So every so often I am overcome by the girlyness . . . and do something totally insane that I KNOW is insane. This week one of the insane acts was to succumb to that combination of marketing and moisturizer called "Healthy Glow", which I will henceforth call "A touch of Oompa-Loompa".
The whole premise is that you put self-tanner in moisturizer . . . a "touch" of it, and over what is supposed to be several days, you overcome the pallor. Relieved of the pallor is actually what the advertisers want you to think (and Princess . . . who hates pallor. Hates it.) As I cannot tan; for two main reasons, being a. I go from white to lobster to white again . . . no matter how many times I repeat and b. my father just had a huge chunk of skin cancer dug out of this face; I figured that I might try "the touch of Oompa-Loompa" lotion.
While I do not currently look anything like an Oompa-Loompa (though I might get closer if I dye the muppet hair green), I could see where it could go in that direction. There are streaks of what look like sorta tan . . . which I'm sure are supposed to blend in with whatever streaks I add tonight. I guess if you get enough streaks, they blend together in an Oompa-Loompa like glow (a light-skinned Oompa-Loompa anyhow) . . . but that may be too much maintenance for me. So much for my adventure in girlyness for this week.
Thank god I went with the "touch of Oompa-Loompa" and not with the fake eyelashes . . . I could have put my eye out by now.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Monday, May 29, 2006
Crocs
"So Dad, what do you think about Crocs?" my sister asked my father, after a conversation about his loafers.
"I don't like them."
"Do you think he knew I was talking about shoes?" my sister asked my mother as my father walked away.
"No, he thought you were talking about animals . . . your father, he doesn't like crocodiles."
"So Dad, you're morally opposed to crocodiles? What have crocodiles done to you? Have you even been in contact with a crocodile?"
"Crocodiles? Oh, I thought you were talking about crocks . . . you know, the ceramic kind? Your mother keeps buying them and they keep breaking all over the place . . . big mess."
So my father is getting two pairs of Crocs for father's day . . . a pair with holes and a pair without holes . . . so he can wear them to the Wal-mart instead of his loafers w/o socks. It will be better that way. Mere will not get him any crocks or crocodiles, honoring his dislikes.
"I don't like them."
"Do you think he knew I was talking about shoes?" my sister asked my mother as my father walked away.
"No, he thought you were talking about animals . . . your father, he doesn't like crocodiles."
"So Dad, you're morally opposed to crocodiles? What have crocodiles done to you? Have you even been in contact with a crocodile?"
"Crocodiles? Oh, I thought you were talking about crocks . . . you know, the ceramic kind? Your mother keeps buying them and they keep breaking all over the place . . . big mess."
So my father is getting two pairs of Crocs for father's day . . . a pair with holes and a pair without holes . . . so he can wear them to the Wal-mart instead of his loafers w/o socks. It will be better that way. Mere will not get him any crocks or crocodiles, honoring his dislikes.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Suggestive Bunny Barrettes
In getting ready to go out yesterday . . . I found the correct bunny barrette. The one that would be right side up. It took some digging in the "hair accessory" basket, but I found it. And I found it because I knew that it would annoy Princess. I spiked up the hair. I put on a fishnet shirt under my tank top (too much skin with just the tank). I put on Birkenstocks . . . because I just couldn't do heels for Gilbert's and a Piston's game. All would be annoying to Princess though.
Evidently the shirt and Birks were all good. The barrette, of course, got comments. First there was the questioning about where I got the barrette (Target, hair accessory aisle) (Troy Target . . . all Targets have slightly different stock, according to their markets). Then there was the questioning about what I was trying to "say" with the barrette. (that I'm weird enough to wear a bunny barrette at age 35?) Princess insisted that the bunny was suggestive . . . bunny ranch, Playboy bunnies, the fact that bunnies have sex all the time (I added the last one, Princess would never say that) . . . that someone wearing the bunny barrette was a secret symbol to the world that I wanted to get laid. There was questioning about what other animal barrette came in the package (Princess already knows the answer, everyone had the same barrettes in the seventies). How the butterfly would be much less suggestive . . . (I'm not sure about that).
