How Vampires Die

It's 9:30 a.m.

A time that I have not been conscious for in a long time. I am trying to run before the "heat advisory" that the television people keep talking about. Then I will hide in my house for the rest of the day. I'm so tired, I'm kind of wobbley . . .

This is how vampires really die . . . forget the stakes. They burn up in the morning sun because their mommies don't want them to run at night . . . it's "too dangerous". And no matter how much the vampires explain that they are vampires, creatures of the night, their mommies make them promise . . . so they are up at an ungodly, normal people hour and are subjected to waking up to the "Today" show (which was almost enough to turn me to dust right there).

Luckily, week three in the training program is easy. But damnit, I'm getting a tan.

And yes . . .

I did go running today . . . even though it's like the surface of the sun and I didn't get up early like I was planning to avoid the heat. So I will be shopping for some sunglasses on Monday.

Game Face

As some of you already know . . . I am the worst liar in the universe. I have no "game face". You can read my emotions easily. Hell, most of the time, I don't even have to talk and people still know what I'm thinking.

The inability to mask my emotions can be quite the Achilles heel . . . in faculty meetings, an assistant principal would watch my face to see how the meeting was going. And today, I was asked a question that I didn't want to answer and I lied. And the person knew I was lying.

Now it was a little white lie. It wasn't hurting anyone to say what I said. But I could tell that you could read it on my face, that what I was saying was way more positive than what I really felt. I did manage to change the subject . . . but I need to get better at dodging.

Funny, I almost lied to the guy trying to pick me up at Starbucks this afternoon. He had gotten my phone number wrong and if he hadn't asked I wouldn't have corrected him. He was full of questions, "I play golf" man was . . .

"What do you do for fun?" Sacrifice kittens and bury their skulls in a ring around my house . . .
"So do you live around here?" So you can come over and stalk me? Sure let me tell you exactly where I live, random Starbucks man.
"Ever play golf?" Ummmm. . . have you seen my hair?
"So what to you think of Spinoza?" Do I have to think about 17th century philosophers right now? I'm trying to read the paper.
"What is a good time to call?" Ummm . . . I have voice mail. (Okay, I actually said that. Been reading "Why Men Love Bitches")

I then went to the dreaded Trader Joes, to pick up wine and organic dog treats. Didn't see RB best friend's car . . . plan was: get in, get out . . . just like Czechoslovakia. ("Stripes" joke) As I walked in a man was yelling "Hey" and I kept walking . . . couldn't be "hey"-ing at me.

Yup, he was "Hey"ing at me.

"Oh, hi . . . "
"I was yelling at you and you didn't even turn around"
(Insert lame excuse here)
We exchanged phone numbers. He has finished his album. It was pleasant. He is cute. He shows me where the organic dog treats are. "Give me a call sometime" I say. I shop for wine. Checkout at his station (knew I was playing with fire). "So what are you doing tonight?" Tell him about the dog party. Maybe escaping to see the Amino Acids. Yay, I'm going to get out of here and . . . then it comes.

"So . . . you still talk to (RB)?"
They talk more than girls . . . he already knows the answer to this question.
"No . . ."
"So you guys don't talk? You aren't friends?"
And here is where the lies come . . . and the game face did not. Okay, make what you say as short as possible as not to incriminate yourself.
"He has my phone number." Get a smile out of that one. "It didn't end badly." And change the subject . . . "So you really finished your album, that is so great . . ." Ahh, the oh-so-obvious defection to the interest of the other person.

So I want a better game face. Because my words said "I don't care" but I don't think I managed it on my face.

Off to the dog party . . . bought Norm some organic chicken strips and Princess some good wine . . . should be fun.

Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend

I lost my diamond ring today.

I was driving my truck and noticed it was gone. More accurately, I was driving my truck, talking on the phone and fiddling with the radio (because I am a menace to society) when I realized that there was nothing to spin on my finger. My thumb reached for my ring finger and there was nothing there. Ring not on . . . must not panic.

My first thought is that it had fallen off and must be in the truck somewhere . . . but I couldn't look for it, because let's face it, that would be too much multi-tasking for driving. I do have limits.

I then realized that it couldn't fall off, so it I must have put it somewhere. Perhaps in my persistent hand washing. So I did what I needed to do for the day. Put it out of my mind. Figured I would find it, even if it was lying in the driveway. I could always buy a new ring. Not very cost effective, but better than the ulcer. Plus I couldn't go home and look for it.

