Photoshopped In

Princess and I are on the queen size bed, drinking extremely good wine (Princess brought it) out of plastic cups that had been wrapped for our safety. In fact, everything had been wrapped for our safety and I was unsure how to get the toilet lid open . . . for at least a couple of minutes. Sex in the City is on the television. We are in our jammies. Princess has washed her face with all the things in her kit. I'm not sure this is what Marv had pictured when designing this room.

There are no window treatments . . . so getting into the jammies was an interesting show to the single wide trailers across the lake. I do not think of these things (being not shy . . . ) but Princess, she notices and is appalled. I set my stuff all over the edge of the forbidden hot tub and am sure that someone will know that I "used" it, in some capacity . . . to hold my makeup and toothpaste.

Princess has claimed the single bed in the corner to sleep in and falls asleep immediately. I am more awake, since I had coffee at dinner. I had turned on every light in the room at one point, to stave off the eerie red glow and now I cannot find the switch to one light in the middle of the room. It is not red, thank goodness, but I am a light sleeper and the light keeps me from sleeping soundly. Instead of my normal waking up at every hour, I wake every 15 minutes or so . . . to the point that I get up to search for the switch several times. Examining the lamp to see if the switch is contained on it. Switching on other lights to see if that switch might somehow magically control two. I get no sleep.

The shower is hard to find . . . behind the entry door with a large "SHOWER" sign, routered and varnished. I let Princess shower first (her hair takes longer). The shower is small . . . not as small as European showers . . . but small by American standards and the water smells awful. I know that it is because of the well water, but ugh. And this is what people fill the forbidden hot tub with? I leave the experience not really feeling clean and welcome the sounds of Princess complaining that her hair . . . it's going to be flat, because the water is all soft. I dress for the people with binoculars across the lake.

The sign on the inside of the door reads: "Be sure to take all your belongings. Items left will be disposed of in five days." Disposed and five are both underlined and unlike all the other signs in the place, this one is paper covered in plastic, letters green. "Boy, this place just has a plethora of rules." Princess muses.

Marv had talked up the complimentary breakfast, so we expected great things as we hauled our things through the kitchen again. Scrambled eggs, toast, and jiffy mix muffins. That was breakfast. The toast was being made two pieces at a time in an ancient toaster, with some of that Hillbilly bread that my grandmother used to like. I don't eat eggs, but I heard they were nothing to be excited about. The muffin . . . which was a Jiffy mix muffin (I've toured the factory. I know.) was underfilled and was dwarfed by it's pastel blue cupcake cup. We both took some coffee and both regretted the decision. Princess decided that the best way to deal with the brown water-like substance was to throw it down her throat. I was a bit more cautious, as it smelled much like the shower. In the end, Princess was nauseous . . . I was just cranky.

As I sat there, beautiful lake on one side . . . Princess openly wondering why anyone would paint on a saw on the other . . . I thought about the surrealness of the moment. Princess, with her perfect hair (despite, or perhaps in spite, of the soft water) and her general perfectness, sitting with a buffalo head over her head. It was if someone had taken a photo and then photoshopped her in . . . with the Mennonites and all the signs in the background. Couples, smiling from what I suppose was the hot tub experience, were filing in for their complimentary eggs and Jiffy mix muffins, and not a one was a day under 80. I suppose I looked Photoshopped too.

We made our escape but not before raiding the gift shop, full of more signs that Marv had evidently made for sale. Princess purchased three signs with giant dollar store pencils attached to them. "Word Processor" was wood-burned underneath each, in slanted handwriting, with "The Shack" sort of melted into the paint of each pencil. I bought some mugs, mainly for the "Jugsville" reference (Princess and I . . . the Jugs in Jugsville) and a small box that had "Three piece chicken dinner 99 cents" written in the same handwriting. If you slide open the box, there is a hole with three pieces of corn. My grandmother would have thought that was hilarious.

I was hoping that there would be a McDonalds . . . for some coffee . . . but no luck. Just corn and barns and single wide trailers and churches and more churches.

Every day is Halloween

"I wonder if anyone else knows that Emily just dressed as herself today?"

Aside

The universe is still conspiring . . . and I'm currently experiencing some anxiety about it. Not too much, could just be that I need some breakfast.