We didn't talk to anyone but the waiter, who wasn't particularly interested in serving us, let alone flirting with us. So evidently, the bunny barrette is more subtle than a neon sign, despite what Princess says. And I was in bed, by myself, by 11 p.m. on a Saturday.
Evidently the shirt and Birks were all good. The barrette, of course, got comments. First there was the questioning about where I got the barrette (Target, hair accessory aisle) (Troy Target . . . all Targets have slightly different stock, according to their markets). Then there was the questioning about what I was trying to "say" with the barrette. (that I'm weird enough to wear a bunny barrette at age 35?) Princess insisted that the bunny was suggestive . . . bunny ranch, Playboy bunnies, the fact that bunnies have sex all the time (I added the last one, Princess would never say that) . . . that someone wearing the bunny barrette was a secret symbol to the world that I wanted to get laid. There was questioning about what other animal barrette came in the package (Princess already knows the answer, everyone had the same barrettes in the seventies). How the butterfly would be much less suggestive . . . (I'm not sure about that).
We didn't talk to anyone but the waiter, who wasn't particularly interested in serving us, let alone flirting with us. So evidently, the bunny barrette is more subtle than a neon sign, despite what Princess says. And I was in bed, by myself, by 11 p.m. on a Saturday.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
It's Official
They say that Memorial Day marks the beginning of the summer season . . . you can break out the white pants and shoes (but who would want to?), it stays light until 9 p.m., there's a bonfire in my parent backyard with smores. But really the mark of the start of summer was this morning, on the way to Lowe's to buy some flowers.
"So drive the Milford road way, so we can go to Dairy Queen and have flurries for breakfast." my mother says.
The real start of summer is when you can have a nerd flurry (or as the Dairy Queen lady corrected us: Blizzard) for breakfast.
The problem is I don't really want a whole nerd flurry . . . ever. Even for breakfast, when I have the rest of the day to burn off all the calories (176 million, I'm sure). I only really want half a small nerd flurry at any given time. But you can't share a nerd flurry . . . because no one (except me) likes ice cream whipped with nerd candy, unless they are maybe under the age of, say, four and a half. And I don't hang out with a lot of four year olds. I suppose I could just throw half of the nerd flurry away, but that seems wasteful of the nerds and flurry. And Dairy Queen just doesn't make a "snow shower", they only make blizzards, which are way too big.
But on the plus side, I don't have to think about eating for the rest of the day. And I found some black flowers at the Lowe's for my backyard. There are black flowers, who knew? So Addam's family. I can hardly stand it.
So summer is here.
"So drive the Milford road way, so we can go to Dairy Queen and have flurries for breakfast." my mother says.
The real start of summer is when you can have a nerd flurry (or as the Dairy Queen lady corrected us: Blizzard) for breakfast.
The problem is I don't really want a whole nerd flurry . . . ever. Even for breakfast, when I have the rest of the day to burn off all the calories (176 million, I'm sure). I only really want half a small nerd flurry at any given time. But you can't share a nerd flurry . . . because no one (except me) likes ice cream whipped with nerd candy, unless they are maybe under the age of, say, four and a half. And I don't hang out with a lot of four year olds. I suppose I could just throw half of the nerd flurry away, but that seems wasteful of the nerds and flurry. And Dairy Queen just doesn't make a "snow shower", they only make blizzards, which are way too big.
But on the plus side, I don't have to think about eating for the rest of the day. And I found some black flowers at the Lowe's for my backyard. There are black flowers, who knew? So Addam's family. I can hardly stand it.
So summer is here.
Friday, May 26, 2006
They Even Have Cupcakes
So I'm out in the land that is suddenly on the map . . . due to all the news coverage and a now destroyed horse barn. Figured I'd come back tomorrow and troll the bars, hoping to pick up some F.B.I. guys. Maybe at the Dairy Queen.
No one at Stately Wayne Manor knows exactly where the farm is, that is being dug up in search of bones that are probably not there . . . but as we recall, there are bones everywhere here. Perhaps Z. and I were actually playing with the bones they are looking for. Deer bones, Hoffa bones, who can tell? Oh well, Z.'s mom threw out the bag of bones ages ago. Destined for the landfill off of Five Mile, I'm sure.
