Open Til' Ten

I arrived home at 8 p.m. this evening. Still haven't gotten to anything on my lists . . . but the day was amusing, so it balanced out. Decided to do some laundry for tomorrow so I could wear that cute black shirt from the Gap. Walk downstairs, turn on the light . . . and water is everywhere.

I have floor drains so this is okay. I check the furnace first, as the hose sometimes gets clogged. Nope. Seems to be coming from the water heater. Check to see if I have hot water. Yes. Check to see if any water is spurting out as I turn on the water. Nope. Kneel down in the water and check the water heater. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip, drip, drip is not good. Call Mr. and Mrs. Crabbypants. Turn off water says Mrs. Don't turn off until you shower, says Mr..

Mr. Crabbypants: How long has it been leaking?
Emily: Ooooh, I don't know.
Mr. Crabbypants: So how long since you've even been in the basement?
Emily: Within the last three days or so . . .
Hear Mr. Crabbypants rolling his eyes over the phone. (They were that loud)

40 gallon is fine says Mr. CP. And then he realizes that it is a holiday weekend. You have to get it tomorrow morning, he decrees. Nope. Working. Must be installed before the weekend. Go tonight.

I show up to the Home Depot closest to my house at 9:30. It is not my favorite Home Depot. It is not even my second favorite Home Depot. It is like my fifth string Home Depot. The guy is friendly . . . but doesn't know anything about water heaters. He doesn't know the price. He doesn't know the heat recovery. He wants me to buy the extended service plan. This is why this is the fifth string Home Depot. I pick my water heater . . . a pretty, pretty princess one with a 12 year warranty that will be quiet and energy efficient. The nicest one the in the store . . . because I can and because it is 9:35 p.m. on a Wednesday and because I need it installed on Friday and that is the only day I can have it installed. Because I'm tired and I don't want to think. The guy, he can't work the computer. He can't figure out how to put in the SKU for the plumbing permit. And he tries, and tries and tries . . . and then there are phone calls and more phone calls. And another guy tries to sell me the extended warranty, because you know, it's a lifetime warranty and I'm a girl. I point out that 12 years is pretty much the lifetime of a water heater and that they're only $700, which stops him. And first guy is still not figuring out the computer. It's 9:47.

Finally someone else comes and she can't figure it out either. First guy has a lightbulb moment, finding the step he skipped and we are in business for only $668.01. Excellent. Sign me up. What colors does it come in? Will it do long division?

They have to hold a register open for me . . . and let me out of the now locked door. They will call tomorrow to schedule the install. I keep listening for gushing sounds because I left the water on . . . I really want to shower tomorrow. During the lengthy computer fiddling, there were stories of water heater bottoms "just falling off" and stories of musty smells . . . and stories of water heaters coming up out of the basement to murder a family of five. I just want it to not blow up for 12 hours. Just so I can get a shower in the morning. The rest of the weekend can be spent at State Wayne Manor, if need be, especially since Mr. Crabbypants is not up and around. He would probably like the company. Oh, and it needs to be installed before the weekend because I cannot take any time off this week.

Adventures in water heaters. If anyone comes over, be sure to ask to see it. And I guess I'm not wearing the cute black shirt tomorrow.

With Two Yardsticks

I didn't break the copy machine. I'm so swamped with other things that I haven't even given a thought to making copies.

But I fixed the copy machine today. A jam so far back that I had to use two yardsticks to pull it out. I then tested the copy machine, determined the glitch, and wrote a note of warning . . . and signed my name to it.

I have so much work to do, in so many different directions, that my stomach is clamping up every time I have a stray moment to think and I keep making lists . . . and then lists of the lists. And yet, I'm on my hands and knees fishing out paper with yardsticks.

I haven't gotten back to the regular day schedule and thus only got five hours of sleep. Right now, I'm pushing to stay awake, so I can go to bed at 9 p.m. and hopefully be able to get up at 5 a.m.. I am crabby and overwhelmed. And I just want a nap . . . but a nap means I'll stay up until 1 a.m. again. And I know who jammed the copy machine, because I had to fish out their copy remnants. I know who caused me to be Edward Yardstickhands.

Off to make more lists . . . and not sleep . . . and to get blamed for the copy machine only making one sided copies . . . because after all, I left a note with my name on it. And everything will get done. It always does. Well, everything except the vacuuming.

But the Day is Not Yet Over

Only had one incident where my fangs grew large enough for people to see and my eyes went glowing red . . . but the day is not yet over. Still have things to do tonight, which may make my head explode.

Went running in the rain. Still chanting "not my problem" in my head. And then alternating that with "patience" when I start thinking about phone calls . . . or the lack of them. What did I do when I didn't have a shiny metallic folding thing to stare at and will to ring? Oh, that's right . . . I would stare at the plastic thing on the wall, with the cord, and will it to ring. At least this one is portable, so I can practice bending will all the time, not just at home.

My shiny metallic folding purse demon will be turned to silent tonight. I will be so busy keeping my fangs at bay that I will not have to chant. As much as I'm put out, I'm enjoying the end of summer . . . diversion. Excellent.

Horrorscopes

I like to fix things. And solve problems. And I feel this is a positive aspect of my personality. It certainly comes in handy in my chosen profession.

But I'm becoming aware that I need more boundaries. Some things are just not my problem. There are some things I shouldn't be a part of . . . despite my knowledge base or expertise. Things that I certainly "fix" and offer advice on but probably shouldn't.

So my struggle is to resist the urge and stay out of it. Even though I could provide twenty resources and at least get someone to intervene. Offering advice sometimes just pisses people off . . . some people don't want to be fixed, either. So I will not provide the phone numbers. I will not look up the social service agencies. I don't need to . . . not my problem.

My horoscope said yesterday: You're attracted to complex problems and people. Don't get too close to those with mysterious motives. It's better to be kissed by a fool than fooled by a kiss!

Not that I believe in horoscopes . . . but they did called it yesterday.

Time Flies

"God, it's four already?"
"Yeah, time flies when you're plotting to kill an invalid . . . "

Superhuman Powers

A new friend of mine lists his superhuman abilities on one of his profiles . . . I believe "eating cheese" is one of them. So it came up in conversation what I thought my superhuman abilities were. And I had nothing.

So after a small survey, E2 pointed out on superhuman power that I have. And it's a good one. My superhuman power is . . . I have the ability to say no . . . without ever actually saying the word no.