Why is it that when you really, really like someone, they want nothing to do with you? And when you are kind of eh, I might sorta like you . . . well, then they really, really like you . . .

Wrong time, wrong place, wrong emotional level . . .

And I just wanna find my lobster. And he isn't it.

I don't think anyway . . .

(and then there is the sinking feeling . . . shit, what if he is? No, he's not. But what if he is? But he is not, although he is the nicest man in the world . . . and so it goes . . .)

And I'm not sure that he even likes me. Just a scenario I'm playing with in my head.

The Shack Inn

I don't suppose that I mentioned that they have a website.

So Princess and I get all our stuff. Marv leads us through the kitchen to our rooms (that can't be sanitary). There are people sitting at the kitchen island eating ice cream and they nod at us in acknowledgement. Are they guests? Relatives? Disciples? I'm not sure.

There is no elevator, just a run of steep stairs with a 90 degree turn in the middle. Everything is knotty pine. Well, not the industrial grade carpet that makes everything look like a 70's basement . . . but everything else is covered with a protective layer of knotty pine . . . and varnish . . . and signs . . . with Bible verses . . .

We get to our room (room 106, I believe). There is a giant NO SMOKING routered sign on the door, bigger than the room number. Okay, we won't smoke. We open the door to find . . .

The first thing that hits you is the hanging red light. Red glass, hanging off a chain from the ceiling. Underneath the red light is an enormous tub, in the middle of the room. Across from the tub is a queen size bed, framed with red lights. The wallpaper is red velvet. It is dark, from all the red lighting. There is a single bed to the back of the room, made of knotty pine. And there is rope . . . stapled to the wall with giant staples. A design rising up the wall, ending in two hearts. Princess and I have been assigned the honeymoon, plus one? suite. And we stand in awe.

Fall Back

Did we fall back and I just didn't know about it? Usually it's on the T.V. or the radio . . . but oh, that's right, I haven't looked at or listened to either of those things in a while. I guess I'll trust my phone.

I would have slept longer.

Every Inch

So I'm at this compound . . . and we park the mega-mobile near the door. Every inch of the front porch is covered with signage. All signs are wood. Hand carved. Router crazy craftsmanship. With shiny varnish. Lots of shiny varnish. It was word overload. "Welcome" "No Smoking" "Smoke Free Building" "Fabulous Brunch" And then there were little signs between the big signs. Woodburned. Too much to read.

The front desk is empty, but there are little angel statues with flowers and an open Bible. Not a good sign. There are inspirational quotes on the walls. Also not a good sign. Handwritten sign: "Sorry, having banana splits. Be back soon." I'm going to sleep in the mega-mobile.

"Marv" comes from the dining room. He had waved to us as we had come in but just sat at the table, next to "Janette" I later found out. Didn't get up right away, had to finish his ice cream. I thought he was a guest at "The Shack". Marv looks like he is a reanimated corpse. With perma-smile. Finds our reservation. In slow motion. "You have a hot tub room but you can't use the hot tub. Costs extra. It was the only room with two beds." Princess starts riffin' on the hot tub, trying to warm Marv up. It doesn't work. He is very serious about the non-use of the hot tub . . . a hot tub that Princess and I would never use in the first place. And when he says hot tub, I'm picturing a whirlpool tub, like in my parent's bathroom. We finally get the keys, after swearing that we will never even think about using the hot tub. I stare at the truck hat display. They all say "The Shack" on them. I find Shack postcards. They have Bible sayings on them. I buy all five of the series.

You Just Like to Say Newaygo

I packed early in the morning and only forgot two things . . . important things as it turned out . . .

We left right after work and took Princess' mega-mobile. It was her gig. I was the navigator. But all I had really to navigate was "drive to Grand Rapids . . . turn right . . . drive until there is nothing . . . "

We stopped in Okemos and had a lovely dinner. Princess had a filet . . . because she is named Princess for a reason . . . I had a nice sirloin and dessert . . . although I am just as princess-y. I think I left my hat at the restaurant. If anyone goes to Stillwater in Okemos, it is burgandy and hand-knit. Please pick it up for me. It was a nice hat.

