Smothered

Starbucks was busy today . . . and there was this girl that had to be in physical contact with her boyfriend. She had to be touching him. When he walked forward to pick up his carmel moccifluffer thing, her hand trailed out . . . her face turned to shock. It was like her lifeline was cut and she was thinking about whether to scream or gasp for air. And then he was back and she did this weird smothering thing, wrapping herself around him again.

It was at that point that I found a desire to punch her. So I watched the woman with the bad Louis Vuitton rip off and the puffed up lips instead. I have never felt the need to smother anyone. And people drink a lot of drinks with carmel in them at Starbucks. (the bad purse lady had received her drink and I was now watching the barista making drinks . . . all of them with carmel, except mine . . . evidently the carmel is even more crack-like than the coffee)

After Starbucks I went to the mall for no particular reason and watched the S.U.V. strollers roll about. Should I ever reproduce, I promise just to strap the little bugger to my back, as to not run over anyone's foot . . . or just so I won't be so in the way. Maybe the reasoning will come to me, should I combine genetic material with another, but I just don't understand why such a tiny person needs anything that big to cart it around.

I have to go write another match profile, in my pursuit of matchdotcom performance art. Last week's seemed to appeal to older gentlemen, so softer than my earlier ramblings I guess. Don't have a plan for this week's, but I'm sure it will come to meet after staring at a blank screen for a while. And what size do you have to be to stop being "curvy"? Or is that a state of mind? I mean, I considered myself curvy at 120 pounds (a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away) . . . I guess it's a moot point. I don't want to date a guy that only wants to meet "athletic and toned" or "slender" women anyhow. Wow, I'm being so positive about match all of the sudden, what's up with that? I'm sure I'll be back to the Eeyore-ness in a second. Maybe the topic should be about how I don't like to smother people.

By the Way

I received this little bit of lovelyness on the email:

"Thanks for writing to me, but unfortunately, we're just not a good match. Good luck in your search! Our profiles didn't match on:
• Interests • Personality"

Someone just rejected my interests and personality . . . when I don't remember sharing either. I just wrote a nice note about William Gibson and how he was my favorite author too. And guys say they like the canned rejection responses? "Then I'm sure" one young man told me. Well, I'm pretty sure if you don't email me for three weeks that you're not interested, but whatever.

Rejected my personality. And he hasn't even read my blog . . .

Wait . . . What day is it?

Tomorrow IS Friday right?

I have this weird ear popping thing in my right ear . . . and I have suddenly gone all itchy, which is never a good sign for anything. Earlier in the week, I received an email admonishing me to wash my hands. It was sent to a group . . . not just me . . . I know what you're thinking . . .

For the last year or so I have been kind of complusive about the hand washing. I don't wash them fifty times a day but I do sing the "ABC" song in my head as I'm washing them. And I want hot or at least warm water . . . which work does not have (we wouldn't want anyone to burn themselves). But I haven't taken to spraying Clorox around the room . . . yet.

So yesterday I went to bed at 8 p.m. (explaining the no post) and tonight I'm going to bed after I finish writing this. I have work in the car . . . but yeah, I'm just not up for that. Have a swim meet to go to tomorrow . . . and then more sleep. Lots of sleep. I know, totally lame . . . or maybe normal, but I want to sleep on a Friday night. Heck, maybe Saturday night also. Mmmm and maybe some light shopping on Saturday afternoon. Heavenly.

In reality, I'm probably going out after the swim meet and then I have to clean on Saturday because it is finally getting to my level of "so disgusting that I have to clean for seven hours" messy in here. So you will probably be able to eat off the back of my toilet on Sunday, should you want to. And then Sunday, we are descending on the sister (don't know if she knows that yet) . . . mmmm, Steak and Shake and new Targets. Something about delivering a bed.

And Monday starts Homecoming week . . . so I guess I will update from school. It's like the movie "Groundhog Day" I tell you. Doomed to repeated the rah, rah, stuff over and over again. Oh, how I loved Homecoming the first time (truthfully, not sure if my high school had one . . . never noticed) and it's even better the eighth time around.

Lost

Lost time: spent three hours on the phone after a two hour meeting

Lost things: graded a bunch of stuff and passed it back; can't find sheets I put the grades on

Lost health: my sinus cavities feel like they have spikes going through them; ironically it might be better to have spikes going through them . . . at least they might drain

Lost sleep: I ran at 8:30 tonight; bad. Won't be able to sleep.

Lost sanity: have two meetings tomorrow; and ninety introduction letters that I have put off evaluating, because they scare me

Lost trust: Somebody lied to me yesterday . . . and I knew they were lying

Lost things part II: lost my diamond today while mowing the lawn. Heard my mother's voice in my head the entire time I was looking for it . . . because I had been dumb and put it in my pocket. Found it in the dirt, next to the shed.

