relax" for two weeks, which will be harder than the surgery. My mother wanted me to park my truck blocking his jeeps so he can't escape.

The stars are much brighter here, without all the light pollution and I had to surpress the urge to lie down in the middle of the street just to look up. (If Z had been here we would have) Spotted some planets (I think), Orion, the Little Dipper . . . finally appreciate what little I remember from that Astronomy class I suffered through. Could even tell the subtle differences in color.

So glad that Mr. CP now has "clean margins". I will take him to Starbucks tomorrow to get him out of the house. We are drinking the wine I brought back (and sat through Customs for) from France . . . and he is already yelling at my mother (about cars), so he must be feeling okay.

Blogger Backload or Why is it so Light in Here?

Blogger was down for a whole 20 or so hours . . . and it took me about an hour last night to figure out that it wasn't just ME but the whole of blogger that was "F"ed up. In the sinking feeling of "oh, crap this really doesn't work" (without, of course, checking the help section) I decided to make at least a quick backup of what I had written so far, in case something was the "fatal error" that it was saying it was . . .

It should be pointed out that I have another blog set up, an extra one . . . set up when playing at first and never taking down. And last night I could post to that one. Thus the panic that the year of blog would be lost, while the blog with one post sat smugly. "I'll show for giving me a name that is not as easy to remember."

So the archive has been made . . . in word because it was quick. I was in bed by bedtime. All was (sort of) right with the world. And then I cracked my eye open (right one for those who care) and wondered why the room was so light. I looked at my watch . . . yes, I wear one to bed, I'm blind and can't see my alarm clock, because I have to put my alarm clock very far away, because . . . well, it's just too many becauses. 7:05. I usually leave the house at 6:55 a.m.

Managed to get to work on time . . . wasn't pretty and forgot a bunch of essentials, like say, my phone, but was on time. So add buy new alarm clock (or maybe fix this one) to the list of duties for the weekend. I'm pretty sure it was operator error, not the alarm clock's problem . . . but I really like a shower in the morning.

Post From Last Night

Walked the short course tonight, after getting home at 10 p.m. Now painfully aware that I shouldn't be walking this late at night (especially with headphones) since D just gave me a lecture. But did it anyway.

Am so tired that I can hardly keep my eyes open . . . took some decent pics tonight, considering the lighting conditions. Now I don't have to worry about what the kids take or if the kids even take them. Have been interested in other things, when I should be doing the mundane . . . laundry being of high priority this weekend, grading essays . . . sleep. Was supposed to take tomorrow off, as Mr. Crabbypants is having minor surgery. Was going to sit in the waiting room and knit with my mother but was told that is unnecessary . . . and lessons plans for a substitute are often harder than just going to work.

So for D's piece of mind, I was very careful. Didn't walk my road, went into the neighborhood. If I scream twelve people will run out of their houses. Do need some reflective tape though. Wonder where you get that? And no, I will not wear one of those vest things. Forget it.

Dear Pam

First off . . . PAM, you need to stop hanging out in my backyard AND if you are going to leave a phone number repeatedly for "Kim", you should leave a number that is in working order. Otherwise, I'll call, your voicemail will hang up on me and then we'll be right back where we started. I'd make you a poster but I really don't want to advertise to the world about who does and doesn't live here. And my mother keeps suggesting that I call the police.

(but she suggests that I call the police for pretty much everything . . . I don't know if she's thinking she wants a son-in-law that's a cop? If she feels that Berkley's finest doesn't have enough to do?)

So Pam, either leave an area code, working phone number, or maybe . . . just maybe, you should try CALLING Kim with that sucky phone of yours. And no, I still haven't seen Angel. But then again, I don't know if Angel is a person or a cat or what . . . so maybe I have seen her, or it, or whatever. Just stop leaving notes Pam.