Then the serious driving began. It was 7:30 and dark. We stopped twice to go to the bathroom because we could never do that as children. Our fathers always made us hold it. For too long a time.

Grand Rapids is part of my mental map system. I feel secure in G-Rap. Even when we turned off on Leonard St. to go to the bathroom. But then we got on M-37. It was dark. And there was nothing . . . well, single wides and propane stores . . . and nothing. We were looking for 8th street and when a street came, which was a long time, and it had numbers, which was a longer time . . . it was 146th street. This was not encouraging.

The hotel we were going to stay in was called "The Shack" according to the itinerary that I had on my lap. Who books at a hotel named "The Shack"? The name was not promising. The lack of familarity was not promising. The amount of propane being sold was enormous and I did not find it promising. Princess found it puzzling. Why did everyone need so much propane? And how did you buy it? There didn't seem to be any stands next to the propane signs. Just big tanks.

There is a McDonalds AND a Taco Bell AND and KFC in outer Newaygo. And that was the last hint of connection or familiarity to our very suburban lives. Plus, at this point, I was pretty sure that "The Shack" may well be an actual shack. Or a Bates motel. And we were no where near it according to the directions and I thought we might be lost, in the dark, with insanely numbered street signs.

As I was wondering where people bought fancy underwear, Princess was wondering why everyone needed so much propane. What were they grilling? Did just everyone grill? How could they support all these propane stores? And where were the little canisters?

To calm our nerves, Princess was playing "Roll Out" by Ludacris and some "Ass like that" song by Eminem that has the word "pee-pee" in it repeatedly. This was making the lost hopelessly in the woods, broken up by single wide trailers thrown about, all the more surreal.

After about eight left turns, on roads that kept changing names . . . we saw lights and thought it was White Cloud. However, there was a giant sign that read "The Shack Inn Bed and Breakfast" with an arrow. The Shack turned out to be a compound, with four large buildings, on a lake. We had arrived. " . . . makes my pee-pee go duh-doing-doing-doing . . ." was playing in the background. I am leery of compounds. They are usually bought and built by people who eventually will (or should) be surrounded by the FBI. But we could stop driving in the dark. And we probably should cut the pee-pee music.

Too Perfect

It's like not even dressing up! (link here)

Full Name: Jane Lane
Current Age: 18
Current Vocation: Freshman at Boston Fine Arts College
Season One Age: 16
Season One Vocation: Sophomore at Lawndale High
Parents: Vincent and Amanda Lane
Siblings: Trent, Penny, Summer, and Wind
First Appearance: Esteemsters

Jane is Daria's best friend. They met during a self-esteem class at Lawndale High, which Jane had already taken six times (she could have easily passed the class, but having low self-esteem "made her feel special"). Like Daria, Jane is cynical, intelligent, and talented (she is a budding artist), but she is also a little more open to the world around her. She enjoys running, and once joined the Lawndale High track team... briefly.Like any good artist, Jane constantly explores the passionate and emotional side of the world, which usually translates into exploring -- sometimes impulsively -- various romantic possiblities with boys ("Bobby Big-head" in "The Invitation" (#102), Evan in "See Jane Run" (#211), Tom Sloane in "Jane's Addition" (#313), and Nathan in "Life in the Past Lane" (#509)). Her emotional nature tends to get the better of her, unfortunately, and is part of the reason why her only long-term relationship (with Tom) ended -- disastrously -- in "Dye! Dye! My Darling" (#413). Her strained relationship with Daria (who began dating Tom) finally was resolved in "Is It Fall Yet?", and she now appears to be (mostly) comfortable with her best friend dating her ex-boyfriend... though, of course, she doesn't miss an opportunity to tease both of them about it.

Status at end of series: Graduated from Lawndale High. Accepted into the midterm freshman class at Boston Fine Arts College, where she'll undoubtedly continue to drag Daria (who was accepted into the fresman class at nearby Raft College) into more adventures.

Daria on Jane: Artiste extraordinaire and pizza fiend. Believes paint-by-number kits are inherently evil.

The Universe Conspires

It has been the days of cancellation . . . R perhaps thought more clearly and cancelled tonight. (R being formerly known as RBBF. Yes, he has a name) And perhaps it is all for the best.