When I arrived home, I found it sitting next to my computer, where I usually "lose" my watch because it annoys me when I type and I take it off. Must have done the same thing with the ring this afternoon. It's not a great diamond. Women compliment other things but not the ring (which I wear on my right hand, though it probably confuses the boys anyhow) (and it was pointed out today that women do not usually compliment other women . . . so maybe I really am picking them up). But it's my diamond . . . and I'm glad it's not lost.

Wasting the Pretty

Not to be girly or anything . . . but the dress was good, the shoes . . . really good, nails done and matching toenails (thus avoiding the bad karma of two weeks ago, hopefully), hair kinda plain at the request of my wing person (who insists that my hair IS the problem).

Went to bar no. one in the place where my friends all live. Arrived too early. And evidently, arrived not blonde and tan enough. Or didn't have big enough hair. Not sure what the problem was . . . by 11, had a girl talk to me as my friend went to the ATM. On the way out, had another woman touching my hair, telling me how gorgeous it was. I'm a hit with the ladies. Wonderful.

Went to bar no. two because we thought our colleague was DJing. He is in Disneyworld for the week. One woman complimented my hair. Former student came up and hugged me (why I hate going to that town). Another woman complimented my dress . . . though I'm not really sure what she said, other than "Dress" very loudly in my ear. Went outside . . . man complimented my hair, he and his brother started talking to us. They were making double entendres about sailing terms, which I was politely ignoring. Then one of them comes out with the "HJ" . . . "you know . . . hand . . ." and that was enough. My friend, who doesn't not tolerate a$$holes very well, if at all, was ready to go home.

So I'm home by 12:15. Could go out again . . . or could just wash my face and pick M1 up from the airport tomorrow all chipper. Dress was good though. And I'm good at picking up women . . . and complete a$$holes. Guess it isn't different from any other trip to the bar.

You Guys are Lame

As I sit here and contemplate going to "Brew and View" by myself . . . because I really, actually, want to see the movie . . .

I really need to meet people on this side of town. And I'm sick of looking at this box . . . I know myspace, matchdotcom, etc. are the new form of communication but sometimes new isn't always good. I haven't been on IM in three days . . . I might just be over it. And hey, you're not suppose to talk in movies anyhow. So maybe it won't be freakishly weird when I show up alone . . . and it will be dark.

No Good Can Come From Watching Oprah

We all know that I don't have a whole lot to do . . . so when Channel 7 advertises that Oprah is having a "What Not to Wear" episode . . . well, I might as well sit down and watch it.

Most of the episode revolved around the idea of getting the right size underwear. They brought out the brafitter to The Queen for some reason and she sat on the couch and lectured about cup size in a charming British accent. There were before and after makeovers. There admonishments about dark jeans. It was like listening to Princess . . . if Princess had a television studio in Chicago and a 300 person audience.

So today, while shopping, I decided to take the bra ladies advice . . . the problem being, if I take the lady's advice, I am a 36G. They don't make that size. Well, they do, but you have to go to a special store and it only comes in one style and color. So I tried the next best thing . . . 36DDD, which they only make one of for each store. So if you are not the first 36DDD person to show up at Macy's, forget it. Also, if you find the one in that size, it's going to be at least $55. Welcome to the idea of economic inelasticity. So maybe I'm just not going to believe the British bra lady, although to her credit, it did feel better.

I also bought a dress (again, in the juniors department) following the "What Not to Wear" ladies' advice (the British ones, not Stacey and Clinton) . . . so if I look awful, it's all Oprah's fault. Thank God there was no make-up involved or I could have spent all sorts of money.

Shorts in a Bunch

Following the plan, I got to run more today . . . and walk less. (I say this like I'm excited about the "run more" part, which is not exactly true today)

Of the running equipment purchases, (exercise through consumerism) the ten dollar Target watch is good. No slipping. Don't like that it is digitial, but what are you going to do for ten dollars? Watch band is nylon, so not too sweaty. Shoes . . . jury is still out. Not bouncey. I like a certain bouncey quality in my new shoes. And they're white and lilac . . . as discussed before. But they seem to work. Shorts, well, they suck. The key pocket is nice. But there is some bunching and there is pulling and adjusting . . . and I don't want to think about my shorts while I run. My shorts were literally "in a bunch". So it might be back to carrying the keys.