For example, last night some burnout (I know, high school term . . . but I was in my hometown and the description fits, dirty AC/DC t-shirt and all. He may have even had high top tennis shoes on. I didn't check.) came up, complimented my hair and then asked if he could have my barrette. "I'm sorry, it's really my schitck . . . " and then after his insistence . . . "Well, tell you what, at the end of the night you can have my barrette." There was a lot of pestering from the burnout and many statements of "But I'm leaving right now." This wasn't true, as he went back and sat at the bar for another two hours. But I never actually said the word "No". Just made the situation impossible.

I had done this earlier in the day also . . . but I don't want to be dooced, so we can't talk about it.

And now, twelve hours later, I realize that the burner was probably making fun of my hair, as I recall that his hair was black and spiked, but then again, he was assuming that I actually looked at him for more than a nanosecond . . . and didn't know that I was busy making eyes at the guy across the room. Somehow, I was introduced to his boss also . . . interesting evening. And I paid cover to get into a bar in Plymouth. New experience. And the only time I will ever do that. There was a reason I had never been to that bar, despite it being four blocks from my brother's house. It was like a microcosism of Westland in the eighties. And Westland in the eighties . . . it wasn't pretty. I'm not sure it's pretty now.

So chalk up another superhuman power . . . being totally oblivious to people making fun of me . . . and then not caring when I figure it out. Any others?

Going Home Today

New T-shirts I'm making:

"Not my Problem" -- "No, Really, It's Not"
"Super Mr. Crabbypants" -- "Now with 75% more crabbiness AND cadaver tendon"
" (Insert My School's Name), It's Going to be the Best Year Ever!" -- "Yet Again"

Quotes from Stately Wayne Manor:
"I can't believe I have a child that is a union rep."
"Are you sure it says I can't drink with these?"
"It's a man thing."
"Did I ask for that for breakfast?"
"No, your mother didn't make the pizza . . . California Pizza Kitchen . . . they made the pizza"
"Could you take the hose and wash the loogie (sp?) off the sidewalk before we get home"

Craptastic!

Hmmm . . . I thought as I received an email on matchdotcom this evening. I wonder when they will turn this thing off? Maybe I should click this thing that says "subscription status".

I have been re-upped for another six months. Sh*t. Now I have to fight with the robots after I find my cancellation confirmation. Cancelled it again tonight. Now I have to decide if it's a sign from God or a joke from the fates or if I should just pull my profile. Damn. No one is ever successful in getting anything out of matchdotcom. I may just have to eat the $80. And I remember cancelling but only the first part of the process. Could it be that I didn't get to the last screen last time?

And after I toyed with all these boys and told them that I was going away. Making a liar out of me.

I still think that getting out in real time and meeting real people is the way to go. I will still get the museum memberships (I think I'm getting a raise, so I can afford it). I'm thinking Cranbrook Art Museum, the D.I.A. and the Daimler Chrysler museum. The D-C will be strictly to be invited to events . . . figured it was a good bet for men. My father belongs, so I can already go there for free. Because sometimes you just want to go to look at old Dodges (not really, but I do end up there two or three times a year). With those and the running actual races, maybe I could meet someone or something or several someones. Oh, and the college class I'm going to take (which I have to decide about tomorrow) . . . so lots of 23 year old somethings.

23 is the youngest I can go . . . and even that may be pushing it.

So all that whining about match and I'm not even gone yet.

Ghost of my Grandmother and Milford Mommies

The Starbucks in downtown Milford has a waterfall out back. This is very nice . . . relaxing, in fact. The inside of the Starbucks of Milford, however, has Milford Mommies. These were not relaxing. Children everywhere . . . in those baby buckets, toddling around, using little mini strollers for their dollies which were bigger than them and hard to steer. At least I'd like to think it was hard to steer, since I was hit with it several times in the ankle. I think dolly strollers, especially the large double dolly kind, are in the "at home" toy catagory. But nobody ever asks me about such things. So Milford Starbucks on a Wednesday at 10:30 a.m. . . . five or six stay at home moms with several children each in tow, two guys on cell phones, three employees and me. Took some cool pics of the waterfall though.

Yesterday, in my father's drug haze, he pointed out that a turquiose dot looked a lot like his mother. I followed his line of vision and sure enough, there was woman in a turquiose outfit that, if she stood still, did in fact look like my grandmother. Except that you couldn't see her lipstick from 50 yards, so it couldn't have been my grandmother.

My grandmother was very fond of two things: makeup (lipstick in particular) and attention. I used to think it was just attention from men. She was very proud of having a boyfriend at the old person habitrail. But I truly now think that she just liked attention from anyone. She was very concerned about my appearance also . . . once confiding with my siblings that she was afraid that I was turning out to be a "slob". It seems in her mind that lipstick was a very crucial element to being attractive to the opposite sex and to getting attention. Perhaps she was right.

Currently, I'm on a kick where I cannot leave the house without mascara on . . . I don't have to wear any other makeup but am suddenly all about the mascara. It reminds me of my grandmother. The looking in the mirror and pursing of her lips critically. The whipping out of the mirror and lipstick for the after eating re-application ritual. No, I don't need to re-apply mascara after eating . . . but it's the same idea. So thinking about my grandmother . . . must be all the hospital-ness. She was a nurse. Even at the end, when she was trying to nurse her boyfriend from her hospital bed. Checking on what he had eaten that day and his vitals.

I think she would be pleased about the mascara . . . and tell me to put on more "Viva Glam IV". Cause a girl might as well be naked (and not in a good way) without her lipstick.

Can we tell that I don't have enough to do at Stately Wayne Manor? Change the ice every three hours and watch my father watch bad television. Magnum P.I. currently.

Coffee Noise

When I am at Stately Wayne Manor, my father usually wakes me when he makes coffee. It is an ornate ritual, that I want no part of . . . and it is LOUD. There is measuring and bean grinding and sighing. And I lie in the bed of no comfort (God, I hate that bed) upstairs and wonder what ungodly time in the morning it is . . .

(As an aside, my father and I are currently watching a biography about Billie Jean King . . . and her favorite place to go to lunch, according to her lover with the cute accent, is Costco with her parents . . . Awwww.)