Lost money: Dropped 10 bucks on the ground at the gas station; recovered it quickly

Lost beliefs: I'd like to believe that people are intrinsically good . . . and that just because someone is an asshole to me, doesn't mean that I have to be an asshole too . . . but lordy, some people test that. Really would like to egg his house. Or spray paint it. But I won't. It disappoints me when people have no honor or integrity.

Not lost: I haven't lost a freakin' pound, despite running since July. My fingers are getting skinnier though (hence the ring in the pocket). Just what I wanted to be skinnier . . . my fingers. The plan is soooo working.

"All Apologies"

I'm too tired tonight. Sorry.

At Dinner

"So if you or Dave have any kids, I'm buying the Dingo Snack shirt for you to dress them in . . ."
"Dave already has a kid" says Z.
"Yes, he does . . . but you're too big to be a dingo snack."
"Maybe you could be a tiger snack."
"Or a lion snack."
"Or hey, I heard of this nine year old that was found inside an anaconda in the Amazon."
"Was he dead?" asks Z. (who is almost nine)
"No . . . he was just hanging out there, listenin' to his ipod."
"Kinda like being inside a whale. But a snake."

And my water then came out of my nose.

"Dude, that's gross"

My baby brother is home for a wedding. Last night I was his driver and so went to the hometown bar with him and his girlfriend to meet up with some old friends. It was joining the "after the rehearsal dinner" party.

My brother and I are six years apart. So his friends recognize me and know who I am, but we certainly didn't run in the same crowds. And I haven't seen most of them in ten years . . . so a lot of walking up and saying "oh, you're Emily" and me politely smiling and wondering who they are . . . because they are not eighteen anymore. So I was on the edges all night . . . sat and talked to Mel about any and all things because she is from Miami and doesn't know them either. And Mel is one of the most fun people I know.

As Mel and I were talking, a guy in a yellow polo shirt leaned up against me. Touching me. I can't imagine what my face looked like . . . we all know how much I like to be touched, especially touched by strangers. I knew he was with the wedding crew, so to be polite, I said nothing. Continued my conversation. Yellow polo shirt man began rubbing my shoulders. Again, he is someone in the wedding party and probably wasted . . . better just to ignore it. Could be a high school friend for all I know. After all, I didn't recognize the groom. He joins the conversation. Makes some odd comments about going to Thailand (evidently you can buy baby chickens and then can throw them in an alligator pit?) (went over big with Mel, who practically runs a "no kill" animal shelter with my brother in their apartment).

When he goes to get a beer, I mouth to my brother "Who the hell is that?" It is the bride's sister's husband. Great, married yellow polo shirt man. He comes back. Rubs my back some more, cooing about how I have a nice arch (because I'm uncomfortable and trying to pull away from him). It was a lot like a Pepi le Pew cartoon. He is standing behind me and put his arms around my shoulders . . . and "oops, I didn't mean to put my hand there!" Of course you didn't.

We force J. to save me. So now as J. is talking to married yellow polo shirt man, I keep hearing "so you think sixty dollars would be enough?" "No, dude that's my sister." "So what do you think, sixty-five?" "Dude, it doesn't matter . . . she's my sister . . . "

I look at married yellow polo shirt man. "Are you trying to buy me? For sixty dollars?" J. takes up the placating . . . his girlfriend is a spitfire and I'm well . . . about the same. I think J. didn't want a fist fight. "No, that's not what we were talking about," J. says.

Married yellow polo shirt guy chimes in "Yeah, you know "Girls Gone Wild"? You know those videos? Where they pay girls to lift up their tops?" He leers at me. "I'm much more expensive . . . I don't think you could afford me." Mel goes at him. Don't remember what was said, but myps guy left within five minutes.

"Thanks a lot" my brother says. "I have to see him tomorrow." I was surprised that J. didn't deck him (cause I would have if he had said it about my sister) but J. does have to go to the wedding today. "Guy's a tool." he says with a shrug.

And married yellow polo shirt guy went home to his wife and two kids. Certainly didn't see anything wrong with his behavior. Wasn't so drunk that he was stumbling or slurring, so knew what he was doing. And seriously thought it was a good idea to discuss with my brother whether or not I would lift my top for sixty dollars. I think "tool" is an understatement. And as for my whining about being 35 and unmarried . . . I could have that instead. I'm a lucky girl. Have to remember that.

phun with photoshop

On a Better Note

The show tonight was awesome. Glad I went.

More than the Hate Deserves

Not to give anyone more reaction than they deserve . . . but the damn address is iamsmarterthanu . . . what were you expecting? Come on now.

As for the self-centered part, let's see . . . I live with . . . oh, that's right . . . and I can't talk about work . . . and I'm allergic to all things animal, plant and mineral . . . or maybe I would start a blog pretending to be my cat . . . wouldn't that be cute? And I am the female Peter Pan. Jealous or what?

And as for the negative part . . . I prefer to think of it as sarcastic wit . . .

And again, no one is forcing anyone to read this, or anything else on the internet. As fun as writing flaming comments on people's blogs must be, there must be something better you could do with your time. I mean, isn't that what you want to point out to me? So go do it.