I did learn how to block my caller I.D. from other's phones, so random notes are helpful in that way I guess.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

After all that, I'm getting some babies

I've been the resume queen lately. Unfortunately, not for myself . . . but editor for "the coven", who has decided as a collective that maybe we should be in charge. Since I have the degree, it is felt that I should also be pushing to be "in charge". And at one time, that really was my goal.

I could polish the resume, dye my hair a "normal" color, start wearing some other shoes . . . skully Converse do not scream "administrative material". But I've done that for 10 years and, quite frankly, I like having a job where I can wear Converse. I would actually like a job were I could wear the Converse more.

So M2 keeps pushing for me to work toward my potential. She is graduating . . . and will get job this spring, no doubt about it. As she was asking about my lackadaisical job search the other night, I said, only half kidding, "Nah, I think I just want to find someone to marry and then make babies." Wouldn't have time to do that if I do my best at being an A.P.

So despite my commitment issues and my selfishness, this my new plan. My mother has suggested that I could just "get" some babies . . . there are lots of extra in the world that are in need of a parent. Can always count on Mom for a plan B. When queried about who would help in the taking care of the adopted critters, the reply was "that is what day care is for . . . " This from a woman who put her life on hold for thirteen years to raise her children. (Well, there was the master's degree years -- where we ate lots of smoky links, mac and cheese in the blue box and hung out at car dealerships and the airport. But we learned much in those years . . . about hubcabs, planes, brochures)

So how far I have come . . . from "Relationship? But I don't want a relationship." to "find someone to marry and make some babies." How 1950's. I think I'll go pick out the china pattern this weekend.

An acquaintance of mine did mention that it was the taking care of the babies once you have them that is the hard part . . . noted.

Letter

"Kim,
you nEEd to Call mE. Have things Set up for tomorrow Night. wed . . So call mE OK
Pam
Have you seen AngeL"

Found this tucked into my side door this morning. Handwritten in what seems to be crayon. Red crayon. Have no idea who any of the mentioned parties are . . . note has a phone number, which doesn't work.

So Kim, you need to call Pam. She wants to know if you have seen Angel. And she has things set up for tonight . . . or you need to have them set up . . . or something.

I hope people don't show up in my backyard tonight with the expectation that I have things set up, because they won't be.

There. I let the internet know.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

My Computer May have Bird Flu

Two twenty minute phone calls to the cable company later . . . and I am back on the internet. Not that anyone on the phone helped me . . . yes, I know how to "ipconfig" . . . "ohhh, yeah honey, it's seems that there may be a problem in your area." Like the wind? "Well . . . yeah . . . fourteen other people have called from your area, honey."

Can you imagine? Someone calling me "honey"? (E2 better not make that my new name at school)

Had already reset the modem. Had a bad ip address for a while, so know how to reset the modem since the cable company always starts with that and couldn't figure out what was wrong for a week. A week in the summer, can you imagine? There was a lot of walking to the library.

"So I can send someone on a 'special call' tomorrow . . . they'll come anytime between eight a.m. and eight p.m." No sorry, I'm not going to take a day off and be chained to the house for what might be wind. I have to work. And there is an internet connection at work.

My brother suggested that I might just watch some T.V.

Naah.

But maybe it works now . . . slowly . . . like it has a cough or something, but working.

Best Alternative Career Suggestion

Today's best new career suggestion: Pirate

I would definitely dig being a pirate.

Monday, March 13, 2006

Just the Start of the Race

Went to visit the 'rents yesterday . . . partially to go for a drive and partially to check up on them and make sure that they weren't carried away by chipmunks. Found them in the basement, watching Nascar on the TV that is bigger than some European countries. Plopped down and listened to the interviews, the Prayer, the National Anthem, the "Ladies and Gentleman . . . start your engines".

By the time the cars started moving, I was ready to go DO something. Look at sheds, go outside, pull the teeth out of head . . . anything but watch the cars go round and round, in intense stereo sound. I love to sleep to Nascar. Find the engine noises soothing somehow. But I wanted to move. "Let me just watch the start of the race," pleaded my father. So I left him to Nascar, thinking to myself that the race had already started. The cars were moving, weren't they?