So I pulled the 6 a.m. straw for ice duty. My father is hooked up to this weird water cooler thing, involving ice water and a pump, and you have to change the slush every three hours and check the temp on the thing. Catman decided to start swearing at the top of this lungs at 5:15 a.m. about no one being up and hand feeding him chicken liver or whatever smelly things he eats, so I was already up. But after the ice, I was given the 54 steps for making coffee.

There are pieces to the coffee maker that you have to find, because Mom has hid them. There is special water to filter. There is measuring and leveling and piecing things together. It would have helped to have a manual. There is a carafe that you have to lovingly pre-heat. It was just as noisy . . . my mother rolled over and audibly swore . . . and the coffee . . . well, it's very "German" . . . or French, but then again what I'm thinking of in France was the stuff we drank after dinner and I think that was espresso. Anyhow, it's strong coffee.

And the news is exactly the same as the news at 11 p.m.. And the Today show . . . sucks. And I have to stop eating here. My mother has a master's degree in Food Science. She could be a liscensed nutritionist. And therefore, we have the worst family eating habits in America. I suppose it's better than my sister's nutritionist friend who only eats peas, but so far I've had McDonalds (first time in three months) and Chinese food. Breakfast is slated to be McDonalds again. Ugh. Just add it to the pile of bacon that I visualize following me while I run.

So there is no way to make coffee in this house without noise and someone needs to mail in (or sneak in) some green vegetables. Or some fresh fruit. Or at least some vitamins . . . bring some vitamins if you come.

And Mr. Crabbypants is hooked up to his slurpee pump and has pants on . . . progress.

Cat Needs Some Orbit Gum

Our family cat has a dirty mouth. He says the f-word more than anyone I know.

I just went upstairs to get something for my father . . . Catman (as we call him or Mr. Cat when we are being formal or Her Katze when we're being super formal) looked at me from his down comforter, which is folded for optimal cat fluffiness, and said "F#$K you" with his eyes.

There was also some cat swearing when we got home . . . and when I made him come inside when he escaped during all the Dad with crutches getting out of the car and in the door business. I know he's not used to visitors at this hour and he likes his "alone" time, but at this point he's just being rude.

New and Improved Mr. Crabbypants

My father is in recovery. They stitched in the cadaver tendon and put in little screws . . . so he'll never get through airport security quickly again. They have pictures for us. Gotta love the pictures! Pictures of the inside of my father's knee . . . coming soon!

I have knit a purse, surfed the net and looked at the covers of the ancient magazine collection for six hours now. I'm a little hungry. And probably should have brought a book. Or a more difficult knitting project.

My mother has picked out all the men I should email on my last day on the matchdotcom, to tell them to change their pictures or advise them of their spelling errors. She wants to ask about their motivations for selecting a particular picture over another. Evidently after tonight I will not get any return emails, so what could it hurt? (just kidding . . . really . . . I'm not going to spend the time . . . and no one would see my advice as helpful anyhow)

And I have decided that I really want one of those McDonald's chicken "snack" things . . . without the sauce.

Mr. Crabbypants Wants Everyone To Know

That Crabby people are smart. Really. It was in USA Today last week. Whole article on how crabby old men were smarter than sweet and nice old men. Not sure if the smartness makes you crabby. Pretty sure that the crabby-ness doesn't make you smart . . . because then no one wants to do things for you.

And for the record, Mr. Crabbypants is smart. And crabby. And very particular about his pants.

Waiting Room

Fugazi Song.

Okay, so I've had some coffee and I'm feeling a bit more human. We are at some Medical Center in Ann Arbor . . . but not UofM's main hospital (which would have a Starbucks). Ended up finding an Espresso Royale down the road.

The building is brand new . . . parking lot isn't even done yet . . . and yet, every magazine in this waiting room is no less than six years old. Really. I'm bored enough. I checked. Everything printed before the year 2000. Like they shipped them in from another waiting room. I guess they had to . . . this building wasn't even here in 2005, let alone 2000. I am where magazines go to die?

They have computer access and if there was a card reader, I would upload a bunch of pictures of old magazines and purple uncomfortable chairs. I'm sure I'll be back in an hour. Kind weird having other bored people watch me surf the net.

Oh, and according to the Free Press, there are no people to meet (although they did interview a guy from Trader Joe's . . . where I go for my eye candy) . . . so I guess we all shouldn't feel so bad.

Tuesday Morning

It's just this side of 5 a.m. and the Crabbypants (Mr. AND Mrs.) well . . . they're being Crabbypants.

And I am told there is not going to be a Starbucks.

Snot Explosion

First morning run this morning. Actually, all my runs are "morning" runs, in that I usually run right after I get up and thus don't have to shower twice. But this was the first run in the morning . . . or before 11 a.m..

Thought I would be cold, so wore a jacket. So didn't need the jacket. Did need Kleenex though. I've been blowing my nose all night, with little success. Little did I know that all I would have to do is run . . . and my nose would run too. So I was very attractive this morning, bleery eyed, sweaty, with a runny nose and my hair all sticking up. Oh, and occasionally wiping my nose on my shirt. Yeah, I was cool.

Now I am dressed, sort of like a teacher and I will go into work after the coffee I promised myself to get through that last half mile (better than looking at the eye candy I guess). I'm on three hours of sleep and I really need another pain pill but will hold off until this afternoon. Must mow the lawn this afternoon. Must.

Okay, off to the first day of work in ages. Think good thoughts. And let's hope I don't have another snot explosion until at least this afternoon.

No More Thinking

In about six hours I will not have time to think . . . at least until next summer. There has been way too much thinking lately, so I'm kind of looking forward to the crap. Better than looking at the phone anyhow.

I just took something for the pain in my face, as I think I have a pretty good sinus infection going. Hopefully, I will get sleepy in about a half an hour. Been wanting to sleep all the time and have been letting myself, as I thought it would help with getting over this cold, but it's just getting worse. I'm going to have to suck it up and go to the doctor soon. Always fun, as I have nothing "green" coming out of my face as of yet . . . and that is what my doctor will want. Otherwise, I'll be told I'm fine and to take a motrin. Really does feel like someone stabbed me in the face with an icepick . . . repeatedly.

Tomorrow is the cleaning out of Princess' room and the begging for AP. Then Mr. Crabbypants has surgery. Then there is the working of new teacher orientation. Then there is regular orientation, with the signing up for classes mixed in. And then school starts and it's the slide until Xmas. Ahh, back to robot mode. Take off that hat and stop swearing and is that yearbook page done yet?