Because writing hateful comments probably isn't going to change my behavior (except for writing this post). It might intensify the negativity you were so concerned with for a bit. As long as we're all so happy to spread it around.

Again . . . you really don't have to read it. I can't make you.

I R Boring

Sorry, not much to talk about . . . had some macaroni and cheese . . . got my shots . . . talked to Princess (she has a new job, so I don't see her everyday anymore) . . . wrote a quiz about the parts of speech . . . watched Mark Harmon . . . answered some email . . .

I am excited about going to a show on a school night. It better not be sold out. It's keeping me mentally afloat. And I like to be mentally above water . . .

Hit 30

Today I ran for thirty minutes straight. I'm still old and slow . . . but I ran 2.36 miles and burned 357.01772471968155 calories. No, I don't know why the calorie count goes out 14 decimal points . . . but it amuses me greatly. And it didn't hurt and I wasn't all that winded. Hot and sweaty but not winded. I don't know what I'm going to do when there is snow and I'll have to wear clothes . . . or more clothes than what I wore today in the cold and rain.

So maybe I will make 3 miles by October . . . very slow miles, but miles nonetheless. I wonder how many decimal points it goes out for 3 miles.

Happy Birthday Morna!

It's my mother's birthday today . . . and I'm catching up, as I'm getting towards 39 too, when I'm not pretending to be 27.

There is not a day that I do not thank my lucky stars because have a Mom that is also my best friend. She's wicked smart, has excellent taste, and is one of the most together people I know. She has always been supportive, even when she disagrees with my decisions. Oh, she'll let me know that she disagrees though, don't you worry . . .

Anyhow, not everyone has a mother that they want to call every day. I do. That makes me a very lucky girl.

Happy Birthday Mom!

Hey Kids . . .

Anyone want to go see "Be Your Own Pet" on Wednesday? Come on . . . it's the year of living like Emily . . . who cares if it's a school night?

Sunday

I ran into a former student at Starbucks today. Not really all that much of a problem, as I like the person. Actually, nice to see him and see that he is doing well. Told him that it was time to go to big boy school (he's at a community college currently, and not being challenged enough in my opinion). I read "Lord of the Flies", he did his math homework. It was weird, but okay. Weird to be a "real" person, in my boys' hoodie and Birkenstocks. Weird to be seen and talked to, in my territory. In a year or two I'll probably run into him at the Front.

I need to stop buying clothes simply because I can . . . almost bought a $100 pair of pants simply because they fit and I could wear them in pubic. Thank goodness they were too long. Bought two shirts instead. At Banana Republic. Someone take me out and shoot me. Just in the foot or something so I can't go to Somerset. Oh, and the new ipod nanos are out. The next running prize. I think I only need a 4 GB.

The vacuum is still sitting the in the middle of the living room. The plants still haven't been watered. I have to transfer all the school stuff, that I didn't touch this weekend, from truck to car. I feel like I haven't gotten anything done . . . but I fixed the laundry tub drain, did all my laundry, and mowed the lawn. And went for a short run. But I should probably use the vacuum. It's pretty, sitting there in all it's Dyson-ey glory, but it really needs to go back in the closet. And I've discovered, it's just getting started with me. Once I get over the starting, I'll clean the whole house, no problem.

You're Emily

While I was out on my "I'm not sure if this is a date" outing . . . which is why I wore converse (because if you have to ask . . . then it's not a date . . . ) (I had fun, by the way) I saw someone in a "Weakerthans" T-shirt.

I have never seen anyone in a Weakerthans t-shirt. I have never known anyone who has ever heard of the Weakerthans, other than my brother. So D. suggested that I go talk to the gentleman in the Weakerthans t-shirt, as to not miss this opportunity.

I could only see his back. So I walked up to join their table. "Hi, ummm, I had to ask because of your . . . "

"You're Emily ___" said the man in the Weakerthans t-shirt. I'm sure there was this look of either horror or shock and awe. How did this man know my name? How did he know me? I looked at him carefully . . . still looking . . . sorta familiar . . .

"Kevin?" Turns out he is one of my brother J.'s friends from high school. He now lives in Berkley and therefore hangs out at the Berkley Front (because we are required to . . . living in Berkley and all). My brother is coming home next week, so I will probably see him then but how funny, that the guy I had to talk to because he was so cool (no one knows the Weakerthans) turns out to be someone I already know. Someone I've known since he was fourteen.

So much for me being anonymous or hard to recognize. Creepy.

If, Then Statements

I remember a moment very clearly. (actually, I remember hundreds of thousands of moments clearly) It was the day after "senior all night party", that party the parents of every high school has so that their students will have a safe place to celebrate without alcohol (thus the kids just use drugs instead). I had planned poorly and so had to work at 9 a.m. after staying up all night and standing on the hill outside of Salem to jeer at the underclassmen, who still had to go to school.