M36 called tonight while walking his dog. Very nice, and has a dog, so has some sense of responsibility. Answered all 39 questions quite reasonably and has a job. In fact, has a master's degree. So I might meet him. Maybe. Quite a jump from my usual fiasco, but we grew up in the same town, so we have that goin' for us. Plus he throws poker "tournaments"? There must be other boys there if he doesn't work out.

Trying very hard not to jump ahead in my mind. Don't have to have any expections, right? And R just makes me think of RB. Which is not his fault, but I just don't want to loop there anymore. He is the nicest guy on the planet. Wrong place, wrong time. Kinda my story, all the time. And glad he cancelled. It would have been fun to hang out, but complicated . . . and I'm so done with complicated. Want simple. Attracted to complicated, but want simple. No more imaginary rock stars . . . just boys walking their dogs and taking their dads to poker tournaments.

And yet, the universe still conspires against me . . .

Sometimes 2+2

really does just equal 4.

Had a "Hey . . . wait a minute . . . " moment this morning. And now I'm kind of frustrated and tired.

Sometimes a cigar . . . it really is just a cigar. No matter what Freud might say.

Hey! Are you calling me crude?

"Do you mind if I say something crass? Since you're all about the crude?"

"I'm not all about the crude . . . it just comes up. But sure, go ahead."

Just So My Friends Can SLAM Their Heads Into the Wall

Hmmm . . . 7 p.m. on a Sunday? With nothing to do and a jammed packed week ahead of me?

So what should I do?

Of course. Go to Trader Joes. Cause I need wine and trail mix . . . and attention. There were hugs . . . and some coming out of the "box" (freezer?) to talk again . . . oh, and there was the drying off of my cart, cause it was all rainy. There was some inviting ourselves over for tonight, but at midnight, so no . . . I'll be sleeping. And just to make everyone's head explode . . . there is coming to visit on Tuesday.

Got some coffee and yogurt too. See what happens when I'm left unsupervised?


p.s. I think that when as well as could be expected. Don't you?

And the Winner is . . .

Jane Lane from Daria . . .

After much thought about conjoined Halloween costumes, M2's friend pointed out that M2 is basically Daria, without the brown hair. In a moment of inspiration, it was decided that I can pretty much "do" Jane Lane with very little wardrobe alteration. Thus a Halloween costume idea was born. We are going to the party as Daria and her friend Jane. Already bought the boots, just have to find the maroon shirty thing and I'm all set.

Gotta love a costume that you don't really have to dress up for . . . and when an idea comes together.

Celebrating the Hallmark Holiday

I had forgotten that it was sweetest day . . . which I don't really consider a holiday anyhow. Might explain why all the single men in the world are holed up, probably watching television (well, it is the World Series). Just too much pressure. I was blissfully unaware until I saw a display at a Birmingham florist.

So today I donated 13 bags of clothing and shoes. I bought some yarn, because I've decided all my hats are itchy and I can’t run in an itchy hat. So I bought some silk yarn . . .

I went to Harp's and bought some underwear with my mother. Saw Mrs. Harp, which was very cool. They don't let you go through the bins though . . . which I would have preferred. Harp's doesn't have much on display and there are no bras on display at all. They are all packed in bins, by size, and are behind the counter. When you get a sales person, they send you in a room and just show up with bras. Mine all came in candy-like colors because my mother was outside and told the lady that I had too much black (who can have too much black?).

Even more disturbing . . . you don't get to put the bras on . . . they put them on you. And adjust the straps. And shake things around to make sure it fits. It's a bit unsettling. I knew my size from going to Bravo, in Royal Oak (where there is much less touching . . . they'll tell you to do things, but won't handle anything) but I don't think the lady believed that I knew my size.

So they tell you to turn around and bend over slightly and they pull the bra around you quickly. And then there is looking and adjusting and pulling . . . and then they are off to get the next bra. I'm not especially shy, but there is some standing and wondering about if you are supposed to leave the previous bra on until the new one comes? Or if there is some etiquette about this that I have somehow missed? It was much like a car crash, but repeatedly. I bought matching "pants" (as the woman called them), which my mother mentioned later. And you know what? It’s not about matching all the time . . . it’s about the ability to match when needed. Or if needed.