Quiet night with the 'rents. On a Friday night . . . I'm so lame, but I haven't seen them in a while and I missed them (and the yelling . . sorry Dad).
It has been brought up that it is strange to call your father "Mr. Crabbypants", especially to his face. But it must be understood that it is said with the upmost respect and love. And he is a crabbypants . . . sometimes. And sometimes, being called a Crabbypants will knock you down a notch when a person is being crabby. Just sayin'. He does the same for me. Honest.
No one at Stately Wayne Manor knows exactly where the farm is, that is being dug up in search of bones that are probably not there . . . but as we recall, there are bones everywhere here. Perhaps Z. and I were actually playing with the bones they are looking for. Deer bones, Hoffa bones, who can tell? Oh well, Z.'s mom threw out the bag of bones ages ago. Destined for the landfill off of Five Mile, I'm sure.
Quiet night with the 'rents. On a Friday night . . . I'm so lame, but I haven't seen them in a while and I missed them (and the yelling . . sorry Dad).
It has been brought up that it is strange to call your father "Mr. Crabbypants", especially to his face. But it must be understood that it is said with the upmost respect and love. And he is a crabbypants . . . sometimes. And sometimes, being called a Crabbypants will knock you down a notch when a person is being crabby. Just sayin'. He does the same for me. Honest.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Finally, Someone Loves Me!
Thanks to the tech guy at work, I have a gmail account!
iamthanu@gmail.com
I've been waiting forever for someone to invite me. Gmail is like a good street address . . . you'd must rather say that you live on say . . . Cranbrook Road, rather than 14 Mile. I feel so included in the cult of google. I feel so loved.
iamthanu@gmail.com
I've been waiting forever for someone to invite me. Gmail is like a good street address . . . you'd must rather say that you live on say . . . Cranbrook Road, rather than 14 Mile. I feel so included in the cult of google. I feel so loved.
Scary Movies
I watched a really dumb horror movie last night. And not as in the parody, Evil Dead like genre, but a horror movie that took itself seriously. "The Hills Have Eyes" They must have bought out all the corn syrup and red food coloring in the state of California. A lot of it seemed to be gross for the sake of just being gross, shocking for the sake of being shocking. And there was this whole "Democrat gets mad and kicks a**" theme, where a pacifist main character is so overwrought by the killing of his wife and the stealing of his baby that he becomes a killing machine. I suppose it could happen . . . evidently it is curiously common in bad horror movies. But I never watch horror movies, so I don’t know this.
The reason I never watch horror movies? Because I am a wimp. I startle easily. I have to close my eyes through most of the scary parts, or what I think are going to be the scary parts (I don’t know, I have my eyes closed) which I judge by the music. I’m kind of okay with the gore . . . I can conceptualize special effects (I know they’re not real) but then whenever I close my eyes for the rest of the day (or worse night, when it’s dark) I will see certain scenes in my head.
After the scary movie (or book for that matter), I have to lock all the doors and check them, and then check them again and check all the windows and check the basement and then sit in bed with the four D cell mag light in my head so I can beat anyone up side the head who might come to get me.
Last night, I screamed three times (a least), hid my eyes for about a third of the movie and it must have hurt when I squeezed C. when that guy jumped on that other bloody guy without the finger (guess you had to be there). Yeah, so I’m a wimp. But it was really fun and I would have never gone on my own.
Well worth having to picture the geeky guy in a freezer full of body parts, every time I close my eyes.
The reason I never watch horror movies? Because I am a wimp. I startle easily. I have to close my eyes through most of the scary parts, or what I think are going to be the scary parts (I don’t know, I have my eyes closed) which I judge by the music. I’m kind of okay with the gore . . . I can conceptualize special effects (I know they’re not real) but then whenever I close my eyes for the rest of the day (or worse night, when it’s dark) I will see certain scenes in my head.
After the scary movie (or book for that matter), I have to lock all the doors and check them, and then check them again and check all the windows and check the basement and then sit in bed with the four D cell mag light in my head so I can beat anyone up side the head who might come to get me.