So ended up going to Walmart with my mother. When did my parents become hillbillies? With all the Nascar watchin' and the Walmartin'? Darn those chipmunks and deer. They're rotting their brains.

Sunday, March 12, 2006

Spring is Here?

I know, I know . . . it's Michigan and we could still get seven inches of snow next week. So I'm not taking the snow tires off yet. (and yes, father, I thank you and my lucky stars every day for the snow tires)

But I feel the urge to break out the truck, roll down the windows and drive really fast, which is what I'm going to do in about a half an hour. Maybe even wash the truck. Which I don't do enough.

Have been amazingly unproductive this weekend. Too much ruminating about getting a fire safe that only protects against fire for a half an hour. Did my mother read the box when she bought them for Christmas? Who has a house fire that only lasts a half an hour? Why does the damn thing weigh 17 pounds? What was wrong with my underwear drawer for storage of important papers? So now I have this 17 pound box hidden in my house with only two pieces of paper in it. And I won't take the keys off of the thing, because we all know that I would then lose the keys . . . and then I would never be able to travel out of the country again.

Yes, I know Christmas was three months ago . . . I'm going to go frolic in the springness. Maybe go to Costco and look at sheds. I would really like a new shed.

Saturday, March 11, 2006

Girl . . .You'll Be a Woman . . . Soon

A follow up on the poor little spoiled rich dog . . . evidently, MP is now a woman. They grow up so fast.

And now, in addition to the expensive puppy pads all over the house, Princess has to buy feminine products for her dog. See what happens when you don't just pick one out at the pound?

(Seriously, one should always pick one from the animal shelter . . . it's my little soapbox and I'm going to use it)

Not a Day Over . . .

Had "bookclub" at the Front last night. Service was slow, unusually slow. Starting so late, we were at the "counter" and I was often in charge of getting the attention of the servers.

As an aside, it was Princess's first time at the Front. She liked the music . . . the six to one ratio (lots of boys at bookclub), but "I don't even want to think about what is on this chair." I offered her a "wipe" a la Monk, but she said she preferred to just not think about it.

So this girl behind me just cannot get a "book" and we start talking -- cause that's what I do at the Front, talk to girls -- it was her birthday. "A boring one," she said. I thought she meant because she was at the Front, standing around talking to Princess and me, but instead she meant her age -- a youthful 26.

I told her that if I was 26 it would be a very exciting birthday . . . in a very trying to impart wisdom on the young way. "How old are you?" she asked. I answered truthfully. "No, you don't look a day over 28 . . . " she said, "in fact, you could pass for 27." I sat wondering what the significant difference was between the two . . . or what she thought the difference was.

She finally got her "book" and bounced off. I realized that every time I am at the Front, my age has come up. I never lie and no one ever believes me. Or they are just trying to be really, really, overly nice. Since I only ever talk to girls (and they aren't usually all that nice, as a whole), I don't think so. So from this point forward, I'm 27 . . . since I could probably "pass" and all.

And the only talking to girls isn't true . . . just mostly true.

Friday, March 10, 2006

Palace Virgin

I went to the MHSAA state wrestling finals this evening, a.k.a. "Wrestlemania 2006" according to Princess. Princess asked if she should turn into the West Parking lot, and I replied, "I don't know. I've never been here before."

I was then teased for the rest of the evening for being a virgin to the Palace. Princess even called some of her family members to announce her shock and dismay. So I don't like basketball . . . or arena rock.

So now I have been to the Palace. I'm going again tomorrow. So no longer a Palace virgin.

I Would Love You Too . . .