Some young man chose to run in the street to pass me . . . because I am an old lady runner. Oh, and it rained. So I'm so commited, I've already run in the rain. Can't wait until snow.

Since I cannot strip things in the rain . . . off to coffee. Maybe the bike store. Eehhww . . . the back of my head is sweaty.

Waiting for my Brother to Call

Why can't they make women's running shoes in better colors? Cause I now am the proud owner of some lilac and white shoes (with something called "stability control") . . . so I am ONLY wearing them for running . . . and running only in places that people can't see me. I also bought some overly expensive shorts with a little key pocket, so I don't have to carry my keys anymore.

If I make it through next week, I'm going to get sunglasses. Week after that . . . fancy running underwear . . . Lord help me, I don't know what I'm going to do if I run out of equipment to buy.

Had a very nice lunch with my father. Made me think that I maybe should get a "real" job, one that I could go out to lunch like other people. I don't have any skills . . . other than wrangling high schoolers (which I'm pretty good at) . . . but there has to be something compariable in the corporate set. Alligator wrestling? Entertainment law?

So I called my baby brother back at 11:30 and it is now 1 am. So when he asked if I would be up later, perhaps he meant sometime next week.

Running -- Part Three -- Not so High

The first time I "trained" this week, I got this terrific feeling afterward . . . this little endorphin "high", that made me feel like I could run some more, or at least clean something. I felt good.

The second time, there was less of that . . . still felt good, but not "take on the world" good.

Time number three, not so much. Just sweaty. And I can handle being sweaty . . . until the back of my head gets sweaty and then, I turn all girly and hate it.

I'm keeping in mind that I up the workout for "run" number four, so I made be able to repeat the endorphin pattern again next week. And . . . I get to go to the "runners" store for new shoes and Target for a cheap watch . . . somewhere for a little pockety thing to keep my keys. I get to go running shopping. Yay!

Of War Protests and Dogs

I went to Starbucks to read the paper.

I then decided to walk to Shine to look for something for the M1 box, that is sitting on my counter, waiting, hoping to be sent.

There was a cute guy walking ahead of me. With a girl, but I was appreciating the cuteness . . . the overly cool tatt on his shin, the camo shorts, the nice looking dog, the shaved head . . . until my foot slid in something.

My feet are not suppose to slide on the sidewalks of Royal Oak. I look down. Dog sh*t. Fresh dog sh*t. Very, very fresh . . . because it had come out of the guy's dog about four seconds ago. The work F*CK careens out of my mouth as I realize that my Birk is covered in warm sh*t. Tattooed shin guy stops, turns around, looks at the ground and for some reason tells his girlfriend to turn back . . . so they have to walk past me and my soiled shoe.

For some reason I thought they were going to clean up the poop in the middle of the sidewalk. Nope. Maybe they had to run home in shame? Dogs let you know when they want to go . . . which is when you let them go somewhere that is NOT the middle of the sidewalk. Street would have been a better choice, grassy knoll by the railroad tracks, even better. God, people are a$$holes. Managed to avoid the giant piles of poop on the way back . . . but could see that other people hadn't. And had to spend twenty minutes cleaning my shoe once I got home. And tracked sh*t into a bunch of stores.

And because I don't have enough to do . . . I'm going to bring up something controversial . . . flame all you like, because you usually just flame my normal stuff anyhow. As I was leaving Royal Oak, out of the corner of my eye, I saw what seemed to be a war protest marching down Main Street. I'm not up on the schedules, as they won't put me on the mailing list.

But considering what is currently happening in the Middle East . . . I find it very ironic that the people who are carrying these signs are also some of the people who support Israel. So when you carry a "No War" sign, are you also saying that we should pull our support of Israel? Because despite the evil heathen arguments and the war for oil arguments . . . there is an element in this whole mess about the U.S. supporting the Israeli state. Right or wrong. For or against, it's there.

No I didn't stop and ask. They really didn't want to hear what I have to say anyhow. And they can march up and down Main Street until they are blue, for all I care. It is their right. As long as they are here, in this country.

And possibly less annoying than the dog sh*t, but only slightly.