I remember standing in the stacks (I worked at the public library, reshelving books) and thinking . . . if I just lost ten pounds, then my life would turn around . . . Jeff would love me, I'd get a great summer job . . . I just have to lose ten pounds . . .

. . . and then suddenly realizing that thought was the biggest bullshit I had ever tried to feed myself.

I assume other women have heads full of "if, then" statements. Mine rattle around all the time. I usually ignore them, but it's important to know that they are there, creeping around in our brains. "If I was a size 12, then I would have a great boyfriend." "If I don't eat those fries . . . " well, you get the picture. I didn't have a great boyfriend when I was a size 10, nor when I was a size 12 and it didn't have anything to with my body. I just liked to date shitheads. It wasn't like they were going to turn into a wonderful person because I wittled down to an 8. Sometimes they have nothing to do with pound or sizes, just penance. If I was just more pleasant . . . then.

The reason I bring this up is one flew through my head this afternoon as I was walking into the Barnes and Noble. I don't even remember what exactly the if and then were, but I caught myself. Recognized the ridiculous nature of it. While standing in the middle of Fifth Avenue. Everything won't be more wonderful if I am a size 12. Everything will be exactly as it is now, except I will have to pull up these damn jeans more.

Ahh, if we were just all good enough . . .

The Nice One

Tomorrow is going to be unpleasant.

I know that's not the right attitude. But tomorrow I may have to lie. And tomorrow I have to get up very early. And I don't do either of those things very well, especially not in conjunction. Tomorrow I will be "the nice one".

It's ridiculous that I'm the nice one. Even more ridiculous that I will be made fun of for being the nice one later on in the day. Ridiculous that my day will run from 7 a.m. (thus getting up at 5 a.m. or at least trying to) to 9:30 p.m. . . . Again.

My mother's birthday has been "rescheduled" as she will be out of town. I have dishes to do, laundry waiting, and floors to wash. And it might be nice if I mowed my lawn . . . maybe sanded those cabinet doors. I would like to have drawers sometime this year. Have to call and yell at Home Depot . . . haven't gotten the inspeector postcard yet, so I don't think he ever planned on getting a permit. Oh, and don't forget the papers to grade. So I'm relieved about the rescheduling.

I ran for 25 minutes tonight but had to do 15 and then 5 walking and then 10. Can't seem to get the whole thing without walking. Ate at 9:30, which isn't good, but better than not eating (what I felt like doing) because I would be ravenous at 3 a.m. Maybe if I go back to the eye candy plan and I can do the 25 all in one stretch. That's the problem . . . don't care about the eye candy and I need a carrot.

My mother spotted a guy with a faux hawk on television tonight. She was so proud that she knew what that hairstyle is called. "Looks about as dumb on him as it does on you . . ." Thanks Mom.

No Think, Only Do

Okay, now that I'm out of the monkey suit and in my jeans and Sisters of Mercy T-shirt (if I had known how much wear I was going to get out of the S of M T-shirt I would have bought two), let us ponder the following:

How many times has someone asked you what an adverb is?

I know my answer . . . and really unless you're an English teacher (and therefore have to answer the question) do you really need to know? (a word that modifies a verb or an adjective) And although I have my grammar worksheets lined up for tomorrow because I was at work until 9 p.m. and I was only cornered seven times tonight, so I don't want to think. There is no think tomorrow, only do. Thank you Yoda. Eight parts of speech, not including articles . . . because really, do we need to go over articles? But then they don't know what an article is . . . so we do have to go over them.

I hate grammar.

Wait, that's not true. I hate teaching grammar. I love reading books like "The Deluxe Transitive Vampire" and "Woe is I". But when I have to teach it, it rings hollow. I made it through college without really knowing what an adverb was . . . I could look it up. And I knew where to look it up. Which, I suppose, is what I really should be teaching.

Being pulled in all sorts of directions. And none of them are social and that's bad. I do not want to fall into work. So hard for work just to be work in my business.

Must go to sleep. Cannot be crabby tomorrow. Must be able to point out the adverbs.

Open . . . in the House

As I sit here in my office, waiting for the function to start, I realize that I really need some gum. And I don't have any.

The stupid ID that they want me to somehow wear (I'm taping it to my dress) (not kidding) (considered just sticking it in cleavage) has my red hair on it . . . so not what they had in mind.

It is muggy as all hell and no one shows up for these things . . . and I have 90 papers to grade. Plus, I have phone calls to make after this thing is over. Not the fun kind. The "we have to talk" kind.

I'll update with a count later.

Dumb Question

There was a question that a certain group of people took very seriously.

"What kind of animal would you like to be?"

Personally, I think it is an awesomely dumb question . . . but it keeps coming up. At icebreakers, in discussions . . . evidently, in interviews.

And I realized that I don't have an answer to that question. Or more precisely, I don't have a clever answer to that question. Even more to the point, I don't have a "flip" answer to that question. And that bothers me.