Last night, I screamed three times (a least), hid my eyes for about a third of the movie and it must have hurt when I squeezed C. when that guy jumped on that other bloody guy without the finger (guess you had to be there). Yeah, so I’m a wimp. But it was really fun and I would have never gone on my own.
Well worth having to picture the geeky guy in a freezer full of body parts, every time I close my eyes.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
. . . but Mercutio started it . . .
I was asked the age old question today, while reenacting Act III, Scene I of Romeo and Juliet. "Why do we have to learn this?"
"You have to admit that it is a good story . . . "
"Yeah, but in twenty years I won't need to know this."
I went on to say that we were analyzing great literature, which is a skill that everyone needs, and that it was about the process of that analysis, rather than the story or the analysis itself.
"Plus, we get to play with these plastic swords . . . " and that seemed to make more sense to them. (My mother buys me presents for my classroom at the dollar store . . . one day they had play swords . . . priceless for death scenes)
I get really into teaching Romeo and Juliet, but I have to admit that I understand it much more being through adolescence rather than in adolescence. It is different looking back at the implusiveness of youth, rather than trying to reflect while in the middle of it. Plus there are all those raunchy parts . . . which I so didn't get in ninth grade. And so I stand, with plastic sword in hand, trying to get across that Romeo and Juliet marry nineteen hours after laying eyes on each other because Shakespeare wanted to explore that teenagers just don't think, about consequences, etc. in a room full of teenagers who just don't think about consequences, etc. Kind of ironic.
What I've learned? They pay more attention with the plastic swords and death scenes.
"You have to admit that it is a good story . . . "
"Yeah, but in twenty years I won't need to know this."
I went on to say that we were analyzing great literature, which is a skill that everyone needs, and that it was about the process of that analysis, rather than the story or the analysis itself.
"Plus, we get to play with these plastic swords . . . " and that seemed to make more sense to them. (My mother buys me presents for my classroom at the dollar store . . . one day they had play swords . . . priceless for death scenes)
I get really into teaching Romeo and Juliet, but I have to admit that I understand it much more being through adolescence rather than in adolescence. It is different looking back at the implusiveness of youth, rather than trying to reflect while in the middle of it. Plus there are all those raunchy parts . . . which I so didn't get in ninth grade. And so I stand, with plastic sword in hand, trying to get across that Romeo and Juliet marry nineteen hours after laying eyes on each other because Shakespeare wanted to explore that teenagers just don't think, about consequences, etc. in a room full of teenagers who just don't think about consequences, etc. Kind of ironic.
What I've learned? They pay more attention with the plastic swords and death scenes.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
There was NO way . . .
I was doin' ninety. I drive like a grandmother (E2 shouts this from the rooftops). And yet, as the cop pulled me over and walked over with her very short hair and regulation hat (on correctly) . . . I knew I was going to get a ticket. For some reason, female policepersons do not like me. Do not like me at all. I would like to blame it on the hair . . . but it was before the hair. Maybe it's how I smell, but probably it's my attitude. Well, definitely it's my attitude.
"Do you know how fast you were going?" Of course I knew how fast I was going . . . well, that's not true, I don't actually know exactly how fast . . . but I slowed down when I saw your blue car with the flashers, didn't I? Which is what got me in trouble. The car in front of me was going faster, but didn't slow down as fast, or as obviously. In my guilt (at going 72 mph), I slowed down and changed lanes behind a truck. I really had to slow down to get behind the truck, which Ms. Policewoman took to mean that I was going really, really fast. As E2, ask my brothers . . . I never go really fast.
So I was written up for ten over. I have to go to court three hours away. I think it's two points. All for going to Kalamazoo on a Saturday morning. I really should have stayed in bed.
My sister's house it cute though . . . so well, worth the trip. The trip that will now be called the "$1000 trip to Kalamazoo" (by the time the insurance company gets done with me).
"Do you know how fast you were going?" Of course I knew how fast I was going . . . well, that's not true, I don't actually know exactly how fast . . . but I slowed down when I saw your blue car with the flashers, didn't I? Which is what got me in trouble. The car in front of me was going faster, but didn't slow down as fast, or as obviously. In my guilt (at going 72 mph), I slowed down and changed lanes behind a truck. I really had to slow down to get behind the truck, which Ms. Policewoman took to mean that I was going really, really fast. As E2, ask my brothers . . . I never go really fast.