Running -- Part Two

My family has a lot of private jokes . . . I assume all families do . . . and most of ours revolve around catch phrases. Someone will says something that will strike another of us funny and the joke then evolves until you cannot stop it. "I forgot I was holding it" is one of them . . . said whenever you have a really big brainfart or if someone thinks that you are not thinking straight. "Did you forget you were holding it?" My poor sister is responsible for that one. And it is a story for another time.

Another one is "Iiiii'mmmm . . . . sweaaaty" (or I'm sweaty, for those who prefer English) which has to be said in exactly the right intonation. It is a quote from one of my "cousins" (or my father's best friend's kids . . . who are actually closer to me than my cousins), said when she was maybe three, if that. The exact quote would be "Daddy . . . Iiii'mmmm. . . sweaaaty. . . " in a tone of utter frustration and disgust, as if being sweaty was the worst thing you could possibly be . . . as if she would rather be dead than sweaty and her daddy should fix it right now, by putting out the sun or making an air conditioner than could condition the air of the entire world. Our family uses it all the time . . . in the middle of moving someone in August . . . when lifting heavy things . . . heck, I even throw in the "Daddy" if my father is around.

So comment on running workout two . . . Iiiiii'mmmm . . . sweaaaaty . . .

Still like the little buzz afterward. Still really want new shoes. (and now a new watch. . . mine is too loose and makes marks because of the sweat) So I will run on Sunday. Ahhh, materialistic fitness . . . the best kind. Wait and see if I actually get fit . . . and then there will be new clothes to buy.

And Strike Three . . .

I've come to the conclusion (after the intervention last week) that I'm not sad . . . just terribly frustrated with human beings in general.

People consistently say things they don't mean, things they think others want to hear . . . is everything driven by fear?

So how do I overcome this frustration? How do I see light again in the human race? The only solution I see is to only talk to people I already know . . . I know they are a safe bet, because I still talk to them after all these years . . . and avoid interaction with anyone new unless it's on a purely superficial level.

It's like that sticker I modified and stuck on my jacket in college . . . "people suck". And I used to think it was the people I was seeking out . . . the broken toys . . . but I've just had the rather rude awakening that it may be across the board. No wonder we take such joy in blowing each other up.

Wait for the Endorphins to Kick in

I went for a run today.

I went for a run, without anyone chasing me, for the first time since, say . . . sixth grade.

And I didn't die. And I didn't think I was going to die while doing it (as in previous attempts to "run").

Helps that I've been walking three miles a day for a while. Helps that I've been walking for a year . . . even in the snow and the forty below.

The endorphins afterward are lovely. I can understand why people get obsessed. It makes you feel really, really good for about an hour or so. Of course, that may also be the lack of oxygen to my brain.

Plus, if I keep with it for more than a week, it's an excuse to buy more shoes.

Asking for Directions?

Once upon a time, I lived in Detroit. Now to some of you, especially my friends from the west side of the state, I have always lived in Detroit because the entire metro Detroit area is assumed to be "Detroit". But at one time, I lived in Detroit proper. Not the suburbs, where your trash is picked up on a weekly basis and no one steals your mail. The city, with it's lovely car fires, cultural institutions (I could walk to the DIA . . . very carefully), and Larry the crack dealer who sat next to the dumpster and always wanted to go through my trash. (and I always let him. Who was I to argue?)

While I was living in Detroit, I picked up a sense of caution about men who pulled up on the side of the road and rolled their windows down. In the suburbs, I would have assumed that the man wanted directions. In Detroit, I assumed that the man thought I was a hooker (not because I was dressed like a hooker . . . but a white woman walking in my neighborhood, well . . .).

So when the man slowed down on my street today (which is a pretty busy street) as I was walking to get coffee and rolled down his window, I made eye contact and then kept walking. There were four cars stuck behind him . . . so he probably wasn't going to kidnap me. There was a gas station about twenty feet up, so he could pull in there to ask directions. I just figured whatever this fifty year old man in his Honda wanted, it just wasn't going to be good.

So if you were really going to ask directions, I hope you figured out there was a Marathon to your right. Sorry to seem rude, but I don't talk to strangers who pull over and roll their windows down. Guess it's just the Detroit baggage I have.

Thank yous

Thank you to my mother, who called to check on me and gave me some good advice that I probably won't remember next time in that situation (because I am a blabber mouth and will tell people anything).

Thanks to E2, who was kind enough to come out with me last night, thus not wasting all the makeup that I had slathered on my face.