I then went to the glasses store and spent way to much on a pair of very, very cute red glasses with rhinestones. Our little helper man wanted me to get the bloodred ones, which he thought made me look authoritative. I don’t think I need to look any more authoritative. So I went with the cute ones. Of course, I’ll now not be able to wear pink or green with them because I don’t like to clash. But I compensated for that when I had red hair, so most of my clothes are already red or black. And they are so fun. I’ll have to put up pictures when they arrive.

So "sweetest day" is really just spending day for me. Luckily, I didn’t know . . . or I might have been depressed and spent even more money.

Take the Picture

Another Friday and I just want to take a nap. Everything was wild this week and my mother might be coming over tomorrow. There were school pictures today. (Which meant everyone asked me if they HAD to take their school pictures . . . and couldn't I use the one from last year, or the one that they liked . . . well, what year was that? 1977? No, must have been 1986 . . . yeah, that one where I wore the red thing and my hair was good . . . you know . . . that one? NO. SHUT UP. GO AND TAKE THE DAMN PICTURE.) (Sorry, they don't pay me enough)
I'm gone again next week because I'm riding on the coattails of someone more famous (Princess) and then there are conferences. Between the sub plans, the presenting and the conferences, my brain is going to be fried. So no talking. Shhhh. Can't concentrate.

I would love to write about all the hilarious things I heard this week, but they were all from students. "Sometimes unfortunate things happen in life" was a good one . . . in a written memo. I'm thinking about making that into a T-shirt with a symbol for Captain Obvious on the back.

Oh, and the kids came up with a yearbook theme. Thank goodness. Now we can start making the darn thing.

On the Phone with Someone I Don't Actually Know

"So yeah, boys are dumb . . . "
"But he's not a boy. He's a man. A grown man. He's 51."
"Whatever. Boys are dumb . . . he'll call you in, like, two months."

(I suppressed the urge to point out that she was being a girl but talking to some random friend of a friend about some man who didn't call her within 72 hours . . . probably wouldn't have helped)

The Queen of Randomness

"So then I told him my eye juice story and . . . "

"Wait . . . you have an eye juice story? Boy, you are the queen of randomness, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah . . . I mean that's what M calls me . . . wait, have you ever talked to M?"

"No, I was just calling you that."

So everyone thinks I'm the queen of randomness. Turns out they don't have to talk to M . . . who regularly shouts out "RANDOM" whenever I'm misbehaving. Evidently, it's apparent to the general human population at large also.

Let's see . . . I talked in front of 300 people today . . . without a script . . . about something that I kinda knew about . . . but didn't . . . and they clapped . . . which I found funny.

I had too much steak. And haven't run in a week. And haven't gotten home before 9 p.m. in the longest time.

But then again . . . I am really having fun. With work. Which I can't talk about. Yay.

The Lost Have Been Found

I have been missing my favorite pair of glasses for several months. Not that I ever wear my glasses in public . . . and not like they are the right prescription, because they are over five years old. But I liked them. They were my favorite glasses. And they worked for watching television in bed. And for occasions on the weekend where I had to go out before I wanted to put on my contacts. And they were missing.

I longed for them. But I had taken to the theory that if I didn't look for them, they would eventually turn up. That strategy was taking a long time . . . and we all know how patient I am. Did I leave them in France? No. I remember wearing them after that. They weren't in all the places that I would put glasses. I almost wanted RBBF to look for them because the last place I remember wearing them was with RB . . . and RBBF is helpful, or wants to be helpful about stuff like that.

So I went shopping for some new ones. And gosh darn it, there aren't new ones. They glasses at See were all too square, or too black, or too thick . . . not like the perfect glasses.

I just found them underneath my bed. Which is a great place to store eyeglasses. Very useful. With the killer dust bunnies. Now I can take them to the store to buy new ones, just like them. Cause the rhinestone ones hurt my ears. And are too much in most situations.

Cuteness Causing Pain

I just talked to S for the first time in ages . . . well, it was instant messaging, so I just typed to S for the first time in ages. He's so into being a dad. Just got a puppy, something that he would have NEVER imagined doing before becoming a father. A testament to how much being a parent changes you.