My friend Princess has a dog training problem. The problem being that there is NO training . . . at all. "MP" does exactly what she wants, when she wants. This includes relieving herself on the floor. Princess insists that it is on the "puppy pad", which are $1.50 a piece. However, I stood this evening and watched the precious animal walk next to the puppy pad and pee on the rug. Princess assures us that "she was close" AND the pad is skewed . . . therefore confusing the cutest dog in the world.

As we stood outside, Princess held the dog in her arms and pronounced, "Yes, you love me . . . you love Mommy." I then announced that if Princess let me pee in the middle of the living room, I would love her too. Endlessly.

One Year Later

Hard to believe that due to M1 limited mobility a year ago . . . this happened. My first post was on March 6, 2005 -- Eharmonizing. And I received a comment right away, warning me of the dangers of eharmony. Little did they know that I'm the type to get kicked off.

So happy blog birthday to me. This has served as wonderful outlet, a great creative discipline and well, it's really early in the morning so I'm not really sure what I'm typing and this is probably all crap.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

But He Was Too Cute . . .

I had to drink a caramel macchiato this morning . . . and now I can't eat anything for the rest of the day, since I just had 45 billion empty caramel-y calories (and milk, yuck). Unfortunately, this state just makes me want to go to coney island . . .

The reason for the sudden caramel macchiato? Something that I would never order. Well, the cute boy with the tattoo on his neck was in drive-thru this morning and I just couldn't bring myself to say "Umm, this isn't my coffee." The giant band-aid covering his neck tattoo aside (a new addition, I was wondering when the management at Starbucks would get around to it), he is really attractive in an alt boy in kind of way. And flirty, and nice . . . and terrible at working the drive-thru. So it wasn't all that unexpected when he handed me a cup that was a different size from what I had ordered (another very predictable thing about me: grande soy latte).

To his credit, he did charge me for the caramel macchiato, so it's not like I stole someone's drink. It just wasn't what I ordered and after all the flirting ("So, what's your name again?") well, it just didn't seem right to kill the moment. And even the giant band-aid is kinda cute.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Paris

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Chipmunk Squaredancing

My mother asked why the mouse traps were set in the middle of the floor. "Don't you know anything about rodents? What'd you think? They were going to have a square dance?"

I didn't set the mouse traps but the idea of a chipmunk square dance and the fact that my brother did in fact bait the middle of the room (looking for brave chipmunks? mentally-ill risk-taking chipmunks?) was very funny to me for some reason. Little doe-see-does until "oh shit! Jorge stepped in the peanut butter." Snap.

One could see, if you were square dancing, how you could forget the large baited traps all over the middle of the floor. Oh, and you were a chipmunk. (For E2 . . . I promise my parents will have a more racially diverse chipmunk square dance in their pump room soon)

Bring on the Kool Aid!

Ahh, the Christian Right and personality assessment! I can't think of a better way to spend an afternoon/evening.

Sure, Jim . . . I'll have some of that Kool Aid . . . right after I stomp on this copy of the first Amendment.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Death Spiral

"In some ways you're random, but in some ways you're so predictable . . ." was the comment made to me yesterday.

I agreed with the comment, but wanted to know how I was predictable (basically, to see if I agreed with the ways in which I am predictable).

"Well, let's start on how you're not going to let this go . . ."

I then brought up that I knew about my "death spiral", where I just get so winged out about something. I will not let it go . . . at least for a couple of hours (some things days) and then it's over. Just over. I don't keep it. However there is a storm . . . or a process that I have to go through. "But I haven't done that in a long time" I said.

And then there was this afternoon . . . and I'm all worked up in predictable fashion. The blog may have to go. People don't think about how their actions effect other people . . . other people who were just trying to mind their own business. I'm just being reactionary and I know it and it sucks and I will just go through this process . . . and everything will be fine.

As an aside, I feel that I should explain the origination of the term "death spiral". My brother was a "unique" child, unique being a kind term for . . . say . . . demon spawn from hell. When he was two, he didn't sleep or more accurately wouldn't sleep for days. We could tell when he was about to crash when he would do what my mother called "the death spiral". He would just start running in circles (I think in an attempt to stay awake) until he crashed and fell asleep on the floor. I distinctly remember stepping over him in the kitchen, while the textured tile imprinted his face. We never moved him . . . didn't want to chance waking him.