So I was written up for ten over. I have to go to court three hours away. I think it's two points. All for going to Kalamazoo on a Saturday morning. I really should have stayed in bed.
My sister's house it cute though . . . so well, worth the trip. The trip that will now be called the "$1000 trip to Kalamazoo" (by the time the insurance company gets done with me).
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Being of the Crabbypants
I just had to sign something that basically said that I wouldn't be crabby anymore . . . it was symbolic and some sort of "team building" romantic "can't we just all get along" thing. The latest mantra is "if we're just more positive, things will be great!"
While I'm sure this worked for many, many organizations . . . Enron for example and (I know, I never thought it would come out of my mouth) the Bush administration (sorry, George, really) . . . it really just brings out my oppositionally defiant streak. I now want a T-shirt that says "I'm not feeling positive" (this was a note written to me in a meeting today) so I can close my door and people will just leave me alone. So I won't get lectured about the power of positive thinking. Give me something positive to think about instead . . .
Oh, and people touched me today. Put their hands on my shoulders from behind. I wish I had a picture of the look on my face, because I'm sure it was priceless. I'm sure it was something between shock, horror and the visible plan painted across my face that I would soon punch someone.
While I'm sure this worked for many, many organizations . . . Enron for example and (I know, I never thought it would come out of my mouth) the Bush administration (sorry, George, really) . . . it really just brings out my oppositionally defiant streak. I now want a T-shirt that says "I'm not feeling positive" (this was a note written to me in a meeting today) so I can close my door and people will just leave me alone. So I won't get lectured about the power of positive thinking. Give me something positive to think about instead . . .
Oh, and people touched me today. Put their hands on my shoulders from behind. I wish I had a picture of the look on my face, because I'm sure it was priceless. I'm sure it was something between shock, horror and the visible plan painted across my face that I would soon punch someone.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Description of my Dysfunctionalness
"So let me get this straight . . . you're like . . . you're too far away, come closer . . . no wait, you're too close . . . now you're too far away . . . no, too close . . . nope, too far . . . "
Even though the poor guy is standing still . . . metaphorically at least?
Yup, that's pretty much it. Ack, too close . . . but wait, no, too far. I'm going to start carrying a paper bag in my purse, for all the hyperventilation.
Better than some things I could carry, I guess.
Even though the poor guy is standing still . . . metaphorically at least?
Yup, that's pretty much it. Ack, too close . . . but wait, no, too far. I'm going to start carrying a paper bag in my purse, for all the hyperventilation.
Better than some things I could carry, I guess.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Are You Sure?
People say things that they don't mean, all the time. And there are some things that you can not take back . . . no matter how much time passes or how much you tell yourself that you don't care.
Even more complicated when you think you mean it . . .
Best lyric of the day:
"between the lines of fear and blame, you begin to wonder why you came . . .
Let him know that you know best, cause after all, you do know best . . . "
-- The Fray, How to Save a Life
Even more complicated when you think you mean it . . .
Best lyric of the day:
"between the lines of fear and blame, you begin to wonder why you came . . .
Let him know that you know best, cause after all, you do know best . . . "
-- The Fray, How to Save a Life
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Now I Don't HAVE To . . .
The H&M opened Friday in Ann Arbor . . . it's Sunday and I've already been there twice. The bigger store is opening at Lakeside on June 2 and I'm half thinking of working there. It would keep me off the streets and give me a 25% discount.
Ikea is opening in Canton in 23 days. So it is the summer of shopping (like last summer was different . . . before these stores). Now I don't have to travel to New York, Chicago or, in the extreme, Paris, to shop. Not that I won't do that anyway. I don't even have to leave the state. I may become provincial . . . except that most of my friends have left me, so I have to travel to see them.
So glad that Detroit is kinda becoming real.
Ikea is opening in Canton in 23 days. So it is the summer of shopping (like last summer was different . . . before these stores). Now I don't have to travel to New York, Chicago or, in the extreme, Paris, to shop. Not that I won't do that anyway. I don't even have to leave the state. I may become provincial . . . except that most of my friends have left me, so I have to travel to see them.