Sent me pictures. Always does . . . and she is now so cute and looks so much like her father, it makes me want to cry. I miss him. I miss him being my best friend and calling him up at 3 a.m. and him calling me with all his drama. But there is no drama anymore, other than puppies piddling on the floor. And his wife gets to be his best friend . . . and really that's the way it should be. But what I wouldn't give to sit around with him, endless coffee, shooting the shit, like we used to . . . when we were young.

I Heart Matt

I always wondered . . . back when Matthew Good was married . . . "why in the hell is he with that Barbie?" Does he know he's with a Barbie?

Matthew Good Artwork

I guess he did . . . or he figured it out.

But Can I Pull Off Ashlee?

It's official . . . Halloween is coming. It's my favorite holiday and I want to savor it, which is why I have been ignoring the displays that have been up for months (okay, I have bought some new skeleton gloves, but that doesn't count . . . ) because . . . well . . . Halloween too soon cheapens things.

So this weekend M2 and I are supposed to find somewhat matching costumes . . . so we can go to her boyfriend's party. Best idea suggested so far, Ashlee and Jessica Simpson (when Ashlee had black hair). I suggested dominatrixes, but this is a predictable suggestion from me and not something that M2 would do. And I guess his family is invited, so we have to be good girls, or semi-good girls. Also, there was something about it being outside . . . "so no slutty costumes" for fear of being cold. So many rules. So we might do something Tim Burton-ey.

I am listening to Michael Bernard Loggins - The Fears of your Life (This American Life, Episode #234, March 14, 2003) and now want to write my own. It is awesome.

Pay it . . . well . . . backward

"Sorry to make your head explode . . . but I figured since you always do that to me, I'd pay it forward."
"Pay it forward? Aren't you supposed to be doing something positive when you "pay it forward"?"
"Yeah, well . . . I'm changing it up."
"You can't 'change it up' . . . what, I now have to make three other people's heads explode? (with the information I give them?) Well, fine. I'll 'pay it forward' to you soon and make your head explode."
"You do that all the time anyway . . . and that won't be paying it forward . . . "
"Okay, well, I'm paying the negativity backward then . . . we can just loop for a while."

Getting to Go to the Bathroom

I've always said that my ONE requirement for my dream job is to be able to go to the bathroom, whenever I wanted. In my current profession, that is not possible. I cannot leave them alone and often they stay after the bell. Sure, there are five minutes between classes, but once someone asks about the homework, or has to tell me why they didn't do their homework, or why they can't do their homework, or about their dog and their homework, or about the their critical analysis of why the homework was too hard to do (usually longer than the actual homework) . . . well, you could see how that five minutes could go quickly. Plus, I teach multiple subjects in multiple rooms, so I'm walking to class too.

Students, they get passes. So they can go to the bathroom during class. There is no pass for me. I'm stuck. So I have to plan my liquids carefully.

Today, I visited my dream job. Princess has left us to go to the land of milk and honey . . . of unlimited free coffee and hot chocolate . . . the land of going to the bathroom whenever. You could go just to check your lipstick. It was wonderful. The internet was not blocked in weird ways. No one was screaming. I could concentrate and focus and not have to tell anyone to sit down. It was a lovely day. I'm now presenting two things, instead of one and have even more work to do, but it was still a lovely day.

So I have to go get my PhD. and become an educational consultant. My new life goal. They get to go to the bathroom whenever they want.

Closing a Chapter

Funny, the things that happen in our lives that allow us to move on . . . from longing and regret. Never anything earth shattering, sometimes just a soft sound or a rustling (metaphorically, of course).

And you always want the earth shattering, the end, the finality. Want to make it go boom and poke it with a stick, which never makes it better. But instead, it is like the state between being aware and daydreaming . . . you can't make yourself be in that state or remember it anyhow.

Today I got out of bed and it was okay.

Have to

It's 11 a.m. on a Sunday and I seriously would like to go back to bed. But there are a bunch of have tos that I have to attend to . . .

I have to go grocery shopping . . . because I only have stale saltines and peanut butter to eat. Stale saltines are not good, even with peanut butter.

I have to go eat something . . . because I didn't eat last night because my head hurt so badly and now I'm ravenous . . . but not for stale saltines. And I don't want to buy all of Meijers, which I will if I go in my current condition.