He still does a version of this . . . now that he is almost 29. But I think his girlfriend won't let him run in the apartment, or sleep on the floor. Riles up the dogs.

Monday, March 06, 2006

No Incognito

As I stood on the corner of Main and Third, pissed that all the tables were taken at Starbucks (by high schoolers . . . ), I heard a beep and see a young man waving from the backseat. I can hear the conversation in my head, "Hey Dad? I think that's my teacher." I am not supposed to run into people from work in Royal Oak . . . I'm not supposed to run into people I know in Royal Oak if possible (hard, because of the restaurant days, but doable). I am suddenly aware of my scowl and have to change it to "happy school me".

Of course, if I didn't have Elmo colored hair I would be harder to spot, scowling on the corner about the Starbucks.

And before E2 comments about the "happy school me", I do cheerfully say hello to everyone in the hallways . . . she just doesn't get to see this. I even know all of their names, because I'm the yearbook lady.

Saturday, March 04, 2006

Chipmunk Madness

I went to the Crabbypants residence for my brother to check my brakes and found my brother and his friend P in crisis. Evidently, P was interested in my parents ornate water systems and went to the "well room" to look at it. Upon opening the door, P heard rustling and an big thunk . . . so he closed the door hastily and went up to get D. "Something is in there."

Armed with a flashlight and a broom, they returned to the well room to investigate. My brother found the light, switched it on and found little beady eyes staring back at him. The chipmunk had scaled the foam insulation and was at eye level. The chipmunk, now named Jorge, is described as "a huge zombie flesh eating" chipmunk. They screamed like girls and retreated. They then stacked the boxes of empty beer bottles against the door . . . so Jorge couldn't creep under the door. Or get the door open. I'm not sure which.

They then heard "scritching" behind the giant Mr. Crabbypants my T.V. has to be bigger than a small third world country television. Jorge has a friend. Soon afterward, I showed up.

I had to go into the well room (with P telling me to "be careful") and with much bravery, picked up the two mousetraps that were already in the well room. My brother baited them with peanut butter (which they had to find in the middle of pretzels . . . we couldn't find any real peanut butter) and corn. It was pointed out that the mouse trap will only wound the chipmunk, if that . . . but my brother contends that it will at least slow them down.

My mother came home and then we had to do all the speculating about how Jorge and his little friends have gotten into the house. As mentioned previously, Mr. Cat is quite the chipmunk hunter/killer but we think the last chipmunk messed with his liver. Mr. Cat lost a tremendous amount of weight after the chipmunk kill and we had to take him to the vet. His liver is swollen and cats with swollen livers don't eat. Either that, or he got a taste of chipmunk and cat food now pales in comparision. My mother is getting him to eat by serving him crack cat food "Fancy Feast". So now we have to plot about how to keep Mr. Cat from killing Jorge and his friends. His liver just can't take chipmunk . . . they're too rich or full of cholesterol or something.

My mother contends that the last chipmunk was poisoned with Decon and thus the liver problems. This doesn't say much for the cats hunting skills, since then the chipmunk must have been dazed with the poison.

So the Crabbypants, they have chipmunks. Jorge and his friends . . . Passada and Gabriella.

Super Bonus Word of the Day

concupiscence
Look it up and use it in a sentence.
I received an email with it used as an adjective (concupiscent) and as a noun. While I think it was a little forward for the fourth email -- though I'm not sure if it was to be directed at me or just a general nature sort of thing -- you know how I love a man that makes me look things up in the dictionary.

Friday, March 03, 2006

Learning With Nemo

So I'm sitting at FR's computer, because I couldn't wait to check my email and see if someone wrote me back . . . and there is a Pixar learning disk . . . "Learning With Nemo" next to the computer. So I now know FR's secret. She needs to learn with Nemo on the computer.

