You should all go to Noel Night. Cool Stuff. Music. Dancing. General merriment. I once sold a tile or two there . . . once upon a time, during my only attempt at craft fair-ness. As I recall, I did most of my business in trade and got all my Christmas gifts that year.
I'll be going before I go out with Princess. Or perhaps I'll drag Princess, but we all know how she is so fond of the "D". Then again, I still have tickets to the Annie Leibovitz show so maybe that will be a big enough carrot.
So go. Say hello to Nancy (she'll be selling soap in the CCS alumni section). Don't tell her I sent you and maybe you'll get a deal. She does make pretty good soap, that Nancy.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
Pity, I Don't Have a More Interesting Life
I've been trying to tag previous posts and in the process, have gotten some random traffic. Kinda cool to see hits from Singapore and such . . . and to have 95 hits, when I usually have about 10. But much more interesting are the people who come across this at random and have TWO hits. One to the general address and then they click on the category "being naughty".
And I almost feel bad that they are so sorely disappointed. Almost.
And for those who read regularly, yes . . . I have a site tracker. No, I can't see you. Or my sister, who says she reads this everyday.
And most times I can just see number of hits and locations. My parents evidently live in Westland, MI. And if it really, really bothers you I can block you, just like E2.
And I almost feel bad that they are so sorely disappointed. Almost.
And for those who read regularly, yes . . . I have a site tracker. No, I can't see you. Or my sister, who says she reads this everyday.
And most times I can just see number of hits and locations. My parents evidently live in Westland, MI. And if it really, really bothers you I can block you, just like E2.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Mom Should Be So Proud
Link is here. I'm sure I'm now on some watch list . . . and I'll never be able to run for office. But it wins for coolest thing I've seen all day. Was sort of raised this way . . . except for when I asked to join the little league team and the hockey team. Then I was told that only boys did that . . . but I'm not sure if it was a gender issue, or a "don't want my kid's teeth knocked out of her head" move. Pretty sure if I had been a boy, my mother would have said something like "oh no, they only let girls on the hockey team". Or monkeys. Or filth. Whatever worked for her at the time.
Oh, there was that whole "girls don't call boys" lecture when I was a teenager, but I'm sure that was based completely in gender difference brain studies, with a smattering of "hunter vs. gatherer" anthropology. Right Mom? And she was pretty much right on that one anyhow.
And I never did have a Barbie or an Easy-Bake oven. As I understand it, it's just a box with a light bulb?
Entering Phase One
I am now solidly in phase one . . . am disappointed that I have to take it off to shower. Took forever (for me) to transfer everything but my computer seems to have recovered. Can type again.
And it's soooooo pretty and shiny. And the headphones feel like they have become part of my body. So yeah, except at work, I may never take this off. Cuts down on the social interaction . . . but hey, who wanted me to do that anyway? I talk too much, most of the time.
Why is it that we don't let the kids use these at school? Would cut my discipline time way down . . . but then again no one would interact. But sometimes that would be a really good thing. I could just podcast everything. Killer for my kids who can't read.
itunes doesn't have anything I want . . . which in thinking about it . . . is probably a good thing.
And it's soooooo pretty and shiny. And the headphones feel like they have become part of my body. So yeah, except at work, I may never take this off. Cuts down on the social interaction . . . but hey, who wanted me to do that anyway? I talk too much, most of the time.
Why is it that we don't let the kids use these at school? Would cut my discipline time way down . . . but then again no one would interact. But sometimes that would be a really good thing. I could just podcast everything. Killer for my kids who can't read.
itunes doesn't have anything I want . . . which in thinking about it . . . is probably a good thing.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
At 5 percent
I took it as a sign when my Mp3 player died today. And now, itunes (damn itunes) is converting all my WMA files . . . and I'm only 5% done . . . and it's been an hour . . . and it's workin' on midnight.
As an extra added bonus, I'm not sure if I just copied 20 gigs worth of music (thus making 40 gigs on my strained hard drive) . . . so do I have to choose which files to keep on WMP? Should I have just selected certain things (the songs I wanted on the Nano to run tomorrow) instead of hurting my computer's head? So many questions . . . and not focused enough to read the manual. Didn't even realize that I didn't sign anything in order to take the thing out of the store until I was half way home. All those pretty, shiny, candy like things . . . and the eye candy employees. Doesn't help that I have a thing for arty computer geeks.
I haven't even opened the box and already I've ruined my computer. I guess I let the convertor play out all night and see if my computer works in the morning. Right now, it's lagging while I type . . . about three letters behind. Very distracting. Maybe I'll just dump the WMP files . . . don't have an MP3 player to plug into that. But the cute boy at the store really should have mentioned that I was about to lunch my computer. Damn Apple.
Please realize that I don't even have all my music loaded on this thing. Silly me, I only loaded the songs I liked off of certain CDs when I started.
Oh, and I so bought the new Damien Rice CD. Told you. And that's it, no more shopping . . .
As an extra added bonus, I'm not sure if I just copied 20 gigs worth of music (thus making 40 gigs on my strained hard drive) . . . so do I have to choose which files to keep on WMP? Should I have just selected certain things (the songs I wanted on the Nano to run tomorrow) instead of hurting my computer's head? So many questions . . . and not focused enough to read the manual. Didn't even realize that I didn't sign anything in order to take the thing out of the store until I was half way home. All those pretty, shiny, candy like things . . . and the eye candy employees. Doesn't help that I have a thing for arty computer geeks.