So I've given it a lot of thought. The animal I would like to be, or would like to be more like, (like, how many more likes could I fit into a sentence?) is a spider. A spider is about patience. Patience to make the web. Patience to make the web again, when I come along with the swiffer. (My spiders luck out really) Patience to sit and wait for something to fall into the web.

I know. So not me.

No arguments about whether or not a spider is an animal. Please.

The animal I am like? I'm not sure. Homo sapiens? A monkey . . . because I think it would be freeing to throw poo? Something intimidating, with fangs. Maybe a bat? I'm not really all that intimidating, once you get to know me, but intimidating seems to be the winning adjective for Emily these days. At work they just incorporate my last name into the word. I least I don't think I'm intimidating. But I don't think I'm very confident either and somehow I seem to come off as that too. What animal is just seen as irrational, random and bitchy?

Like I said, it's a stupid question. Better than thinking over other things, I guess.

Being 9 on 9/11

My current students were nine on September 11, 2001. So they have a different take on things. They didn't realize that cell phones stopped working. But then again, they didn't realize that you can't take toothpaste on a plane anymore. The things you learn when your stupid teacher makes you read Mitch Albom.

Being nine shelters you a bit. None of them have seen the big hole in the ground, with somber people milling around it. Most of them don't remember a time before. I had some admit that they didn't remember the day at all, let alone fourth grade. (I was in fourth grade? one asked) I was supposed to pretend it was like any other day . . . but it isn't like any other day, so I didn't. Meredith Whalen went to school with my brother and sister . . . she was one of the "other Merediths".

Five years ago, my father and brother were at the Frankfort auto show . . . and we wondered if and when they would be able to fly home. Twenty-five years ago, I would spend whole days with my father and brothers at the airport, watching people and planes. The airport was a place of wonder, not danger . . . something I cannot share with Z, or my potential children. When my brothers and sister each turned ten, there was a chance to fly solo to Florida to visit our grandparents. I can't imagine sending Z. solo to J. in Miami. But then again, I now have to buy shampoo at my destination.

I reminded my students how lucky we are to live in the United States. Even with our problems, we still have a very high standard of living. We can speak our minds without worry about disappearing in the night. There is food . . . and housing . . . and space . . .

I told the story of being in Paris, with the soldiers and their AK-47's, in the metro, on the street . . . at the airport. Most of them, the soldiers, not much older than our seniors . . . 18 or 19. There are no soldiers at the mall here. Not even in the subway in New York. Things are hidden here . . . or non-existent.

And five years from now . . . my students will have been 4.

"Shelia Take a Bow"

"OOooh, Shelia take a . . . Shelia take a bow . . . boot the (something) of this world in the crotch dear. And don't go home tonight . . . go out and find the one that you love and who loves you . . . "

I put money in a jukebox yesterday. I never do that. It was the Front and no music was playing and the place was kinda dead for a Saturday and both my friends have "someones" and are not looking. Plus I needed to show off the shoes. Because I had wicked good shoes on last night . . . peep toe, patent leather, three inch heel . . . very fifties. And right now, the only excuse I have to wear them is when I want to have the Ozzie and Harriet fifties experience, so I'll put them on with an apron to clean. Except that I seldom clean.

Despite the good shoes, again no one talked to us. I went up to talk to some boys for about four seconds but it did not go well, so the mission was quickly aborted. They weren't cute enough to work at . . . so struck out again. Not that I expected anything, in the least. I didn't. I expect nothing at this point. Well, nothing except for the stalker to eventually stop emailing me.

The questions on matchdotcom were difficult to publish . . . the matchbots don't like it when you just have lines of text. They want you to have PARAGRAPHS. And I included an _ , which they didn't like at all. So the word "butt", as "Can you kick my butt in Trivial Pursuit?" somehow better than "kick my _".

The questions were finally approved at about 2:16 a.m. and I've already gotten a pretty cool response from someone, who took the time to answer all of the questions. Impressive, because I just kept typing to fill the space (2000 characters) so there are a lot of questions . . . he numbered them so there must be 39 or so. And he used the word "suckitude" . . . which is awfully cute, in my opinion. Don't get too excited, or your underwear bunched up, he's younger and I think he has a "Failure to Launch" situation going, plus he works midnights. But it's nice to see some more intelligent life on the match.

Speaking of shoes and underwear, I only lusted after shoes yesterday but found the greatest underwear store ever . . . Soma. They have my size and matching . . . so now I don't have to create an underwear store. So takes the pressure off. It was hurting my head, with all the four way and all way stretch fabric. Oh, and I finally bought some damn pants. One pair in a color other than black. I feel like I've grown as a person.

So good shoes, matching underclothes, pants that are a color other than black. I might even look put together. Less like an art teacher, more like an English teacher . . . or heaven forbid, assistant principal.