Be better if my face didn't hurt so much. And running is going to suck in the morning. Hmmm . . . should I take jewelry or painting? CCS or OCC?

Dingo Snack

My best friend, from sixth grade on, E1 just sent me pictures of her son Finnegan. She sends groups of pictures to an email list about every three months because she is a good mom and Finnegan, he's a cutey.

His name is not really Finnegan . . . and I'm the only person in the world who refers to him as Finnegan, which I'm sure will cause some sort of psychological damage. But really, what doesn't? His parents went on and on at their wedding about how they met in the Finnegan's Wake class in grad school and so I decided on his name before he was even conceived. He should just thank his lucky stars that he isn't a girl (pseudo-named Finnegan) and that he lives in a completely different state so he doesn't have to put up with me often. He doesn't look a thing like the sock puppet. And he can't tell the difference between me and his aunt . . . so she may get all the blame.

But speaking of psychological damage, in this last round of pictures, Finnegan is dressed in a bright red shirt proclaiming him as a "Dingo Snack". As in "The Dingo . . . it ate my baby" with Meryl Streep sobbing. Dingo Snack. Labelling your child as a wild dog treat. That's just asking for trouble.

So of course, I had to give E1 (who is a good mother and does try to do everything right) shit about dressing her son as a foodstuff. She got really serious . . . "yeah, we have to be really careful about where we wear that shirt. We don't wear it to the playground. We can only wear it if we're sure people will get the joke." I love that her two year old already has outfits that he can only wear in certain places . . . to certain parties or occasions. I bet it's going to be more old when he's thirteen and wearing fishnet shirts and black lipstick.

Turns out the aunt that I'm interchangable with . . . she gave him the shirt.

Here's the link in case you need one for the little Finnegans in your life.

"Fingernails That Shine Like Justice" II

There is a rhythm to getting a manicure and a pedicure that I'm not yet familar with. I think everything happens in the same order . . . but being a newbie, I'm not sure about the order. When to put your foot down and lift the other. When the hot towels are suppose to come. When to get the money out, which is not at the end because your nails are wet.

It's not something that I want to do every two weeks. It's a bit expensive . . . although we all know what I spend on my coffee habit. There's something about being waited on. I mean, the lady is washing your feet. Maybe it's the fact that I'm perfectly capable of painting my nails myself . . . but then again, I do have an espresso maker at home and I feel totally comfortable paying someone to make that for me.

And you have to relax, which I have a problem with . . . poor manicurist kept telling me to relax my hands and I had to think really hard in order to accomplish that for her. But my nails look really good. And they're real and mine and everything. And red . . . they're really really red.

I Run Slow

Or to be more correct, I run slowly.

Today was the day that I was to run 20 minutes straight with no walking . . . ideally running for 2 miles. I don't think that I've run for twenty minutes with no walking ever. Sure I "ran" that 5K in sixth grade because I had a deep admiration for Mr. Williams, who was a runner and wanted us all to be runners. But I must admit there was a lot of walking in amongst the running in that 5k in sixth grade. And I don't think I ever trained for more than a mile, which I thought was running the whole loop of the subdivision. (or our "sub", as we called them)

So I just ran for twenty minutes, with no walking. And right at this moment I don't feel as though I'm going to die . . . though right afterward I considered just lying down in the street and taking a little siesta. And through the power of the internet, I know that I did not run 2 miles . . . I only ran 1.5821 miles according to the gmap pedometer. But hey, I've not run 1.5 miles straight in a long time . . . if ever.

So I made it. Ran all the way through, no walking. Got over the fear and psyching myself out (every new routine, somewhere in my brain says "You can't do that"). So now I get to put on some flip-flops and go get my nails done, that and Traders Joe's for some crack trail mix. After a shower, of course.

And for the record . . . I'm old. So I'm allowed to run slowly.

Stay off the Grid

It seems like I spent an enormous amount of time in my childhood watching science documentaries about stuff scientists did to monkeys. Maybe it's because cable hadn't been invented yet and my mom figured it was safe to watch PBS. Maybe I watched them in the science portion of elementary school. I don't know. Just hours and hours of film reel in my head about the behaviorial science guys and what they did to poor monkeys . . . usually an experiment that you could answer the hypothesis with: "Well . . . duh . . ."

Guy in White Coat: What happens if we keep all the love from the monkey? (by totally isolating the monkey)
Hmmm. . . monkey doesn't relate well to other monkeys . . .
Another Guy in White Coat: What happens if we give a surrogate wire sculpture "mother" to the monkey, after we rip him away from his natural mother?
Hmmm. . . monkey really doesn't relate well to other monkeys . . .

I just remember this one experiment with a baby monkey and two "surrogate" sculpture mommies, both with reflectors for eyes (as if the baby monkey was fooled). The scientists were seemingly fascinated by the fact that the baby monkey clung to the carpet mommy monkey instead of the wire mommy monkey. Ummm. . . duh, I thought. I think I was, like, four at the time . . . maybe six.

Anyhow, I'm currently acting like the monkey pressing the food bar, so he won't get electrocuted, except I'm using matchdotcom as a food lever. I figure I should get everything out of it I can for the last days? Don't know. Can't resist checking it though. Keep pushing it to see when the yummy snack bar is going to come out. (or better yet, cocaine . . . they did one with cocaine. The monkey pressed the bar alot for cocaine . . . again, duh.) And as we have gone over, the "snack bar" is never going to come out. Perhaps I'm just doing it to keep them from electricifing the floor.

So maybe I should go outside and socialize with the other real monkeys? Okay, I'm going to go out and see the other monkeys.

Running Week Five

I am in the middle of week five in the couch to 5k program . . . and this is the first time my legs hurt afterward. My legs maybe hurt the day inbetween, but this time my knee tendons ache. I'm also having a problem with my left heel on inclines. It feels like electric shocks and I realize with my foot "difficulties" (flat feet, plantar fasciitis, and I'm pigeon toed) I should probably go to the doctor. But the doctor will just tell me to stop running, so instead I just avoid inclines.