Thanks to M1 for all the support and research . . . I feel like I have a dating tech department.

Thank you to the Berkley Front, for still being a cool bar . . . despite harboring ghosts of my last breakup (never bring a boy to that bar again . . . my bar damnit).

Thanks to M3 (4?), my little IM friend who read my whining and wrote things to make me feel better.

Thank you to the public school system at large, for having summers off, even though we are not longer a agrarian society, so I can sleep until noon.

Boys Suck

"Coffee" has been cancelled. Other things to do. Strike two.

Do I really want to date someone that has other things to do? So many that it doesn't leave time for coffee?

I know it's not supposed to be easy. But now, it's Monday night . . . I have makeup on . . . and all I have to look forward to is that "The Closer" is going to be on in 15 minutes (I was sad about missing it for coffee). This sucks.

I know, I know . . . it should say Men Suck, as I'm not talking about anyone under the age of 29 . . . but they all act like boys.

And by the way . . .

Anyone want to go out tonight? I have my first "coffee" (coffee = blind, in the online dating world) date post RB. I might need a drink afterward . . . he sounds great on paper (not bad on the phone either), but they all sound great on paper.

New Feature

Because it's too hot and I already weeded my front yard . . . and I don't really want to heat gun on the hottest day yet of the year (though I will . . . eventually) . . . I made this pretty new feature on the blog. Witness, on your right, the photo stream.

I was going to go fancy, with the flash option that made the pictures move around, but sometimes simple is best. Unfortunately, now I will actually have to take photos to keep you entertained, instead of just writing this banter.

So let me know what you think . . . yes, mother, I left out the picture with the finger.

More Fun Than I Should Be Allowed

. . . to have in one afternoon.

As what I was supposed to do today did not work out, I decided to suit up in the haz-mat gear and try out the heat gun. Turns out it's more fun than $9.99 is supposed to be. It just melts stuff . . . and you all know how I like to melt stuff.

The trick is to not burn stuff (which I also like to do . . . ) and there is a fine line. Luckily, Harold and Alice (the previous homeowners) liked to paint frequently, so it all comes off in one big (and I'm sure deadly) chunk. But first, it bubbles up nicely. I don't know what I'm going to do if I ever finish the cabinet doors . . . I'm going to have to find other things to melt.

Perhaps I will paint paintings and then melt them as a statement about the disintegration of society as a whole. I'm sure to get a gallery show with that.

Or I could just get a $1.99 bag of army guys and maybe some 11 year old boys to hang out with . . . and a sandbox, so we don't burn down the house.

How Come No One Told Me

Before heat gun

After heat gun

To Pull Out and Have Silverware

Bottom of drawer before

Bottom of drawer after

Quote of the Day

As read in the manual to my new respirator (as if I had an old one):

!WARNING!
"This respirator provides LIMITED protection. It may help reduce exposure to airborne biological agents, including avian (bird) flu virus, other types of influenza, SARS, or other bacterial or viral biological agents, but will not eliminate the risk of exposure, infection, illness, or death."

Protection against SARS? Even "limited" protection? I just bought the thing because of all the lead and asbestos that I'm going to have to secretly smuggle out of here. I may now have to wear it at all times. Especially to work . . . and on dates.

Yeah, First Thought, Best Thought

I'm sorry that I can't be your trained monkey . . . but I can't.

Slowing Down the Karma Downspin

There was a moment last night that I was utterly obnoxious. Princess worked the moment with grace . . . sometimes she is really our shining star (sorry, I couldn't help it and it WASN'T your fault) . . . I could step outside of myself and realize that I was behaving badly, I just couldn't stop it. Well, there were maybe two moments, because there was this lady who dropped her plate, I think because she hooked it on my purse . . . and I kept walking. (start of the karmic downturn)

Being a former restaurant/bar employee, I would have hated me. It wasn't his fault that someone decided to have a "list" party, so that the bar would look more "New York" or something. It wasn't his fault that he was "overcapacity". I was just being a bitch. For no reason whatsoever.

My fingernails now match. I deleted the weird hater comment that I arrived home to . . . and I will now try not to talk to anyone unless absolutely necessary . . . so "I'd like a grande soy latte, please" will be about it. I will try to smile at small children and puppies, but otherwise keep to myself. I need some quiet time . . . maybe some time out.