Rain

In my quest for making matchdotcom performance art, I wrote questions today. While writing questions, I looked back at all the dating questions I've gotten over email, or ranted about on my blog. In doing this, there were the emails from the beginning of RB . . . his questions and my questions after his insistence that I ask him some questions. And while I had fun reading about how we were doomed from the start, it made me miss him alittle. Mostly in the "he always fixed my tag if it was sticking out" kind of way. Luckily, he was accidently very clear (crystal) in our last email exchange. Maybe it's the rain.

I have all this weirdness to write about . . . that I can't write about. RBBF calls me once a week. In fact, he is the only male person, other than blood relatives, to call me in weeks. And talking to him is interesting, so I still answer the phone. And he said two very sweet things to me (1. "I could talk to you all night" and 2. "I could get those for you off of [RB's] computer" -- RB has nine different copies of one of my favorite songs and I did not get copies in the breakup) Anyhow. . . Have received no calls from the "midnight caller", which makes me slightly depressed . . . depressed enough to want to go shopping anyhow. (It doesn't take much) The match stalker keeps emailing me about how cool he is and what a bitch I am for not realizing it. We won the football game. I had lots of kids to take pictures. Somehow, I lost my copy of Bladerunner. So I'll probably purchase that today with a Bedouin Soundclash CD . . . maybe some All American Rejects.

So I'm going to go to Starbucks and read the ads from the newspaper. After that, if it's still raining, I'm going to go to the mall. I promise not to buy any more shoes . . . unless they are cute and a good deal. Then maybe I'll clean . . . vacuum or something.

One of the Colors IS Black

It's Friday . . . so there is a football game.

I have been going to every home football, since I've been a freshman in high school. Okay, I took some time off in college . . . when I quit the band . . .

And don't tell anyone, but I really don't want to go tonight. But I have to stand and tell students where to stand and how to focus and when to set the camera to shutter preference rather than automatic and what shutter speed they should then set it to . . . because it will be dark. And I love seeing the parents. I love seeing the students. I love wearing the school colors (yes, one of them is black) and shouting when they manage to score.

But I'm tired and I want a nap. I want to go out. I want to set and stare blankly at the television for an hour or two. I'm the yearbook coach and it won't get done without coaching . . . but I would rather not be coach for the night. I had forgotten how much sleep I give up when I'm working.

But hey, last week, I learned what a two-point conversion was . . . and this week shows equal promise for learning information.

Have Six Minutes

I'm so tired that I'm thinking longingly about putting my head down on the keyboard, which would create a long string of h's and b's . . .

The run did not go well this evening. Didn't feel right and had to keep stopping. Don't know if it's the tired, or the fact that I had a snack beforehand, or that my muscles are pissed about last time. But it didn't feel right. Will have to get up early tomorrow morning and try again.

Am going out to coffee . . . but am having trouble staying awake. I slept for 7 hours last night (not including the nap I took), so I don't know if it's because I did five "performances" in a row today or if I'm getting sick or what. I did stay on the phone way too late on Tuesday night.

Okay, my six minutes are up . . . must shower and find some suitable "going out to coffee" clothes. And take off these shoes. (four blisters from cute shoes from yesterday . . . could explain lack of running too)

Will the world end if I wear jeans to work tomorrow?

And I swear I'm drinking decaf and going to bed at 9 p.m.

More Diamonds

Mr. Crabbypants went to work today. There are different stories about whether he had permission from the doctor to go to work today . . . Mom says the doc said "no". . . Mr. CP insists that he said it was okay. We bought him a couple of ottomans at good sale Target, it being the end of all dorm room shopping. He has ice bags. He is equipped.

So I get this voicemail from my mother. Something about needing much bigger diamonds for Christmas . . . or her birthday . . .

Now I picked out the diamonds from last Christmas (the ones that are not big enough) . . . so Mr. CP, he had to have done something big. I know he arrived at work because he checked my blog. Maybe he got stuck there? And mom had to come from Lansing to pick him up? Did he fall over at the office?

Call Stately Wayne Manor. Get Mr. CP on the phone. My father managed to get into his Super Jeep (the SRT Hemi Monster Mobile) and was driving down the road when a deer hit him. He didn't hit the deer . . . the deer hit him. An eight-point buck slammed into the side of the Super Jeep. Evidently, it knocked all the shit out of him too. Five thousand in damage. Super Jeep dented and covered in shit. Mother was driving behind and almost had a heart attack. "How many omens does your father need to get that he shouldn't go to work?"

"So did you get the head?" My father had no interest in the dented deer. Drove off to work. Is duct taping the Super Jeep as we speak. My mother is aggravated. She does probably deserve bigger diamonds. The deer is being eaten at the State Police post by now. Or maybe the pirates took it. Oh, and the Super Jeep has been washed. Just glad it wasn't on my shift.

Just Three More Blocks . . .

Just three more blocks and I am up to 2 miles, which doesn't sound like much . . . but my legs didn't get the memo. Promised myself that I would get to THAT stop sign, which I did. And I'm stinkin' slow. Need to work on speed. Screw it . . . need to work on speed and distance . . . Stuffing Stomp is in November and November isn't that far away.

