Monday, January 30, 2006

"Down with Whitey"

Ummm . . . yeah . . . this is hilarious.

The whole site is actually. My parents WISH they had thought of it.

I Swear I have Bird Flu -- But No Family Chicken

Alright . . . I have a little sore throat and a bit of a hacking cough. And I have no chickens at my house because of that whole "family chicken" thing ***, so I couldn't have bird flu. Those children I work with are germy though . . . little infection factories.

*** My grandmother (the nice one) was in charge of the chicken coop when she was a child. Having not actually experienced a chicken coop myself, I have to take her for her word that chickens are incredibly "dirty birds". Because "dirtiness" was somehow worse in restaurants (?) because you could not control the preparation of the "dirty bird" we never ate chicken out and seldom ate it at home. When it was cooked at home, it was cooked WELL as if you could cook all the dirtiness out of the chicken if you took your time. During the Kentucky Fried Chicken craze of the mid-seventies, my grandmother was known to (if we whined and made her buy the dirtiness) put the bucket in her oven for an hour or so . . . because you just don't know how well it was cooked at that place. I didn't know that there was poultry that wasn't the consistency of sawdust until I was twenty years old. And even then, I was leery . . . they might have just not cooked it enough.

So now, just to confuse people, my family says things like: "But I couldn't eat it . . . it wasn't family chicken." As if my family ever eats chicken . . .

I was bitten by a turkey once. But that's a story for another day. And no, he wasn't a family turkey, neither.

Sunday, January 29, 2006

Mackin'

I so could mack on a 24 year old tonight . . . he invited me up to his place, above "Catching Fireflies". 6 foot 7 and red hair and just cute as a button. Taking all my energy not to get in my car and go back but I don't want that anymore. I dated 24 year olds when I was 24 . . . don't need to "date" them now.

Still it's very flattering to have the offer. Thank you, Paul.

Saturday, January 28, 2006

Maybe

For matchdotcom blind date no. five, I went out with the nicest guy in the universe . . . and I said all the wrong things. It was amazing. It was like being able to see the road I should take in the conversation and yet veering off into the woods anyway, without four wheel drive or anything.

The best "I can't believe I just said that . . . " moment was the end of the date. I walked him to his car (I had walked and wouldn't let him drive me home) and he said, "Well, so . . . should we hang out again?" To which I replied, "Maybe." That's right folks, I said "maybe." I could of just stabbed the guy and took his money because that would have been less painful than "maybe."

So yeah, I'm a jerk and I can't even help it.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Being Difficult

All right, I admit that I was doing something obnoxious for the sake of being obnoxious . . . however, my friend M2 says to my friend E2 across the table, "You know when we talk about Emily being difficult?"

No, I don't know about that. I don't know if I want to know about conversations about me being difficult. In MY head, I'm reasonable . . . and funny (actually witty is the word I would prefer as long as we are in my head) but not difficult. I know I'm not easy-going but difficult? There are conversations being had about me being difficult?

And I thought I was so agreeable for the most part. So now I think E2 has to make a sign . . . she used to hold up a sign that would read "I "heart" Emily" in meetings (when I was particularly "good"). Now she will have to make a sign that reads "U R B-ing Difficult". Just so I know.

Look! My Hair Matches!


It matches the seats in the auditorium perfectly.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Imaginary scarves and meetings

I just broke a nail and have figured out that I have a least two meetings every day this week. I really want some Rowan Kidsilk Haze for a scarf that is in my head . . . so I can knit it and then wear it in France but I can't get to the fancy knitting store with all the meeting hinderances. (You can't buy Rowan kidsilk haze at Michael's and I am a yarn snob) I still have to walk and it's sleeting and miserable . . . and I still have to walk.

While I'm being girly, I ate half a granola bar today and couldn't finish it because I could taste the high fructose corn syrup and it sickened me. I could, however, eat a patty melt and fries with no guilt, queasiness or questioning, so I haven't completely crossed over to health nut. I'm just irrational instead.