In this training program, you can run by time or mileage. Not having a track in my backyard, I go by time . . . but I think my mileage is a little off. Supposed to do 3/4 of a mile at a time today and I don't think I made it in the time allowed. Are the mile roads actually a mile apart? I suppose I could look it up on the google pedometer thing. Oh, well . . . I am old, after all. (training program suggested that anyone starting the program at 35 or over should check with their doctor first . . . what? No, I'm 27 . . . really) My next run is 20 minutes straight through . . . I don't think I even did that when I was 12 and on cross country, so it should be interesting.

Hmm . . . what should I buy if I get through this week?

Oh, and I'm not any skinnier . . . website says that happens in week ten . . .

It's Like Crack . . . with Peanuts!

I have long held that Starbucks puts something akin to crack in their coffee. And that a recreational drug habit is probably cheaper than my Starbucks habit (at $3.55 a day). But now, I have found something else.

My sister loves trail mix. Keeps it at her desk. She likes this kinds she gets at Wal-mart and she tried to convert me. And she almost did, as it looked yummy with all those chocolate chips and peanut butter chips and then I read the back of the bag and figured out that I could just pour sugar straight into my mouth . . . and consume less calories.

And let's face it. I'm not really a trail mix kind of girl. I don't like my food touching other food. I don't like raisins (so let me get this right . . . you left the grapes out in the sun and now you want me to eat them?) and I'm very persnickety about nuts. Don't like coconut . . . the list goes on.

But then there was this bag at Trader Joe's (I know I'm banned . . . I figured out his days off) and it said "Nuts about raspberries and chocolate" and it was like the skies parted and shined a beam in the trail mix aisle. (TJ has a trail mix aisle . . . I know, such a hippy store) (but what would a punk rock grocery store have in it? Two aisles . . . Jack Daniels and beer? But I digress.)

Because the problem with trail mix was that I always had to pick something out. I have this problem with other mixes too. Chex Mix . . . I only eat the pretzels. And this TJ trail mix, only has four ingredients . . . which is very un-trail mix like. And they're all ingredients that I like. Almonds, peanuts, dried raspberries and chocolate chips. I could do without the chocolate chips, but oh, so good. My new crack-like product.

Speaking of crack-like dog treats . . . turns out Chuck from Dooce.com likes organic chicken strips from Trader Joes too.

And I think I have mono I'm so tired. Sore throat, stuffy nose and just a difficulty staying awake.

For M1 . . .

This is completely for M1 and nostalgia . . . shoot me if I go out like this.

Awful.

The Wonders of Matchdotcom Never Cease

In eight days, I become a non-paying member of matchdotcom, which as I remember is not very useful. Why I became a paying member, I suppose. I found it intensely amusing at first. Got a "friend" in New York City out of it. Went out on lots of coffee days, which were mostly awkward. (oh, and two bar dates, which were even more awkward) I think of match as the land of the misfit toys, which none of the boys on match found very funny. I don't know why . . . I was including myself . . .

And I find my last week incredibly freeing. I wink at will. I throw emails around. Mostly, men don't respond and quite frankly, I don't care. Frees me up to go to coffee by myself, which is much less awkward. Or to coffee with people that I have met other ways. Or to the bar with my friends, which is again much less awkward, at least until Princess starts in on me about something. (dating 80 year olds? I don't care how much they like martinis)

But today was a first. There is a way to "reject" winks and emails. I never used it. It seemed like asking for trouble. An opening for people to ask why . . . which would just be a mess. So I never, ever, hit the "No Thanks" button. I delete winks and store the emails (just in case I'm killed by a stalker, to give the police something to go on).

Today I was rejected. Not only did he hit the "No Thanks" button, which meant I got an email saying "so and so is not interested in you" (and matchdotcom is usually so sensitive) . . . he then (evidently feeling bad? guilty?) emailed me with a one sentence response -- "Thank you for the wink, but I don't think we're a good match. Take care and good luck in your search." Very nice of him, but who has the time? He must be new.

And now the questions fill my head. How can you tell that we aren't a good match? Did I miss something in your profile that said you were looking for a 20 year old or a devout Christian? And it doesn't even matter . . . but see, once you get that "reject" email, you can't help it. It still churns in your head. But really, if I don't meet another man on matchdotcom . . . ever . . . that will be totally okay. As it turns out, I really was a "matchdotcom disaster". (which is my nickname in our little single girl group)

And the poor Baptist guy who emailed me today. I'm not emailing him to say that we aren't a good match. I think a little mystery is good. At least better for his self-esteem anyhow.

New Pictures

Okay time to vote on what the new picture should be for all the various icons, the nine days of dating site I have left, etc. If you hit refresh a couple of times, one of the pictures with black hair should show up. Click on it and you can see them all. If you click "browse", you can see them all at once.

Yes, I know my eyes seem to be looking in different directions in, like, two of them. Just don't vote for those . . . my vote is for "new hair 18", but what do I know?

And now that I have posted it here . . . I'm not sure I like it. Well, just go look.

Okay, I'm Back

Once upon a time, there was an Emily that gave little thought to what others thought of her. She wouldn't have cared about her super short hair . . . cause if boys didn't like it, well, that was their problem. She didn't care if anyone looked at her. In fact, she preferred if people didn't notice her at all. She wore tennis shoes to work. She didn't worry about makeup. She was passionate about her job and her family.

And then the year of "yes" happened. And quite frankly, dating has made me stupid . . . and whiny and weak. And the year of yes . . . it's being cut a week short.

So I'm back. And I don't give a flying f- what you think.

How did this come about? Well, let's see. While wallowing in my misery from last night (poor me, sniffle, sniffle) and deciding not to talk to anyone today and just stay in bed, I check my email. Two guys from matchdotcom, one wink (has a ridiculous username) (ironic when I make judgement about compatibility from someone's username) and one enormously long email. And the enormously long email may have cured me.

What was in this miraculous email? A man who knows way too much about me to be healthy. Lists usernames from both dating sites. My myspace account, which has nothing personal connected to it. Hell, he's probably reading this right now. Admits he has spent time gaining this information. Gives me more dating sites to look at him. Gives me his phone number and full name.

I think he has emailed before . . . or winked and I have ignored him. He lists his age at 39 but looks at least 10 years older. Has pictures of his daughter on matchdotcom. Is an ubergeek, by all accounts. And is so interested in me that he collects information. Has noticed me. Wants to know me. And I want absolutely nothing to do with him.