Psst . . . Hey . . . Over Here . . .

I just wanted the whole internet to know . . . my fingernail polish does not match my toenail polish . . . and . . . I'm going out in public anyway . . .

Whitney

Okay, Princess promised me . . . promised me . . . that we could go to the Whitney Garden party today. So I'm dyeing my hair and we are going to the garden party damnit. Because it is on the summer list and I have a strong urge to wear heels. (yes, I need a reason to wear high heels . . . I'm not just going to wear them around the house) I want to do full makeup (I haven't put anything on but mascara since middle June . . . again, yes, I need a reason for the goo) I want to sit outside with a girlie drink in my hand and share news other than what's happening at work. I want to go out . . .

Because I have news . . . maybe only five minutes worth of discussion, but news nonetheless.

As Seen on TV

Why can't I get a job making "how to" videos like this?

Standards

Dooce just said so much better than I ever do . . .

Langston and Chiquita

I know that it is summer and you have to let the little rascals out or they don't socially adjust but does everyone have to have a stroller the size of a Buick? Today I tripped over one that actually had the Jeep logo on it . . . I think because it was the size of a Wrangler and the company wanted to warn people. (Then how did you trip over it, you ask? I didn't. I was using the verb for effect.)

I was in downtown Royal Joke and these people had let their rugrats out of their "offroad devices" to wander around near traffic as they discussed important things, like how their lives were before they had the rugrats and the offroad Buick-like strollers.

"Langston, honey, Chiquita doesn't want to go that way, honey . . . so you can't make her."

I kid you not . . . Langston was forcing Chiquita to go in her not chosen direction by grabbing her head and pulling. Langston. Chiquita. Not related. Both Caucasian. Maybe it's the teacher in me but those kids have some fights on the playground ahead of them. Good thing Langston is training now.

No, really. I'm not making this up. Langston and Chiquita. Both about two years of age . . . with totally unrealistic parents.

For 9 Bucks, I Could Wear Them Once and . . .

Instead of cutting down the mass of foliage that is making my driveway look "Clampet"-y, yesterday I went shopping. The original goal of the shopping? My friend's birthday was on the fifth . . . and we all forgot. Now it's not unusual for me to forget . . . I ignore birthdays, including my own . . . but everyone forgot. So I went in search of something cute.

I went to downtown Berkley. Not a good idea, as it turns out that they are redoing Twelve Mile (again?) and all of the business owners decided to close until the 10th. The entire city of Berkley is on vaca until then . . . if I had known I would have left town . . . or started a burglary ring.

So I went to Ferndale, which keeps promising to be more "fabulous" than the last time you were there. Yeah, RB does some work with the downtown development people . . . so it's not any more "fabulous" than before, except maybe that you can eat there now. (yes, I'm saying that there was/is some false advertising) Still the same strange dollar stores, an few more arty stores . . . a lot more homeless than I remember . . . unless they were just loitering Ferndale residents that had homeless outfits on (with a good dose of the "I'm obviously mentally ill" look). Found only one store that I would go back to and bought nothing, not even at the Old Navy outlet. But suddenly more restaurants than you would want to shake a stick at . . . and most are upscale. (Yes, I would like my $10 a la carte salad on the patio so I can watch that half naked man yell about Jesus while I'm chewing on my watercress. But we would like to have our entree inside. Thank you.)

Before you get all uppity about my comments on the homeless . . . remember that I am commenting on the swanky restaurants that are eventually going to round them all up and relocate them to south of 8 Mile, if the "Downtown Development" organization doesn't do it first, right after they install that electrified fence on the border.

Depressed that I didn't find anything good from my local merchants, I then did what I do when I'm depressed . . . I went to Target. Thought about purchasing an $8 tube top (he,he, what would I do with a tube top?) but it didn't come in any colors and I've been told I can't purchase any more black. Bought a silly CD instead (Panic at the Disco . . . yep, me and the fourteen year old girls). Went to Kohl's and found some jeans in the juniors section . . . that's right, I said juniors section . . . and tried them on for giggles because they were $9. And I had to go get a smaller size. So Levi's jeans for $9. For that price, I'll wear them once (wearing them right now, as a matter of fact) and throw them away. I've been known to spend more than $9 on lunch.

Still have to find something for M2 for her birthday. I'm thinking slang flashcards. Maybe with some sparkly barrettes. That girl needs more sparkly barrettes.