Lived through today. Living through tomorrow seems very doable, as long as I close my door. Life is good.

Anyone want to be a guest ghost writer on the match? (I've decide to call it the match this week, as in "I thought he was into me but he's back on the match, so I guess not.") I'm changing the profile once a week . . . because it's fun and at this point I don't care. Usually the point of not caring is when things are the most fun. Think of it as a sort of performance art piece. Because according to the match and their commercials, if I had followed their advice I would have "found someone special" in the first sixth months (or it's free!!). But I'm so not good at following directions. So next week: riff on not being able to follow directions. Week after: just questions . . . 2000 characters of questions.

And Thursday, the three blocks. I'm on it.

So Much to Elude to . . .

According to my nephew, there are pirates hanging out at Stately Wayne Manor in the woods. He and Mom routinely pick up trash . . . a Z. anti-squiggle technique and Z. found an empty rum bottle . . . and made the logical eight-year-old conclusion that there must be pirates. He later found a beer bottle and a paper cup, which only confirmed his suspicions. There are pirates in my parents' backyard. I can't wait to meet them.

Remember the guy that emailed me and told me about all the sites I am on and all my usernames? And I was creeped out and didn't respond to him? Well, four more emails from him later . . . and he is getting mean. And I don't know what to do about it. So I'm sitting here thinking about continuing with the current path of not responding, or responding with a short "get bent", or responding with why I didn't respond in the first place. Having a death spiral over someone I have no desire to talk to . . . yeah! My brain is so fun. Any suggestions? Just don't make them mean . . . I can't take any more mean.

Tomorrow is stuff and things for real . . . and I'm not ready, in any capacity. What was my mantra again? "Not my problem" and "Patience". Okay. Got it.

Purge

I cleaned out my dresser and shelves today. I have three bags of shoes and eleven bags of clothes for the donation pile. And I haven't started on the closets yet.

Yeah, I have a lot of clothes . . .

Joys of PMS

As I sit here with tears in my eyes . . . which is nothing, just hormones. I know it's that.

I pulled my profile on matchdotcom yesterday. But I didn't pull the other site. In my mailbox was a notification that I had received a "personal communication" from another member. Pulled up the site (it's always slow), looked at a cute guy with an Oscar the Grouch puppet in New York on a whim. Then pulled up who's looked at me . . . somehow they decided to display who has "hotlisted" me in the last, oh, year . . . so face to face with the picture that I took of RB. (I have blocked him every way I can block him, but evidently the site really wants me to SEE him) Okay, it's okay . . . over it.

So I check the email. From a 60 year old man. Who wants me not to disrespect his hometown (when did I?) and "the multi-colored hair is a tad bit too much".

So the computer wanted me to totally lose faith in humanity for today? Someone spent the points to tell me that my hair is too much? AAAHHHHHhhhrrrggghhhh. I'm so done. And I can't even go buy shoes . . . because I bought them all yesterday.

And I've met so many cool people because of this "journey" that I choose to take but sometimes on days like this, I feel like not trying anymore. And all those bullshit lines that just flowed into your head just now about "when you stop trying you meet someone" aren't true. I stopped trying for about six years. Just shut down and accepted spinsterhood. You don't meet anyone that way . . . good guys or creeps. It just would be nice if people wouldn't bother to email if they didn't have anything nice to say . . .

And even that's not true, he said I had nice eyes. But in a totally socially inept way.

Okay, have to go run.

("tired of watching them wind you up to see if you'll run" -- MG, Sort of a Protest Song)

50 Pairs are Enough, Right?

I am limiting myself to 50 pairs of shoes.

This is the current number of shoe cubbies I have. While the Water Heater man was working, I did many of the little jobs that I had put off all summer . . . bleaching the bamboo rocks, moving the digitial cable box upstairs and . . . building more shoe cubbies.

I did throw some shoes away.

Well, this is not really true. I have set some shoes aside in a "throw away-donate" pile . . . so I can think about them and be really sure. They are like old friends, so we have to go through the grieving process in order to end our relationship and move on.

It doesn't help that I bought five pairs today. Some high heels with lovely open toes, showing some toe cleavage. Two pairs of ballet flats (though both very different), one pair of pointy flats (but not too pointy, otherwise I feel like an elf) and a pair of "Aunt Hazel" shoes, which is only a good description if you have an Aunt Hazel.

I also went to H&M 5nd bought a suit and a dress. Evidently, spending two thousand on a water heater (when you are only supposed to spend $500) puts me in an "Ah, f$%k it" mood, causing me to spend money at the mall. The shoes are good though.

What's up with men calling me after midnight? Makes me think that they went trolling earlier in the evening and it didn't work out, therefore I am the backup plan. F.Y.I. . . . I don't answer the phone after 11 p.m. Even if I'm interested.

Chimney What?

First, let me preface that I have a migrane. Not an enormous, throwing up, lie in the dark and wish for death one . . . but an annoyance, nonetheless.