I'm sure he is a good provider. He would probably take my advice on his wardrobe and haircut. I could go buy him some new glasses. He is well read. And probably smart. And if I'm so lonely, why don't I want to jump on this train? I should call him up . . . and yet, every cell in my being says no. Something about him admitting that he knows all this. You'd be dumb not to notice that everyone is on the same dating sites and myspace. We're all tech geeks, or we wouldn't be here. But it's different if you admit it. And something about the need.

And we all have to admit that I've been repulsively needy for the last two months.

So I thought about that. I've been looping on what I wrote to RB for a while. Ruminating about what I learned from the situation. (and don't say "not much" . . . I can hear you, Princess) You know what? I don't really like most people. I'll be polite to them. I'll be nice to them. I always try to act with integrity towards other people. But except for a few, they mostly bore me. Or annoy me. Which is why I didn't want to be noticed for the most part, because then I would have to talk to other humans.

Don't get me wrong . . . I find the superficial banter and reactions of others interesting. I'll talk to anyone that I don't know very well, just to see what they'll say. Almost like I'm testing to see if people will be interesting. And sometimes they are . . . I know a lot of smart, witty and great people (before you start thinking that I'm a total sociopath). But dating . . . it makes that test your job . . . your life goal. And I'm not one to do anything half-assed. And so after going out with lots of men (and mostly being annoyed) I found one that was interesting to me. And when I became too much (because I am intensely intense) and we parted ways, I got scared. It took me a long time to sort through the sand of humanity to find that broken toy. And I didn't even see all the ways he was broken. Panic and need.

But you know what? I like getting through a day without talking to anyone. Okay, I gave the waitress my order and told her twice that I didn't need anything else. I said "Thank you" to a person who held a door for me and to the girl who ran me up at the coney island. But otherwise, nothing. Just me and my head. And for the most part, it's quiet.

And I don't have to worry about what I'm wearing, or if I'm cute enough, or what the person across from me is thinking. Or if I'm a good enough girlfriend, or if someone is going to call me . . . or what it means if he doesn't call me. The waitress doesn't care about my hair. The bookstore employees are probably annoyed that I'm up to chapter 24 and still haven't bought the book, but they'll never voice it.

Back to what is perhaps a self-centered existence. And it feels soft and warm and safe. And I feel the need falling away. And I'm back.

Faith

The girls came to Royal Oak . . . which was very nice of them.

And we had a nice evening. And I was questioned (if not chewed out) for talking to RBBF.
"Aim higher" was the theme.

But how do you aim higher? No one talked to us. There was no one to talk to. And Royal Oak is so plastic . . . and truthfully, in my twenties, I did plastic . . . boobs up to there and underwear on the outside. And now . . . I just feel old.

Princess said that my mother just wanted me to date a "normal guy". But the only normal guy she could come up with as an example was some eighty year old psychologist that we used to work with. And I really don't think my mother was picturing me running off with Dr. H.

And what Princess doesn't understand is . . . I used to not care. I had accepted my fate. I had accepted that I would grow old and be alone. I had cared for my old people. It was okay. Until I figured out that there would be no one to care for me.

And now, I'm just lonely. I have great things. Great job, great house, just bought a bunch of great clothes . . . I have great friends that listen to me bitch and love me even though I'm a pain in the ass. A great family, whom I love . . . and who love me. But still . . . lonely.

And everyone tells me that you just have to have faith. The lego that you are supposed to click with is out there. And I am losing that faith . . . or maybe I didn't have it to begin with.

I never wanted it to be easy. I don't want Prince Charming to show up on my doorstep. I wouldn't believe him if he did, even if he had I.D. But I didn't think it would be this hard. And it is this hard.

And I'm tired of going out . . . dressing up and drinking . . . and having it be the same outcome as if I had stayed home in my jeans . . . and talked to my friends on the phone. And what my friends don't understand is that RBBF is in the same place . . . and it's nice to hear the male perspective of that. It's nice to hear that someone else might be fed up with the games and tired. Because I'm tired. And 35. And in my mind, I should have two kids by now. I know that I can't go with my mental picture . . . but still.

How can you keep your faith that everything happens for a reason (especially when it's been a miserable week)? And despite the "aim higher" lecture I received this evening . . . I just really want someone who can make me laugh and that I can stand for more than half an hour. And knowing me, I think that's a pretty high standard.

I guess I just want a reason to believe. And I didn't get it this evening.

Stately and Wayne

First off . . . for some reason, I really want to go to this concert tonight. And despite my attempts to flirt with disaster, I still have no one to go with. And it was bad enough going to shows alone with good hair. I may just stay in my house for three or four months 'til this crap grows out.

Or, screw it, I may just go.

So I'm out at Stately Wayne Manor waiting patiently for the sprinklers to be "done" so I can take a shower. Evidently, there is no consistent water until then . . . and I have to stay dirty. We've talked about my father and his morning issues in the past ("you're wasting the day . . .") so I generally don't sleep in when I'm here. Plus my dad, he makes a lot of noise. Somehow all of the noise is connected to coffee, but it basically sounds like he's cutting down coffee trees with all the grinding and buzzing.

My mother expected me to sleep until noon and was quite upset that I was up so early. She had plans to garden.

I think the next plan is to ambush my sister . . . she won't be thrilled . . . but it's complicated by the fact that my sister lives three hours away and I want to get home for a silly rock show that I'm not going to go to. So, yeah, I think the plan is . . . drive three hours, go through my sister's house making faces, look at the dryer vent (or lack of one), nag about some things, leave a bag of crap and some coupons, go out to dinner, drive three hours home. Or the new plan may be just to go to Briarwood . . . there's an H&M there.

I think the sprinklers are done. Off to get clean.

Hot Colorforms and Dancing in My Backyard

Managed to peel the paint off the rest of my cabinet doors tonight. Now just have to sand and paint. I may have doors and drawers by the end of the summer. My only accomplishment.

So I'm looking rad in my cut-off shorts and wife beater . . . both of which are too big because of the running . . . and my short, short hair and my respirator with my headphones plugged in . . . and when I get to a good song . . . like "Anti-Pop" . . . I start dancing with my heat gun. Oh, and I forgot the blue leather gloves. So I look absolutely ridiculous . . . and don't care one bit.

And I really want a certain boy to call . . . which means he won't call . . . because I want him to . . .

So I'm going to take a shower, to wash away any possible lead dust (might explain the dancing) and maybe go see State Wayne Manor.