So glad that Detroit is kinda becoming real.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Mother's Day
"Could you stop sending me flowers for Mother's Day? The cat just eats the flowers and then I just have chewed up looking flowers."
"I didn't send you the flowers, Mom."
"But your name was on them."
"I know. They didn't help pay for the ring, so my name is on the flowers."
"So just wait until the cat dies to send me flowers."
"Well, you know what we're going to do if the cat dies . . ."
"Send me flowers?"
"No, we're going to get you another cat. J. has loads of extra ones."
"I didn't send you the flowers, Mom."
"But your name was on them."
"I know. They didn't help pay for the ring, so my name is on the flowers."
"So just wait until the cat dies to send me flowers."
"Well, you know what we're going to do if the cat dies . . ."
"Send me flowers?"
"No, we're going to get you another cat. J. has loads of extra ones."
Good Stuff
Especially on the radio commercial . . . "STOP . . . MONKEY! THAT . . . TICKLES. . . STOP, STOP . . . MONKEY . . .OH THAT FEELS SO GOOD . . . NO, THAT FEELS BAD . . . MONKEY PLEASE." Or something like that.
Just push the red button, he's there for emotional support.
Just push the red button, he's there for emotional support.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Have one bad day on the internet
". . . and then you didn't post the next day, so I called to make sure that you hadn't committed suicide or something . . . " says my sister on the phone this evening. "So you better post after saying something like that."
I'm still alive and kicking and occasionally screaming. Didn't mean to worry you. Had a bad day . . . and didn't post the full amount of rambling thoughts that I had written. Sometimes I do that, to protect the possibly innocent. Or to not let the guilty know that I'm on to them. Or to not hurt anyone . . .
But yeah, still here. Just busy.
I'm still alive and kicking and occasionally screaming. Didn't mean to worry you. Had a bad day . . . and didn't post the full amount of rambling thoughts that I had written. Sometimes I do that, to protect the possibly innocent. Or to not let the guilty know that I'm on to them. Or to not hurt anyone . . .
But yeah, still here. Just busy.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Whole lot of Suck
You know those moments that you know so exactly what you don't want . . .
Yeah, that's been today. All over the place.
Yeah, that's been today. All over the place.
It Might Be the P.M.S.
You know those moments when you know so exactly what you don't want . . .
Yeah, that's been today.
I don't want drooley dogs.
I don't want to be anyone's default girlfriend.
I don't want to think that you will just keep going out with me because you've never broken up with anyone.
I don't want to hear about your pining for Heidi, the fabulous ex-girlfriend.
I don't want to stand there waiting while you talk to your ex-wife.
I don't want to know that you thought about asking "super-mega hottie" out.
I don't want to know that it was only the picture on her desk that stopped you, not thoughts of me.
I don't want to know that you are fundamentally unhappy . . . and that it means that I don't make you happy.
I don't want to do this.
I don't want to feel this.
I don't want to cry about you . . . or about me and how inadequate I feel right now.
I don't want to break up with you.
I do want to be the center of someone's universe. I want someone to appreciate my quirks and think that I'm really cool. And I want them to be the center of my universe and I want to think they're really cool (even if they really aren't . . . I'm not all that cool either).
And so it's back to the drawing board.
Yeah, that's been today.
I don't want drooley dogs.
I don't want to be anyone's default girlfriend.
I don't want to think that you will just keep going out with me because you've never broken up with anyone.
I don't want to hear about your pining for Heidi, the fabulous ex-girlfriend.
I don't want to stand there waiting while you talk to your ex-wife.
I don't want to know that you thought about asking "super-mega hottie" out.
I don't want to know that it was only the picture on her desk that stopped you, not thoughts of me.
I don't want to know that you are fundamentally unhappy . . . and that it means that I don't make you happy.
I don't want to do this.
I don't want to feel this.
I don't want to cry about you . . . or about me and how inadequate I feel right now.
I don't want to break up with you.
I do want to be the center of someone's universe. I want someone to appreciate my quirks and think that I'm really cool. And I want them to be the center of my universe and I want to think they're really cool (even if they really aren't . . . I'm not all that cool either).