So I'll knit this scarf (that's currently planned in my head) on 10 1/2 needles, so it will be really open and loose, in black if they even have black kidsilk haze. I just need a yarn store that's open vampire hours. (I know, the internet sells yarn . . . but I have to touch it before I buy it)

Sunday, January 22, 2006

Discovery of the Day no. 527

The New Pornographers. Check them out. I like the song "Use it".

Still Can't be an Alcoholic

Despite my dream to be on the show "Intervention" and have some producer see that show and make me a star . . . I still cannot drink alcohol and not throw up. I suppose I could just drink and accept the throwing up part, but being unwilling to do that, I just cannot be an alcoholic.

On Friday, I had two beers with dinner . . . safe beers at that. Not new-fangled beer that I haven't had before, not beer that I know gives me a headache, nope, Guinness, something I know will not get sick on . . .

Then I went to my parents house and watched "Love Monkey". While there, I consumed four glasses of wine because my father wanted to do a taste comparison -- Columbia Crest "Two Vines" vs. Columbia Crest something else more expensive. I liked the more expensive, by the way. I crashed at my parents and got up way hung over. Like nauseous hung over, head pounding, can't move, must go back under the covers, hung over.

I drove home, picked up Starbucks on the way, sipped the soymilky goodness, slept for an hour and then puked. This will be graphic, so the queasy should stop reading HERE -- so first heave was Starbucks, no surprise there . . . second heave was wine colored, making me think, "there were layers?", the third, fourth and fifth heaves were wine colored chunks of what I assume was the last night's fish entree. Around noon I ate some squash soup, which sat angrily in my stomach but managed to stay down. -- AND START BACK HERE. So I don't know what made me sick . . . well, I do, it was the alcohol but I don't know what about the combination of alcohols. Was it the wine and the beer? Was it the two different kinds of wine? Was it the unique trifecta? I started keeping things down around five o'clock, per the usual alcohol sickness epidsodes. So I suck at drinking. And now I won't drink anything for a while because of the flashbacks.

I am really good at puking however. Too bad that isn't more fun.

Friday, January 20, 2006

Aargh . . . Why Can't People Spell?

I am now going to give all the men out there looking on the internet a little piece of important knowledge . . . sit quietly and listen closely. When you are trying to impress people with your writing, like, for example your matchdotcom profile, use SPELL CHECK.

I just received an email from a guy that "likes to hang out with his freinds" and likes to watch sports "ECT, ECT, ECT" . . . and he could be the nicest man in the world (in fact, in his profile he writes about being the nice guy) but I have no interest in a man with freinds, who can't figure out how to cut and paste into Microsoft Word, ect, ect, ect. I know that matchdotcom doesn't have spell check. It's probably a plot on their part to help people with hang-ups about spelling weed potentials out but yet, I feel guilty.

Oh, and in his email to me there was something about helping him with "unrulley" feelings and I'm not sure what that's about . . . but it scares me.

On a more positive note, I don't know if the matchdotcom demons want me to resubscribe or if I'm just popular this week (I'm cynically sure it's the former) but I'm suddenly getting three emails a day . . . up from no emails for months. Don't get me wrong, only 33% can spell. It's still interesting nonetheless . . .

Now before we get all crotchety, I do make a spelling mistake or two. I admit this readily. However, I do know how to spell unruly and I do know how to spell check. Love the spell check! Embrace the spell check. Use the spell check, like it's tied up in your closet thinking of it's safe word.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

$16 pants

I found $16 pants and haven't done my answer keys for my final exams yet . . . tomorrow is Friday and we're supposed to have a snow storm in Detroit on Saturday, so I'm going to just stay in and hide. Hide from the snow.

Today on the walk (four days in a row!) I returned movies, rented High Fidelity (which will hopefully be better than the book) and went to the shell of what was Harmony House to look for CDs. No Arvo Part . . . No Neverending White Lights . . . No Matthew Good . . . I'm going to have to go to Canada. Darn it. NWL is another obscure Canadian band. I have to get over the Canadian music obsession. This would be easier if there weren't things like Kelly Clarkson or the Simpson girls.