Allergic to People

I have developed an allergy to other people. I suppose if I notified someone, they could give me medication or shots, or something.

I'm done with their defenses and their silliness and their talking on their cell phones too loudly in public.

I have become a Miss Crabbypants.

And if you call me, the message will inform you that I have developed an allergy to people and cannot come to the phone. Just leave a message. I'll take a Claritin and get back to you as soon as it kicks in.

Someone told me that my hair looks "very Joan Jett" . . .

Yep, allergic to people. Giving me hives. And a headache.

Done.

To add to the angst, I tried to be nice to a person that I should've ignored totally from the moment I met him. And it went well for 1.5 emails. And then he was what he is . . . and all the resentment came out and I clicked "send". And it wasn't even half of what I wanted to say.

I'm sorry that you are so stuck . . . somewhere where the focus always has to be on yourself. It's a shame.

And yes, I am acutely aware that I am not perfect . . . far, far from it. If I were perfect, there would be no emails to send, because I would have ignored it as soon as it got ugly.

Matt Good wrote something that I found of interest . . . makes sense to me in this situation:

Our acts determine our true wealth.

When someone says that they love you, and you know that they mean it to their very core, that there is no doubt in any cell in your entire body that they are unconditionally sincere – then you are wealthy. There is no question that, for a time, financial wealth can secure the placebo of love, but it cannot create it. It cannot manufacture true love, just as it cannot ensure or secure happiness. To give ourselves to others openly and honestly, and to conduct ourselves with integrity and concern for the feelings of others, even if complete strangers, represents the sum total of our riches.

As I sit here looking out the window, lost in the haze of twilight, memories, and the talons of despair, I see a city filled only with poor people.

And I wonder how that happened.

see rest of entry here.

And I'm not so sure that I know what love is . . . anymore. Pitiful that some asshole can make me doubt that.

And it will all be okay. Tomorrow is another day.

sesame street

makes me feel a little better.

Understanding the Angst

From this:

To this:

I look like a bad version of my Aunt Wyneth.

Hair Regret

I am experiencing major hair regret.

I HATE it.

And I feel sick and think I have a fever . . . and my hair looks fugly. And it's so short that it's going to take forever to grow out. I want to cry. A lot.

Shit.

Buy Stock in MAC

The muppet hair is gone. It is now straight black. And SHORT. Really, really short. So I will have no problem with the picking up of girls . . . it will be worse than before. But considering my feelings about men in general at this point, maybe I should think about enjoying more the company of women. Except that I don't like women either . . .

Maybe I should avoid people altogether.

However, to compensate for the now super-duper short dyke hair, I went out and bought a bunch of makeup. Figured it would either help, or at the very least, confuse everyone thoroughly.

Pictures later . . . when I put all the makeup on.

No Pants . . . Ever

I'm going to have to get some elves . . . or little sewing mice . . .

It seems I have what is called a "low rise" . . . and to complicate things, long legs. So in order for things to fit in the waist, and not have my waistband at my boobs, I have to shop in the petite section. Except then when I put the petite pants on (which by the way, I'm anything but petite . . . so petite section, a bit of misnomer . . . but short people section sounds so blunt) they are about 1/2 inch too short, so I look like I'm waiting for the flood.

So I have a choice of a waistband to my boobs and a tailor (to shorten the pants) or looking like Steve Urkel. Well, either way I would look like Steve Urkel, with boobs. I love the fashion industry. So I bought no pants. I have decided to wear only low rise jeans and skirts. It's my new look.

On to bras. Finally broke down and went to the expensive store . . . had the lady measure . . . I know, mortifying. Turns out I was right about the size, which means I get to add new underwear to the shopping list. Which would be great, except that it doesn't come in my size . . . anywhere. So I can chance it on the internet, or call Pam Anderson and see who makes her bras. She will be in town soon for her third wedding.

I know, I know, there are whole blocks of time on E! television with shows about women buying my size boobs. Maybe if I go to L.A. all the bras come in a size 36 DDD. Did manage to buy one at the expensive store.

So school shopping is not going well this year. My waist is too low, legs too long and my boobs are too big to fit into anything. Oh, and things keep popping up that I already have from the 80's and 90's. I saw bodysuits at American Apparel. I still have bodysuits from the last time they were in . . . and pinstriped jeans . . . and leggings. And I'm not going back to any of them.

So feel free to make fun of me in my black skirt and blue t-shirt. (and probably converse tennis shoes) (sorry, Princess)

If anyone knows where to buy some sewing mice, like in Cinderella, please comment and let me know. I'll treat them really well.

Too Dumb

I came up with the bright idea that I could just run to music . . . find songs with the right timing for the correct week (I'm on week four) and then I wouldn't have to even wear a watch (which I am finding to be sweaty) and there is not all that looking . . . damn, fifteen more seconds? I'm going to die in 10.

So I made a really short playlist of exactly what I needed. I even found songs for the 90 second walking intervals . . . helps when you have 500 CDs sitting all over your house (I don't even have them all in my computer . . . currently just uploading whatever I'm buying. I have a tremendous backlog. God forbid if I ever get a new computer . . . or (gasp) switch to itunes or something) Problem: Windows media had to "convert" some of my tracks, so they didn't load in the same order and I don't know how to change the order of the songs on the mp3 player (read the manual? What manual?). And of course, I'm not using the software which came with the little silver thing . . . because I like it as much as I like itunes. And I have what could best be described as an allergy to itunes.

So the homework for the week . . . in addition to maybe showing my face at work this week (ugh) and finding pants that freaking fit . . . figure out how to make the order of my playlist stick. Oh, if everyone could have my life and it's insignificant problems. (yes, not sarcastic . . . making fun of myself)

New Friend

I went to the Urban Craft Fair today. Bought a new friend . . . which is soooo much easier than making new friends I assure you. He will live on my couch. I love him.

Partially because of his personality . . . he has a very quiet demeanor and agrees with me frequently.

And really, because he is a pirate sock monkey . . . and who doesn't love that?

He even has a peg leg, poor thing. Need to get him a sword and a parrot though. Working on it.

Good Bye Muppet Hair

The appointment is on Tuesday. I dyed my hair "devilish" for the last time yesterday.

And it makes me sad. I like my hair.