Water Heater guy shows up at 3 p.m., well within his 2 to 6 p.m. time frame. We shake hands and go to the basement. He looks at everything. Opens up my furnace.

He then starts talking. He has a thick accent. "Holiday" sounds like "Holy day". Have to put in copper pipes because that is what will fit into the pretty, pretty princess water heater. Okay. Have to change the shut off valve for the gas because it's too low. Makes sense. Some rugrat could mess with the gas line I suppose. Have to change the vent stack from a three inch to a five inch. Okay, do what you have to do . . .

"Since your furnace have a fan, we have to put in chimney liner." Ummm . . . what does my furnace have to do with anything. "Is code. And have to change furnace vent here. Is no good." But I'm getting a water heater, not a furnace.

I send him up to do the write up.

He comes back with the paperwork. A chimney liner is $650, the rest of the work comes to $515. In addition, he has to break out part of the chimney for the bigger stack. This is on top of the $668.01 I already paid. I tell him to do it without the chimney liner. No. I call Mr. Crabbypants. I tell Water Heater man to take the thing back. No. I call the city to check on the code.

"Is the man inside your house?" the woman on the phone sounds like I'm in a poorly scripted horror movie. He's on my driveway, why? "Don't let him in your house" (Da-Duh, Da-Duh music in background) Umm, okay . . . why? "He hasn't pulled a permit." But I PAID for the permit.

"Is okay. Have 72 hours for permit. Emergincy." Lady on the phone is not agreeing with him. But he is from Home Depot. Lady puts me on hold. Comes back. Doesn't know anything and anyone who does know anything is not there and unreachable. "Who you talk to?" Give phone with lady to Water Heater Man. "She not know . . . plumbing inspeector not there."

We go into the basement again, despite the horror movie soundtrack phone call, and he tries to explain again why I need to pay more than my car is worth for a water heater. "Okay, promise me this . . . when the inspector comes, he's going to say that I needed all this work done. Right?" Blank stare. Pause. "Well, he not see what is here before." Shrug. "I'm going to try this again. When the inspector comes on Tuesday, he is going to say that it was a good idea to pay all this money, right?" Long pause. "Inspeector. He not come on Tuesday." Long explanation about permits, postcards and appointments happens. "Okay, okay, so on Friday, when the inspector comes and looks at all this, he is going to tell me that I had to have this done, right?" Blank stare. Opens furnace again. "I look at the sticker." He can't find the sticker, which is right in front of his nose. He digs around in the furnace. "No sticker." I point to the black sticker with the numbers on it. "That sticker?" "Oh, yes." He is looking for the BTUs. "Those BTUs?"I say. "Yes, yes." "Must have liner."

I agree to pay, after several panicked calls to Stately Wayne Manor. There is a suspicion that I have bought the "wrong" water heater. "If I buy the cheaper one do we have to do all this?" "Yes, yes." Finally, he is outside and I call Home Depot. "He hasn't pulled the permit?!?" J. at Home Depot agrees to pay me if it turns out that I didn't need the work done. I feel much better. "The reason it didn't come up during your home inspection is that it would be grandfathered into code . . . but since you are having new work done, you would have to bring it up to code." Finally, that made sense. But what does my water heater have to do with my furnace . . . and why is he messing with my furnace? "Don't know about that one . . . don't know why he hasn't pulled the permit either, he had two days."

Water heater man has left twice. Keeps telling me that it will take four hours after he gets back. I did some research while he was gone for the first hour, and found that he is probably right . . . I probably do need a chimney liner. Has to do with the amount of heat going out your chimney. In the 50's, when things weren't energy efficient, lots of heat when out the vent, which prevented condensation. Pretty, pretty princess water heaters do not waste heat and therefore there will be condensation in your pipes and rust (which is "trust without the t") and so you have to make the space smaller because . . . anyhow, it made sense on the twelve "Bob Vila" like websites I looked at. What bothers me is that Water Heater man will not say "Yes, the inspeector, he wants this." Will not say it. No matter how hard I try. Plus, he used aluminum, not stainless steel and he didn't insulate it. The Bob Vila websites, they say to put insulation (evil vermiculite) around the stainless steel liner. For $650 dollars, Home Depot will be hearing about that.

Poor guy didn't know what he was walking into . . . but after all the window guys last summer (see 2005 archives) . . . and he was going into my basement, so he's going to know that my imaginary husband "Buck" is . . . well . . . imaginary . . .

Joys of Home Ownership

More on this later . . . but I just spent an additional 1200 dollars to have hot water. An additional. So 1900 dollars total. The incredible two thousand dollar water heater.

Now, if anyone comes over, we are going down to the basement and sitting in the warm glow of the pretty, pretty princess, damn expensive water heater. I may just move the couch next to it, so I can sit and look at the costly thing and it's chimney liner.

Again, more on this later . . . but if you come over, be sure to ask to see it.