Oh, while hiding from the snow, I'm going to fix the sewing machine . . . not that I have anything to sew, but sure, I could sew things, right?

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Huh? Real Fruit?

At Panera for lunch:

e: "So they give you a real apple?"
m2: "No, they give you a plastic one . . . what did you think they would give you?"
e: "I don't know . . . nice apple slices? I wanted nice slices, not a real apple."
m2: "So it's not a real apple, it's a plastic one . . . it will help you lose weight . . ."
e: "I just wouldn't have ordered it if I knew it was a real apple"
m2: "Just chew it. It will be fine."

Discoveries of the Day

So I keep hearing this song on the radio and the squirrels at 89x finally told me who it was . . . Neverending White Lights . . . the squirrelly squirrels then proclaimed them to be a local band and it turns out the guy is from Windsor. He (David Victor, I think?) also listed Matthew Good in his top albums of 2005. So that gives him ten Emily points right there.

Other discovery of the day:
Jay Ryan -- designs posters and has a print shop in Chicago . . . saw his book "100 Posters 134 Squirrels" and lingered over it longingly for way too long at the Barnes and Noble.

One last thing: On Wednesdays there is an employee at the B&N who knows her stuff and will refer you to other places . . . she works in the music department and pointed me toward
Neptune Records. "This IS Barnes and Noble . . . of course we don't have that." So ten Emily points for her too.

Monday, January 16, 2006

Stories about Underwear

1. I found underwear at the Gap for $1.99. Can't beat 2 dollar underwear, especially stripey ones.

2. I just read that I should find all my old underwear and pack it for Paris, then just throw it away when I'm done with it. So says the travel manual I bought today . . .

3. Sammy, my dog, would not go outside if my father was just in his underwear. It didn't matter how badly she had to go to the bathroom, she wasn't going to be seen with Dad in his tighty whities . . . he would have to put on pants.


4. In the She Wants Revenge video, the lead singer has his burgundy briefs hanging out of his jeans. Not boxers, briefs with white piping . . . I hope this does not lead to a trend. No one has heard of She Wants Revenge though, so I think I'm pretty safe.

5. I have to donate underwear at a sorority event (I know . . . me, in a sorority, so wrong) and therefore have to go buy some. Do they still have underoos? Cause if I was a kid, I would like some underoos. Especially if I had to deal with having donated underwear. Heck, I would like some supergirl underoos for myself right now.

Sunday, January 15, 2006

Wish upon a bar . . .

Last night I went to Robusto's in Grosse Pointe. $10 martinis and black leather couches . . . and singers in tube tops. After the third group of obvious young married couple with their parents sat down next to us, I decided it was OFF the list. Princess was trying to plaicate me, "Isn't it just great to be out with the girls?" but I wasn't having any of it.

At one point in the evening, after watching an absolutely hammered sixty-year-old couple dance off beat, the belief that "the one" is out there (at least for Princess) was discussed and that he wouldn't be found in a bar. So where are these "ones" found? Is there a store? We're not getting any younger . . . and my best prospect seems to be when I move into the senior habitrail forty years from now (hopefully) as it will be an environment exactly like college again. So if not a bar, where are these magical prince charmings? Because I am losing my belief in "the one".

The other topic discussed was skinnyness. Evidently, being skinny makes everything is much better and attractive. Now I remember when my thinking wound around "if I just lose five pounds, everything will be perfect" . . . and you know what? Nothing ever went perfect, even if I was a good girl and lost those five pounds. I remember having the small waist and the big boobs and yes, there were lots of men interested . . . and they were interested in pretty much the same thing, which certainly had nothing to do with being settled down or having a conversation for that matter. Being skinny didn't help me find "the one". (Now that doesn't mean that I shouldn't lose weight or use matchdotcom as a carrot or walk the three miles I walked today, just means skinny doesn't equal happy)

But you see . . . I've developed a like for chase. I like the eye contact and the smile. Even if it doesn't work out that he comes up and talks to me. When I was younger, I was much more aggressive and would go and talk to whomever I thought was cute. Now I like the game a little more, the anticipation. But you can't play that game in a married couple/parent bar. It just doesn't work.