I love that small children look at me in wonder. I love that random African American women compliment me in stores. I even love that a group of sullen teenagers in my neighborhood yelled that "Goth" kids suck . . . even though I'm 35. I love that I am easy to spot in a large room. I love that my hair doesn't look like anyone else's hair.

And all of that will be gone on Tuesday. The "rebellion phase" will be over . . . and my hair will be a "normal" color . . . and I will go back to being a "normal" person, as much as I can ever do that.

And it makes me sad. Like Superman being relegated to always being Clark Kent. I guess it couldn't be forever . . . and my shower can't be pink forever.

So Tuesday, I will be "normal" again.

Not The Best Attitude, I Know

The last person to look at my online profile answered "Lord of the Rings" as the last book he read.

Maybe it's just because I've just seen "Clerks II", but someone please help me . . . make it stop.

I Do Terrible Things

Potential problem with picking up men at Starbucks . . .

While going to get my "fix" today, with paper in hand, discovered that golf guy was sitting near my usual table with his cronies. Now golf guy is nice . . . or I wouldn't have given him my phone number . . . but I didn't feel like talking to him today. Not after all the anti-semitic crap his friends threw around before he started talking to me.

And I keep getting ghost phone calls with no message, which I assume is golf guy. In my current attitude about men (which is not the best attitude I've had) or I should say people in general, I don't think I have time for people who don't leave messages . . . or are too afraid to leave messages . . . or whatever rationalizing BS we can come up with for the ghost phone calls.

So I turned on my heel. Thought about leaving, but I had coffee and a scone in my hand and for as much as I spend there, it might as well be my coffee shop. So went to the other side of the shop, stuck in the headphones in and made the best of it. I twitched every time someone picked up their coffee from the barista, thinking it might be an ambush. But read the whole paper, a couple of chapters in my book and finished my coffee. And wasn't noticed at all.

So I do terrible things . . . as if you didn't know this already.

"You Are My Sweetest Downfall . . . "

" . . . I loved you first"

-- Regina Spektor, "Samson" c/o NPR

Pattern Recognition and Smooth Buttons

I've been reading Gibson. It's always a sure bet . . . I always like his books and the only one that I haven't read is "Pattern Recognition". For some reason, I cannot bring myself to buy "Pattern Recognition" yet because somehow I'm sure I already have it, or I bought it for my brother and didn't give it to him, or he already had it . . . or he gave it to me. And God knows were it is . . .

So instead, I go to Barnes and Noble and read it in the air conditioning (remember? I raised the thermostat? As to not cause the blackout?). I'm already to chapter four.

There is a detailed description of the main character's clothing tics . . . she removes all the trademarks off of her clothing . . . she goes and has the logos ground off the buttons of her jeans at the shoe repair . . . which is somehow appealing to me. Needing a new wardrobe, I may model it after her, except that I can certainly grind the logos off my own buttons. I think there is a bench grinder at Stately Wayne Manor, getting no use, waiting for me.

And for any of you worrying about Mr. Gibson's financial situation, as I am "stealing" his book by reading it and not buying it . . . I'm sure I'll buy it by the end. Or I'll find it on my bookshelf. My Gibson collection has a habit of going missing (mostly to my brother, I'm sure) as I once owned everything . . . and I know I've bought Neuromancer three times and loaned it out. (one of my favorite books of all time) Gibson books do not come back to me . . . I should just consider them gifts.

Let's Blame it on the Hair . . . Again

I picked up another girl at the grocery store. It started with "I love your hair . . . " and concluded with " . . . well, you can come to my line anytime." It was at Trader Joes, so it was at least an arty cute girl. I was distracted in the excitement of finding "the best friend's" day off. Because I like Trader Joes. And I can now go there on Mondays.

I once had a friend that was very concerned about being noticed. I always assured him that he was just not noticing when people noticed him . . . usually the way it works. And before various discussions about being unnoticed at the mall or the grocery store, I hadn't given it much thought. I always chat with the cashier, the bus boy, the record store guy . . . a trait I picked up from my grandfather. I'll tell you that you really should just pick out the paint chip and go to Sears . . . because they have the best paint and all the paint here is runny and crap. And I don't care that you don't really want my opinion. This doesn't get me any more dates, I assure you. Well, maybe it would if I pursued the girl option.

Actually, I have picked up two guys at Starbucks in the last week. I just don't count them because they weren't anyone that I would date seriously. But that's really the tricky part, isn't it? Picking up people that you actually want to talk to? Maybe I'm asking for too much . . . my friend seemed unconcerned about who noticed him. He just wanted to be noticed . . . acknowledged. He didn't care who did the noticing. Perhaps, I should shift to that perspective.

Maybe I'll try Caribou today. Seems artier . . . less golf guy.

Women in Black Film Fest

It being all over the television that one should NOT go outside under any circumstances or you could melt, or incinerate because the weather service (who?) has offered up a "heat advisory". So no going outside . . . it's very dangerous, what with the melting and the deadly burning playground slides all over the news. (In my day . . . we burnt our asses on the slides and we liked it because our mother wouldn't let us back in the house.)

I basically have just used all this heat hype as an excuse to not mow the lawn and stay indoors watching movies. I watched "Capote" this morning . . . kind of drawn out to get to their point if you ask me. I watched "Aeon Flux" this afternoon, which was visually appealing and now I have something to say to my hairstylist next week (I want Aeon Flux hair . . . without those stupid tails). I still have Underworld to watch, thus making it a day of staying indoors and watching women in tight black leather clothes kick ass. (Okay, Capote doesn't fit . . . but only because he didn't wear tight leather clothes and the kicking ass was a mental type thing, until the nervous breakdown)

It's much better than heat gunning cabinetry or mowing the lawn, both of which I will do on Wednesday or Thursday, when the weather people in the magical box say it will be cooler.

I did leave my house today and noticed quite a bit of wind. Unfortunately, it's hot wind. Doesn't make anything feel any cooler. And the thermometer in my car read in the three digits (how often does that happen?). I'm being good, I raised my thermostat up five degrees, so that Detroit won't have another blackout (or at the very least, it won't be my fault). I'm even thinking about painting the basement . . . because it's cooler down there and the Cruise is coming. Plus the cabinet doors are no longer sitting in the middle of the floor . . . well, not all of them anyhow.

Off to watch Underworld. I have already watched the sequel, which gave you the lowdown on the first movie so you could understand why you paid $7 for the second, so I'm sure there won't be very many surprises.