I have to shower first . . . even though I took three showers yesterday, the last one to get all the smells off of me. Didn't work, because I wash my clothes and sheets, and therefore they smell like Tide. A good smell, unless you are suffering from a migrane . . . and then it's not so good. I stood in the shower with hot water pouring over my head for a good long time, with the smell of the soap (Magnolia from Bath and Body Works) making me want to toss my cookies. Amazing how many things smell, that you don't notice, or that you like . . . unless you have a headache that causes you to be ultra-sensitive to smells. So I'm very very clean but I have bed head because I went to bed with wet hair. Shower again.

I have to mow my lawn . . . which is not going to get done today.

I have to put my truck back together. At least it's clean. Hazard from driving all my bosses in it.

I have to clean some part of my house. All this week, I've been walking in, throwing whatever crap I have in my hands on the table, floor, chairs, etc . . . and then throwing all my clothes on the floor and crawling into bed. I looked around at the chaos today and felt, well . . . anxious. Must start by picking up ten things . . . otherwise it's totally overwhelming and I have to sit down or nap.

I have to grade some papers . . . running theme. I hate being an English teacher. Art teachers don't have to grade papers . . . at least not as many papers.

I keep waiting for my headache to come back. Searching for the beginning of the pain, that funny feeling in my brain, that I usually ignore. Yesterday's headache was a doozie . . . they are not often that bad. Usually, I can still function. And last night I did, until I didn't have to function and then it was really, really bad.

I'm going to eat awful food. I'm sorry but I deserve it.

Going to Yak

I have a migrane. It feels like something is searing the inside of my skull. I think it might be because I need to eat . . . but I am now so nauseous that food is out of the question. Plus, I put on perfume when I got all dressed up (with no place to go). So attuned to smells with a migrane. Must go shower but can't use smelly soap. Ahhhh.

Bleeding

I fell for the first time while running . . . about thirty minutes ago. I think I tripped on a piece of wood (which is so different from a stick). At least that's the only thing that was there on the ground once I turned over and looked for what I could have fallen over. Ten minutes later, I almost took a digger over some uneven pavement. The Woods are dangerous. Between the falling and the serial killer van (just like Silence of the Lambs, I swear . . . white, a little bondo here and there, no windows . . . ) I don't know how I got through it.

There is that moment . . . when you fall . . . that you are three again. The moment before the pain kicks in and the shock of suddenly, unexpectly being on the ground ebbs. That moment where you took the big breath so you could sob. Amazing how that was still there, even though I didn't sob . . . I swore instead.

So a little gravel still in my hand, some little scrapes on my knee. I washed up in the Huntington Woods Public Library. I'm sure they were thrilled to be a part of my experience. I guess I have to figure out how to carry a cell phone, in case I really hurt myself. So bleeding . . . but just a little.

Hairs Cut and Parade

I went to get my hairs cut yesterday . . . even though there is not much let to cut off. Jennifer gave the black a blue tinge, which I don't notice but my mother liked. So my hair is all hedgehoggy again and will stick up (even without goo).

I now have to go get my truck washed, as my boss, her boss and her boss's boss will all be riding in the back of it. Volunteer every year to drive in the parade, as my truck is a school color. Somehow, this year, that meant driving all the bosses in the back. Usually, it's just yearbook kids chucking candy at little kids and the school mascot (another yearbook kid in a very hot suit). So had to clean all the random stuff out of my truck this morning -- markers, mail, CDs . . . still have to get the plastic swords out and put them in my classroom. (needed more for Romeo and Juliet . . . there are a lot of Capulets and Montagues) Also have to try to not kill or run over anyone.

Can't wait until Sunday. No more Homecoming.

3 Billion People

There are what? Three billion people in the United States alone? So surely I can find someone else to "date" other than RBBF right?

I mean that is a possibility, right?

Homecoming Dress

It is almost time to shop for homecoming.

Every year, that magical time on Saturday, where I plaicate my dread and horror about going to another homecoming dance by buying a new dress. This year there is so much dread and horror that the shopping may have to involve shoes.