And people should quit making fun of me for being aware of the fire code . . . it's for your own safety. Don't come crying to me when you're trampled to death because you're sitting in the aisle between the people and the only way out of the building. Oh wait, you won't be able to come crying to me anyhow. And I would like to find a bar with better smoke eaters or less smokers or maybe even a non-smoking bar . . . I know, California. Cause if I had a "one", he doesn't smoke currently and probably is just as annoyed by the smell afterward so he just stays home and watches a movie from Netflix. So maybe finding "the one" involves going door-to-door? Or getting the Netflix mailing list?

Learning French in Three Weeks

My sister and I decided to go on vacation . . . she had never been to NYC, so we decided to go during my February break. Then I figured out that it was cheaper to go to Europe . . . for a while we were going to Germany, but then again my sister had already been to Germany, so we settled on Paris.

I was a little hesitant about France. My sister can speak some German. I can speak English. Germans are relatively understanding . . . I could probably get some food and find the bathrooms. However, I've just been warned that the French "hate people who visit their country and don't bother to learn the language" and there was something specific about being American in that and I think I have a neon sign magically above me, flashing "American" and pointing at the top of my head.

Spit or being spit on was also brought up . . . the previous time I was intentionally spit on was the only time I really, really considered starting a fist fight (all those other times . . . well, the other person started it). So I can't decide if I need to get a speak French fast tape or to practice kick boxing in case I get spit on. I'm sure it will be fine. We're only going to go to touristy places like The Louvre and I'm sure they have signs for the bathrooms. Plus we're only going to be there for five days. How much trouble could I get into?

Keep in mind that my baby sister is much, much more sensible than I am. She'll slap me upside the head.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

The Secret Life of . . .

I hate the fact I'm surprised that "in this day and age" I cannot just get any movie I want on DVD. "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty" is not on DVD. How can this be? We have robots on Mars for goodness sake . . . and we don't have this Danny Kaye movie at the Blockbuster? What have things come to?

I really want to watch a movie in class tomorrow . . . in all my classes tomorrow. We need a movie. My students, they don't want a movie. They NEED a movie. We haven't watched anything since first marking period and that was 12 weeks ago. Do you know what happens when you take kids that have grown up with nothing but media and make them READ for 12 weeks? Without any pictures? Or moving parts? Or sound effects? It isn't pretty . . . so I settled for "Cool Hand Luke". A little tricky to connect to the curriculum but a classic nonetheless. Plus I can use the line for weeks.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Mmmmm. . . coney island

I got stuck at work today . . . making four slightly different tests for tomorrow. I don't have desks. I have tables in my room (as I used to be the art teacher and art teachers have tables) and tables make it very easy to look at one another's scantrons. So four different tests, four different keys, four different piles of copies, etc.

E2 was still at school and agreed to go each junk food at the coney island with me. The knitting store called to say the knitting needles I wanted for my mother (which I ordered before Xmas) are in . . . I had a meeting that lasted an hour and a half. So just like always, an incredibly exciting day.

This weekend is the Marshall Field's warehouse sale and I have coupons, so an even more exciting Saturday. Though I need a "sitter". They have to be tough . . . those Birmingham thirtysomethings and their mothers are vicious. Plus they have to be willing to get up early on a Saturday to get in the "open . . .open . . .open" line.

Oh, and it's cheaper to get to Europe in February than it is to go to New York for a week. So Paris it is . . . or Frankfort.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

A Horror Movie Where No One Gets Killed

Okay, so I either had a little serotonin dip or my hormones are totally out of wack . . . I feel much better today for some unknown reason.

My grandmother, the one with the lipstick obsession, used to go through these funks. Except that she did hers at the speed of light; going from mean, to laughing, to crying, in moments. Mine now last a week or so but I KNOW that they are something physical. It's doesn't have to do with what's going on in my life. I cry at the drop of a hat . . . I feel all . . . best I can describe it is scratchy, not right in my skin. It's like dread enfolds you and you have these waves of anxiety for no reason. It's like the part of the horror movie where nothing has happened yet . . . but the music has started and it's only a matter of time before the actor with the small part is killed. Your body is stuck in that feeling.