And so it's back to the drawing board.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Kill Them All
I have killed exactly four ants, one in my kitchen and three in my living room. Another ant crawled across Imaginary Boy's hand the other night . . . and I couldn't find him as he fell to the floor. So five ants. Five ants in my house.
Now we all know there is no such thing as five ants. For those of us who have not lived an ant battle in person, I'm sure you've see some show on PBS where they show you an ant's life. And it's not all cute and cartoony and "let's cooperate with the dancing circus ladybug." It's swarmy. They come in swarms. As my brother pointed out, "Those ants they're shifty, you can't trust them."
Now I don't know why the ants want in my living room. As a rule, I don't have any food in the house (though lately I have been grocery shopping . . . I do have an orange on the table) and I don't know what they think they will find crawling around my living room. But they just can't be there. They're not welcome . . . I have major ant damage from childhood.
When we lived in Wyandotte, there were a lot of secrets to our house. One being that when the sugar rationing of the 1940's happened, whoever owned the house decided to hoard sugar. Up in the attic, where the sugar police wouldn't find it. That would have been fine . . . I'm okay with needing sugary goodness, except that when the rationing was over, they left the sugar. Or forgot about the sugar. Or thought that the rationing would come back? I don't know. But the ants found the sugar and then the rest of the house, and ate it. We did not know this . . . I was five, so I was blissfully unaware of most things, except that my Mother was perpetually at war with the ants. And the ants were everywhere. And the ants would not stop (and my Mother is not one to give up and be carried away by ants, either). I can still remember the taste of Diazinon in the air each spring. The hockey puck orange ant traps (that we used as hockey pucks). The yelling at the ants. It was worse than the Amityville horror . . . with ants.
My parents found out about the sugar much later. I think they decided to sell the house (among other reasons) when it was discovered that the house was pretty much just wall paper and siding with nothing in between, because the ants ate it all. I hate ants. I feel my Mother's disgust and hear her screams. They make me anxious . . . if they are indoors. I don't even really like them outdoors.
So I have just treated my foundation with enough Triazacide to kill anything that walks within a foot of my house. The butterflies can flit in other people's yards . . . must . . . kill . . . the ants.
Sad thing is . . . I was once recruited for the Entomology program at State (I think because they wanted more girls) so I understand Integrated Pest Management and some Bug Conservation. But with ants, I just don't care. Sorry environment . . . and spiders.
Now we all know there is no such thing as five ants. For those of us who have not lived an ant battle in person, I'm sure you've see some show on PBS where they show you an ant's life. And it's not all cute and cartoony and "let's cooperate with the dancing circus ladybug." It's swarmy. They come in swarms. As my brother pointed out, "Those ants they're shifty, you can't trust them."
Now I don't know why the ants want in my living room. As a rule, I don't have any food in the house (though lately I have been grocery shopping . . . I do have an orange on the table) and I don't know what they think they will find crawling around my living room. But they just can't be there. They're not welcome . . . I have major ant damage from childhood.
When we lived in Wyandotte, there were a lot of secrets to our house. One being that when the sugar rationing of the 1940's happened, whoever owned the house decided to hoard sugar. Up in the attic, where the sugar police wouldn't find it. That would have been fine . . . I'm okay with needing sugary goodness, except that when the rationing was over, they left the sugar. Or forgot about the sugar. Or thought that the rationing would come back? I don't know. But the ants found the sugar and then the rest of the house, and ate it. We did not know this . . . I was five, so I was blissfully unaware of most things, except that my Mother was perpetually at war with the ants. And the ants were everywhere. And the ants would not stop (and my Mother is not one to give up and be carried away by ants, either). I can still remember the taste of Diazinon in the air each spring. The hockey puck orange ant traps (that we used as hockey pucks). The yelling at the ants. It was worse than the Amityville horror . . . with ants.
My parents found out about the sugar much later. I think they decided to sell the house (among other reasons) when it was discovered that the house was pretty much just wall paper and siding with nothing in between, because the ants ate it all. I hate ants. I feel my Mother's disgust and hear her screams. They make me anxious . . . if they are indoors. I don't even really like them outdoors.