It is very hard to find a homecoming dress that fits well and is attractive . . . ask any girl. It is even harder to find an "adult" homecoming dress that doesn't make you look like a dork . . . or worse yet, a dorky teacher. It's bad enough that I have to listen to three hours of horrible music and have to act shocked and say "Leave room for Jesus!" about 586 times. One year it was ultra-bad and I had to carry a camera AND a walkie-talkie. I want no part of the walkie-talkies. If I have to do all that and look dorky . . . well . . .

Although I love the hunt, finding the dress is hard. Any cleavage is out . . . don't want too much leg either. Certainly don't want anything that remotely resembles what the kids are wearing. I usually go with black (well, duh) and sometimes a suit. Oh, and I don't want to spend more than $100, not including the shoes of course. So that will be my Saturday afternoon. So that I can bear spending my Saturday evening in a large echo-y gym surrounded by sweaty teenagers, who frankly need to not dance that way, avoiding anyone in charge, in case they figure out they don't have enough chaperones and want me to do something official, like watch a bathroom . . .

You should be proud of me for only wanting a new dress. (And maybe a lobotomy)

So Doesn't Know What He is in For . . .

Z.'s birthday is coming up. Soon. And I was weighing several gift options in my head. I am the "cool" aunt, with no commitments or children of my own, so I like to get good gifts. Last Christmas was the skateboard and the Gameboy. The skateboard is not used and there is no interest (you gotta strike out sometimes) but the Gameboy, well . . . you could have just wired it into his brain. He would have been fine with that.

I like to get my brother's approval on the gift, as he will eventually be in charge of the care, maintanence and discipline of whatever I purchase. So I call up on Saturday to run the choices by him . . . cell phone (the kid kind), heelies (I see them everywhere), or ipod shuffle. D. confers with Z. and gives me the thumbs up for whatever I choose. All are cool.

On the trip to K-zoo, my mother askes if I have heard what has happened to the Gameboy. The Gameboy is on almost continual suspension, as it is a good carrot, so I just figured he had gotten it taken away AGAIN. Nope. Broken. He got mad and punched it . . . breaking the screen off. Hmmmm.

Well, I can't buy expensive presents for a boy that intentionally breaks things. I'm not that cool an aunt. So socks and underwear it is . . . and not cool SpongeBob underwear. Regular white underwear. And white socks. And math workbooks. I have Halloween Mad Libs in my gift drawer for him and I think they may even be too fun. I'll have to save them. I'm going to think of every lame gift my grandmother sent my brothers and use that for the model. Soap on a Rope. A bath robe. Some long underwear, with dinosaurs on them (so babyish). It's a bummer, I really wanted to shop for an ipod. And I'm so intrigued with the Heelies.

Oh well, maybe next year. (No, he's not allowed on the internet, so he can't read this)

The Lost Have Been Found

The camera might be found tomorrow . . . which would relieve this tight, nauseous feeling in my stomach. And I might be able to listen to people again, instead of wracking my brain about where the camera might be. I won't mention any names, but it might be at someone's house. Why they didn't say anything the first fifty times I asked about the camera, I don't know. Their life must be even more chaotic than mine. But I don't have to buy a guilt camera now. I can just go buy a camera.

I did "interval" training for a full three miles this evening and hated every darn minute of it. Who knew that Huntington Woods was so hilly? And curvy? Oh well, made it through. Will make sure to go downhill next time . . . I know there should be an uphill on the other side but there isn't. Strange, like the Mystery Spot or something.

(I always wanted to go to the Mystery Spot. It fascinated me as a child. My parents told me that it was a complete rip off and I remember thinking that they had never been there either, so how did they know? Yeah, there isn't much to do in St. Ignace.)

So camera found. Workout done. Nothing in the house to eat. Bathroom still not cleaned but all the supplies are out. The mood just hasn't struck yet. Oh, and lots and lots of paperwork done at work. Yippee!

Someday I'm going to be a good enough girl . . . and not be doomed to repeat Homecoming again and again. After seven years, it's like the movie "Groundhog Day". Off to go find my Hawaiian shirt for "Hawaiian shirt day". Someone rub plague on me now, so I can stay home.

Kalamazoo

"How many of me would it take to screw up your life?" -- Ben Folds, "Kalamazoo"

Off to the land of Bell's Brewery and my sister's new house. Gotta love a city that is also a Ben Folds' song.