The really fun part for me is that I know that it is totally irrational. I KNOW it but I can't feel it. So my body is totally on edge and my mind keeps trying to talk it down . . . "Why are we feeling like this? Is it your job? Do you hate your job? . . . Is it because you're not married? With 2.5 kids and a Volvo? We really did want a Volvo . . . " But maybe there are no reasons . . . maybe my body chemistry is just out of wack.

So much more level today. Hopefully, just a bad bout of PMS.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

Dropkick Murphys Angst

I don't know why I feel like this . . . well, maybe I do know why I feel like this, but there's nothing I can do about it, more than I currently am doing anyhow. I never expected the fairy tale . . . never wanted the fairy tale . . . but certainly didn't expect this either.

Let's see woke up late because I was having a good dream, unlike the previous dream that woke me up at six a.m. Managed to shower, read Saturday's paper. Then walked to town, ate the forbidden stroganoff at Noodle Bowl, looked at Arvo Part CD's, wondered if I should call A since I can't figure out which CD he has. Mused for a while if I should really go to NYC in February . . . maybe Europe instead, because knowing my luck I would run into him. Buy a book -- High Fidelity, so I have armor at the Starbucks. I'm done with it, hopefully the movie is better.

Have to sit at the big table at Starbucks, as it is the only thing open. Royal Oak Starbucks on a Sunday is all kids but someone my age sits across from me at the table. I look up; smile. I am even making the effort by not wearing headphones this time. And then his boyfriend walks in and they hug and talk about the gym. And the headphones go on. And for some reason I want to cry.

I took a good four years off, not looking for anything romantic. In truth, it was longer than that because I knew the restaurant boys were just dalliances. And I was fine. Now that I AM looking . . . well, I just get the feeling that it may not be there. That "he" doesn't exist. That there is no plan. That I may not have a "lobster". And that is very empty.

I know, I know, there is that whole "God made the earth round so you can't see too far ahead" thing I just stole from a movie and the idea that you can't be looking for something because you will miss what you weren't looking for . . . but really, what it comes down to is I don't have anyone to go to Dropkick Murphys with. I'll be damned if I'm going to miss it, great band, super small venue, but the thought of going alone terrifies me for some reason.

And I'll go . . . and I'll share that experience with 300 or so strangers and I hopefully will not get mugged in the parking lot. And life will go on . . .

And I have a great life, a wonderful family, fabulous friends (though not one in town is a Dropkick fan) and, dare I say it, a somewhat rewarding career. So I don't know what I have to bitch about . . . sorry.

Saturday, January 07, 2006

Costco Jeans a.k.a. Oh, Lord, I've become my Father

Last night I went into to Costco and came out with some jeans . . .

But first we have to go back . . . back to winter (holiday) break when I had little to occupy my time, other than wondering when A or M was going to call because I don't call boys. One day I went to Mervyn's. I hate Mervyn's and therefore because I refused to shop there, they are going out of business (inflated ego, I know . . . but work with me). Obviously, others had the same thoughts about Mervyn's. But they have huge neon 50% off signs in all the windows . . . and I know they carry converse, so I go in. Plus, it's like a celebration of my shopping taste, their going out of business sale. While in the store, I find racks of Levi's. Rack upon rack of Levi's in all different flavors . . . 501s, 515s, etc. I try on several pairs, decide on one that I really like, try on the "petite" version, decide that after I wash them the short version will be too short, am about to go to the checkout and . . . decide I don't need jeans, even if they are only $20. It was a 30 minute distraction, in a life full of distractions.

Last night at Costco, they had the same jeans as the pair I almost bought, but even cheaper. Same dumb pressed in crease lines, same tags, just four dollars cheaper. And remembering that the short version was going to be too short, I bought what Levi's terms "M" or regular people length.