Hmmm. I wonder WHAT she is learning? Did Nemo plot to take over the world? Was Nemo busy trying to convert people into democrats? Did Nemo make fun of his friends over pantyhose? What IS she learning with this fish?

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Now that Everyone is Sick of Hearing About France

Here is a bunny telling you the perils of not paying attention.

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Happy Birthday D!

It was just 32 years ago that I ran screaming and threw myself on the bed crying because I wanted a baby not a brother.

You did turn out to be better than a baby . . . Happy Birthday bro!

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Au Homard looking for the scissor aisle

Last week I went to France. (and I am still rather jetlagged, which I will use as an excuse for my horrible punctuation, or lack of storytelling abilities) I went with my sister, who is eight years younger than myself . . . and my polar opposite. I am right-brained and random, she is left brained and organized. The last time we spent long amounts of time together, she was ten and I was awful. I think I may be less awful now, being not eighteen, however, within three days I almost smacked her on the back of the head with my (closed) umbrella.

We were in the country of her choice, even though neither of us speaks any French, because it was somehow more interesting than London and she had already been to Germany. Oh, and Europe was cheaper than NYC which is where we were supposed to go in the first place.

We spent a week using gestures and facial expressions, partially because we didn't want to draw attention to ourselves (I know, muppet hair didn't help, duh) and partially because when you heard other Americans on the Metro . . . well . . . they sounded really dumb. When you spend some time with a quiet, mumbly language with no hard sounds -- the words "like" and "yeah" really stick out. And there was the whole being so annoying to each other that one had the desire to do some umbrella smacking, but that was really only once a day. So we put in our headphones and pointed a lot. It turns out most people just thought we were Dutch.

My sister and I come from a family that enjoys . . . well, I suppose it would be called researching the ordinary? We go to the local grocery stores on trips, just to see what is different. Going to the French version of Lowe's (because the museum isn't open yet) and envying the wallpaper (they have such good textures, with all the old plaster to cover up) while confused French people wonder why the Dutch tourists are gesticulating in the paint section . . . it's what my family does.

The French seem to have three important food sections in the Monoprix (like Target with food) -- yogurt, things with made chocolate, and spreadable meats. Each of these had a whole aisle, both sides. Of course, I was basically illiterate for a week so I ate lots of yogurt with interesting surprises. The best was the yogurt with brown sugar syrup on the bottom. The worst, well, I think some of the spreadable meat had gotten mixed in.

We avoided the spreadable meat aisle entirely. The things with chocolate aisle had surprising variety . . . bread with chocolate, rolls with chocolate, croissants with chocolate, Special K with chocolate (thus defeating American Special K logic) . . . chocolate with chocolate. The American section was small and off near the cleaning solutions, with a sign bearing "Tex Mex" and shelves of taco shells and peanut butter.

The most horrible food accident because of illiteracy happened in a very expensive shee-shee restaurant "George" which is on the top of the Centre Georges Pompidou. It’s known for it’s high design and snotty servers. We sat down in our "designed" chairs with our specially printed menus on translucent paper and squinted at the type, not wanting to get out the book and look like tourists. Tomato salad is easy to order . . . M order haricot verts, which we were familiar with . . . but then I found "Macaroni au Homard". I thought this was fancy-shmancy macaroni and cheese. I then thought "yum" and ordered it. The waiter, having figured out immediately that we were not French, or Dutch, said, in English, "ahhh, lobster macaroni". This would have been even better than fancy-shmancy macaroni and cheese, if I liked lobster . . . which I don’t AT ALL. But to change my order would be to admit that I was illiterate. So I bit on my lobster claw and chewed and even swallowed. And didn’t even die. M insists that she knew, because even in France "macaroni and cheese doesn’t cost 29 Euro". I thought it was just really good cheese.