So I have just treated my foundation with enough Triazacide to kill anything that walks within a foot of my house. The butterflies can flit in other people's yards . . . must . . . kill . . . the ants.
Sad thing is . . . I was once recruited for the Entomology program at State (I think because they wanted more girls) so I understand Integrated Pest Management and some Bug Conservation. But with ants, I just don't care. Sorry environment . . . and spiders.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Two Closets of Nothin' to Wear
Shopped for hours yesterday, with no luck. No dress for tonight. Yes, yes, I know I have four dresses from friends weddings, plus the five previous prom night dresses and all of the "affairs of state" outfits that I have stuffed into my closet. But it wasn't about having nothing to choose from . . . it was about bribing myself into being excited about Prom. It's always so much better with a chipper attitude, otherwise I am tempted to go catch the smokers . . . and no one wants me to do that. Not even the adults in charge.
Being an adult shopping for prom dresses is much more complicated than if you are in high school. It can't be too dressy, as you're not there to upstage anyone. I think floor length is way too much. Not too "Jenny Cleves". For some reason the "alternate length" trend meant there were old lady dresses that were way too short. And black is nice . . . you really just want to blend into the wall for the most part. The dress is really for the book club afterward anyhow.
So I will have to make do with what I have. I didn't even get new shoes . . . because, quite frankly, there were a few contenders but none of them were on sale enough. Found a great fifty dollar dress that was actually $182.00, but it was only fifty dollars worth of good to me. And you can't get the shoes until you know which dress. So I will dig deep . . . I'm sure I have shoes that I have forgotten about.
Being an adult shopping for prom dresses is much more complicated than if you are in high school. It can't be too dressy, as you're not there to upstage anyone. I think floor length is way too much. Not too "Jenny Cleves". For some reason the "alternate length" trend meant there were old lady dresses that were way too short. And black is nice . . . you really just want to blend into the wall for the most part. The dress is really for the book club afterward anyhow.
So I will have to make do with what I have. I didn't even get new shoes . . . because, quite frankly, there were a few contenders but none of them were on sale enough. Found a great fifty dollar dress that was actually $182.00, but it was only fifty dollars worth of good to me. And you can't get the shoes until you know which dress. So I will dig deep . . . I'm sure I have shoes that I have forgotten about.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Monday, May 01, 2006
My Eighth Prom
Part of my penance for being naughty is that I have to do things . . . things that I didn't like to do when I was in high school, over and over again. Like the movie "Groundhog Day" but with rah, rah stuff. I wouldn't have been caught dead at a powderpuff game in high school (my high school even had one . . . I just saw it in my yearbook. I had no idea that we even did that at PCCS.) and now I go to every one. Never went to Homecoming . . . now I'm there with a walkie-talkie telling kids to "leave room for Jesus".
This week is Prom, my eighth, counting the two I went to when I was actually in high school. And I hate to admit this, but after five proms as a quasi-chaperone, I've gotten good at it. I always buy a new outfit . . . gives me something to do and gives the kids something to talk about. I only come for part of the festivities. We don't need pictures of the whole thing. I only dance after most of the children have gotten back into their obnoxious limos and left for their hotels/parties. The nice kids stay . . . and we have a nice time. Someone will request some ska and we'll jump around in our party clothes. I always go out to dinner afterward, thus giving me a real reason to dress up.
So prom won't be that bad. Always show up late and leave rather early . . . remember that it's not your job to chaperone (I'm not on the list), just to take the pictures.
This week is Prom, my eighth, counting the two I went to when I was actually in high school. And I hate to admit this, but after five proms as a quasi-chaperone, I've gotten good at it. I always buy a new outfit . . . gives me something to do and gives the kids something to talk about. I only come for part of the festivities. We don't need pictures of the whole thing. I only dance after most of the children have gotten back into their obnoxious limos and left for their hotels/parties. The nice kids stay . . . and we have a nice time. Someone will request some ska and we'll jump around in our party clothes. I always go out to dinner afterward, thus giving me a real reason to dress up.
So prom won't be that bad. Always show up late and leave rather early . . . remember that it's not your job to chaperone (I'm not on the list), just to take the pictures.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)