The End of An Era

I cancelled my matchdotcom subscription today . . . it used to be $12 a month of amusement but it's not as entertaining anymore.

I started this blog when I started eharmony. Kept at it when I got kicked off of eharmony. Meant it as a record of the silliness of internet dating and it became a record of my life . . . which is really just silliness also. M1 will be disappointed at my giving up "the year of 'yes'" early but I just can't do it anymore. Not for a while. I can't look through 50 pages of the same guys who were there last August. I tire of email flirting. I'm tired of terrible pictures . . . of guys who say they're 36 when they are obviously in their 50s . . . of guys who put their kids' pictures on their profiles . . . tired of guys who spell "does", "dors" . . .

I've dated two men that seemed reasonable in print . . . one I could even handle in person everyday . . . who turned out to be so unreasonable, that I don't talk to them anymore . . . so perhaps my first entry in this blog is true.

Yes, I want to "share my life with someone" as sappy as that sounds. RB made me even more sure about that. Yes, I really want to have kids with someone. I just can't matchdotcom anymore. I know it took Princess' friend four years . . . but I'm exhausted.

Mouse House

As promised . . . see link here

Girlie-ness and the Art of Truck Maintenance

Having just completed an oil change on my truck (I am usually the assistant but Mr. CP had his accident and it's hard for him to make level changes), I now realize why chicks don't do car maintenance. There are too many nail breaking opportunities. And the oil, it's hard to get off your rings (just kidding, I didn't wear the diamond to change the oil).

I almost broke a nail on some pliers (to clean the mouse nest out of my frame . . . don't worry, next entry . . . with pictures!). I almost broke a nail putting the "green box" of wrenches away (special socket set . . . been in a metal green box for as long as I can remember . . . probably older than I am). I got hot dirty oil all over my manicure. It was icky.

Keep in mind that I come from a family that required you to be able to change your own oil before you could drive . . . so I have changed my oil before, once or twice. It's just that my father usually gets frustrated because I'm "not doing it right" or I'm too slow and then he just does it for me while I hand him the wrenches. I'm good at handing wrenches. I'm good at knowing how to change my own oil in theory.

Today I got under the truck and did it myself, while my father complained. At one point, while screaming obscenities at the oil filter (because it was f-ing hot), my father decided to critique and I just glared at him and said "SHHHHH" and then went back to swearing . . . because oil was dripping from some thingy they put in the way (almost on my head).

And while you are under there, you only find problems . . . like the mouse house in my frame. But I didn't drive the truck over the ramps (I have previously) and the oil is changed . . . and I probably got the filter "hand tight" enough that it won't leak. Probably.

Oh, and that soap "they" use . . . the stuff you use without water? To get the oil off your hands . . . it smells like a$$.

Marathon of "Made"

On a happier note (to please my mother and the Princess), MTV had a marathon of their show "Made" on all day. I know that it's staged, as they always "get" the fact that they just have to be confident about three-fourths into every show and they always really "appreciate" the experience if they don't get to be the prom queen (just once I'd like them to be f#$kin' pissed). But it's just so nice to get a glimpse into these teenagers' lives and think -- THANK GOD, at least I don't have to be a teenager again . . . ever.

The overwhelming theme of the show is: if you think it, you'll be it . . .

And that is a helpful theme, because it is mostly true . . . even if it is evil MTV.

The Double-Edged Sword of Sex and the City

In one way, I find watching "Sex in the City" comforting. It's a show about dating . . . and therefore, a show about breaking up . . . or not dating . . . or just the hassle of relationships.

And I'm okay that we used to watch it together . . . partially because I watched it before and partially because a guy who admits that he loves "Sex in the City" . . . the edited version without the nudity . . . well, there's a little suspicion there.

But last night, with my mojito in hand, I watched Carrie break up with Big for the second time . . . okay, I can totally relate . . . but then Big shows up at her apartment. Big comes back. To her credit, Carrie then breaks up with Big again. But only after they shag. And remembering the series, she ends up with Big in the end. That didn't help. In fact, they all end up with someone in the end. And right now that isn't helping at all.

And I know it's just a show and they had to end it that way, or we'd all throw a fit. And I suppose I could just shoot for the younger man like Samantha. But when Carrie broke up with Big, well, in real life they don't come back knocking on your apartment door.