I am now wearing jeans that are at least three inches too long. It's not the eighties, I can't cuff them . . . I think they were actually "L" length with an "M" sticker because the ones I tried on last week were certainly not this long. So I have to find a tailor for $16 jeans. I would just cut them off, but then they get all frayed. I'm going to have to go and buy the short ones next week. So yeah, jeans dragging under my shoes . . . cause I didn't NEED to try them on because I already had at another store. (Plus you can't try on jeans at Costco anyhow . . . at least not being decent)

I know that getting them hemmed is going to cost more than the jeans themselves and of course, I've already worn them outside so I can't return them. The Salvation Army may be getting some really nice LONG jeans next week. And men wonder why we have to try stuff on all the time. I swear they are marked with the exact same size.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Mackin' at the Grocery Store

M2 pointed out today that I am never going to meet anyone at a bar . . . or at least that the chances are very unlikely. So where is this Candyland of available men? Or better yet, where is the asshole factory so I can find someone that is not intimidated by me . . . at least I hope that's the problem currently.

So the grocery store at 10:30 p.m. on a Monday:
Meijer's actually had cute-ish men who were walking around ALONE in the aisles. A good sign. Then it happens . . . next to the eggs (don't ask . . . I bought some eggs, okay? I know I don't eat them . . . ) is Starbucks guy. Remember Starbucks guy? Used to make my coffee every Tuesday when I would go to Royal Oak? Would smile sweetly and tell me to have a nice day and sometimes even gave me a coupon? Hot Starbucks guy . . . yeah, he's buying eggs. And then he is buying frozen vegetables when I am buying green beans. Finally, he's in line behind me. (he even drove next to me on Woodward . . . he has very nice wheels on his Honda)

We didn't talk. (You thought I walked up to him and said "Hi, Hot Starbucks guy!" didn't you?) But in the spell of being so near, I noticed a few things about scoping at the grocery store:

1. Feminine hygiene products are a no-no . . . just stay away from the HBA section altogether. Unless it's just soap. Let's just say I had some wipes rung up and it kinda ruined the mood for me.

2. Frozen dinners shouldn't be in your cart. This was unfortunate because all I cook is Lean Cuisine. Now for the right caveman, I might learn some more about cooking but cooking for one is . . . well . . . cooking for one.

3. Beer or alcohol are okay, as long as it's not in massive amounts or cheap. No Milwalkee's Beast, even if that is the kind you really like.

4. Basically just walk around with three oranges and some bottled water in your cart. Same goes for the checkout.

Now I did notice that Starbucks guy chose to glance through the same gossip magazine that my sister, guiltily and without admitting to anyone, reads. This puts him under suspicion. In his cart? From what I saw . . . four dozen eggs and a pound of coffee. That's it. There might have been a bag of frozen peas.

So no, it wasn't successful mackin' at the grocery store. But now, I'm really aware of what I put in my cart. Good Night Hot Starbucks guy who might be gay and who definitely eats too many eggs . . . I'll be in on Friday for my grande soy latte, just to see if you still work there.

Monday, January 02, 2006

Stranger Number One

In keeping with my contradictory nature, I was at Starbucks getting my fix for the day doing my normal "thing" . . . reading the paper with headphones on loudly. Something about the noise from the talking PLUS the noise of Everclear shouting in my ears soothes me, enough to focus on our local crappy paper. Not very friendly. Not very inviting. Not in keeping with the resolution I just made to the internet. But it was working today . . .

So I'm pleasantly reading about the 257 (or some such ridiculously high number) of unsolved murders for the year in Detroit when my neighbor starts talking to me. I did take some notice of him when I sat down but only because his coat was sprawled on the bench and I almost had to sit on it. There had been random outbursts coming from this man but I hadn't looked up. Now he was talking to me in earnest so I turned down my headphones and looked at him. He had scotch tape wrapped around both arms on his glasses, holding them together. He was wearing a newsboy cap and he had massive amounts of hair . . . long hair, unkempt beard. I would have said that he was in his fifties but he didn't have any gray hair. He started talking to me about the paper . . . and how it was corrupt and full of lies.

The conversation went on for about thirty minutes, with him sharing his thoughts on art theft; police brutality; corrupt, afraid newspaper editors; election conspiracies; the JFK conspiracy (it always comes back to that one doesn't it?); some artist in the schools billion dollar project that he founded; corrupt court officials; and the inability for him to bring a tape recorder into a court building . . . I mean how are you going to show that they CHANGE court documents?

Somehow these were all connected in his mind and I had no choice but to agree with him, as I was pressing myself on the wall and further away from him. I managed to end the conversation amicably and he went on his way.

So there you go . . . talked to stranger no. one. I now know that if I steal someone's art and they complain about it the police will come and beat them senseless . . . and if I keep the art for three years the statute of limitations is up, so it's mine. Good to know.

S.A.D.

Though I think most things are crap, in general . . . could I have any better weather to be depressed to? Honestly, the snow was a bother but cold, sleety rain for days? At one point, I just pulled the covers over my head and wondered, "if I lie really still would time just stop?"

So the weather is not helping. I did manage to get out of bed. I will get out of the house and smile a smiley smile at the Starbucks lady as she gives me my dose of crack for the day.

M2 loaned me A Million Little Pieces by James Frey and I don't know what people are complaining about . . . I'm certainly not a strong enough personality to tell you that all of AA and the twelve steps are crap at least not while I'm IN the treatment center. I might think such things . . . but . . . (then again, I've never been in a treatment center . . . maybe I would get some chutzpah then)

So I read it all in one sitting, as I do with everything and therefore was up until 3 a.m. Started it at the National Coney Island around 10 p.m. Went to the coney island because I was craving baby greek salad and gyro and have now determined that I am SICK of going to places alone. This is why I had the book, as "alone armor".

I know . . . blah, blah, blah, have to be comfortable with yourself . . . I'm comfortable with myself already. I can go to movies by myself. I went to a freaking concert by myself because no one I knew was interested. I'm going to Starbucks by myself today as soon as I find some clean socks. And it's alright . . . I wouldn't want to miss out on life because I don't have interests that others have but just for once I would like to go to the DIA and talk to someone about the art. I would like to say "shit these are good fries" out loud instead of in my head at the coney island. I would like to go places that someone else thought up and wanted to try. Gosh darn it . . . I want a boyfriend. There I said it.

And M2 is right . . . I don't want to just anyone and I'm not suddenly going to settle or anything. But it was nice that I had to clean my house because I was worried what someone thought. It was nice to be aware that I should put the dirty clothes in the hamper instead of my usual storage system of "last use". It was nice not to talk about work . . . or to talk about someone else's work and realize that it probably sucked as much as anyone's.

So I guess I'm going to have to try and be less of a matchdotcom disaster. And I was so good being one of those.

Sunday, January 01, 2006

The All New, with More Chipperness, Me

To answer all the questions for my all of three readers . . . no, it didn't happen. I drove home (didn't get pulled over and drove exactly the speed limit), wrote a text message, knit eight rows of a hat, put my pajamas on and went to bed.

Got up, did 150 sit-ups and some tricep pulls and currently thinking about taking a shower so I can go for a walk. Might go to my parents for dinner. But New Year's always makes me sad. Maybe it's the another year older thing? Maybe it's the I haven't accomplished what I want to accomplish? Don't know. Maybe it's just supposed to make you sad. It didn't help that I watched "You've got Mail". A Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan movie will do that to you. To prolong the agony, I may rent "High Fidelity". Oooh, or "Must Love Dogs".

Last week, I was compared to Stockard Channing . . . I did not find this to be flattering (sorry random thought). I haven't made any resolutions yet, no wait, maybe one . . . to talk to strangers more. I can talk the ears off people I know, so much so that they get bored. If I talk to strangers, they don't already know my stories AND it takes the pressure off the people I do know. A genius plan. And I figure if you talk to enough strangers, you might find some that you like and that like you.

As for the chipperness, I don't know if I can swing it. At least not today. I'll give it a shot tomorrow. After all, I did do sit ups.