I haven't even opened the box and already I've ruined my computer. I guess I let the convertor play out all night and see if my computer works in the morning. Right now, it's lagging while I type . . . about three letters behind. Very distracting. Maybe I'll just dump the WMP files . . . don't have an MP3 player to plug into that. But the cute boy at the store really should have mentioned that I was about to lunch my computer. Damn Apple.
Please realize that I don't even have all my music loaded on this thing. Silly me, I only loaded the songs I liked off of certain CDs when I started.
Oh, and I so bought the new Damien Rice CD. Told you. And that's it, no more shopping . . .
"if you don't shoot it, how I'm suppose to hold it?"
You really can count on Damien Rice for a good single.
Damien Rice -- 9 Crimes
The song actually gives me a feeling of guilt . . . and I certainly haven't done anything . . . this week anyway . . .
Will let you know about the rest of the album . . . you know I'll go buy it.
Damien Rice -- 9 Crimes
The song actually gives me a feeling of guilt . . . and I certainly haven't done anything . . . this week anyway . . .
Will let you know about the rest of the album . . . you know I'll go buy it.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Rabid Consumerism
My sister and I found out that the outlet mall opened at midnight. Having little to do after eating, other than waiting for our parents to get home from Miami so they could tell the "prodigal son" stories, Mere and I decide to tool out there.
The outlet mall is relatively near my parents' house . . . in the way that everything is "relatively" near my parents' house. The nearest grocery store is fifteen minutes away from Stately Wayne Manor, so the outlet mall being 35 minutes away is "near".
Two miles before exit 133, the traffic stops. That was not a good sign. The line at the Gap spiraled the store three times. My sister bought shirts for $3. I decided that I could just pay full price and NOT stand in line. Evidently, I've gotten to that point in my life. Everything at the Banana Republic was 40% . . . but again, the line spiraled the store. So for me, it was just an interesting sociological study of the Midwestern American Populace. They like to stand in line. And smoke.
We got to Stately Wayne around 3 a.m. and I figured I would just stay up and buy a television. Mr. Crabbypants was tired from traveling so did not want to go with me for the electronic store tour. Again, just people watched . . . didn't buy anything . . . well, until I went to the mall. Went to the super secret Wixom Target, because I thought no one would go there, and the line was all the way from the door to Wixom Road. Didn't really want or need anything at Target, but it was on the way to the mall. People were rioting in the toy section, though I'm not sure why. And there was this guy . . . in the middle of the chaos . . . just carrying a large tub of Oxiclean. Like he got up at 6 a.m. to go to the Target, special, to get some Oxiclean? It wasn't even on sale. And you had to dodge carts driven my suburban mommies who were foaming at the mouth.
Please keep in mind that I am not in want or need of anything. I went to the mall to kill time . . . sis and the rents wouldn't be up until 9 a.m. or so (turns out Crabbypants was up at 6 a.m., but he hasn't been doing that lately) H&M had everything in the store at 25% off . . . so bought the sweater that I was eyeing, plus some underwear and a dress. Grand total, less than $50. Touched the ipods. Had the Fossil people take a link out of my watchband. Wandered around Macy's. The mall was not frenzied. Had my MP3 player on by that time, so pleasant music drowning out the Christmas music. All good.
It occurred to me that I should do some Christmas shopping. Wasn't that what all these crazed people were doing? But I usually make gifts. Or we all go in on one "big" present. Or I wait until Dec. 24 and do all my shopping then. Better to stick with the $5 underwear and the sweater with a bow (yes, it's black . . . does H&M make stuff in colors?)
Funny that people can get so excited about inanimate objects . . . or just the fact that they are getting 6 dollars off . . .
Oh, and I was only bruised three times. One full body slam and two elbows.
The outlet mall is relatively near my parents' house . . . in the way that everything is "relatively" near my parents' house. The nearest grocery store is fifteen minutes away from Stately Wayne Manor, so the outlet mall being 35 minutes away is "near".
Two miles before exit 133, the traffic stops. That was not a good sign. The line at the Gap spiraled the store three times. My sister bought shirts for $3. I decided that I could just pay full price and NOT stand in line. Evidently, I've gotten to that point in my life. Everything at the Banana Republic was 40% . . . but again, the line spiraled the store. So for me, it was just an interesting sociological study of the Midwestern American Populace. They like to stand in line. And smoke.
We got to Stately Wayne around 3 a.m. and I figured I would just stay up and buy a television. Mr. Crabbypants was tired from traveling so did not want to go with me for the electronic store tour. Again, just people watched . . . didn't buy anything . . . well, until I went to the mall. Went to the super secret Wixom Target, because I thought no one would go there, and the line was all the way from the door to Wixom Road. Didn't really want or need anything at Target, but it was on the way to the mall. People were rioting in the toy section, though I'm not sure why. And there was this guy . . . in the middle of the chaos . . . just carrying a large tub of Oxiclean. Like he got up at 6 a.m. to go to the Target, special, to get some Oxiclean? It wasn't even on sale. And you had to dodge carts driven my suburban mommies who were foaming at the mouth.
Please keep in mind that I am not in want or need of anything. I went to the mall to kill time . . . sis and the rents wouldn't be up until 9 a.m. or so (turns out Crabbypants was up at 6 a.m., but he hasn't been doing that lately) H&M had everything in the store at 25% off . . . so bought the sweater that I was eyeing, plus some underwear and a dress. Grand total, less than $50. Touched the ipods. Had the Fossil people take a link out of my watchband. Wandered around Macy's. The mall was not frenzied. Had my MP3 player on by that time, so pleasant music drowning out the Christmas music. All good.
It occurred to me that I should do some Christmas shopping. Wasn't that what all these crazed people were doing? But I usually make gifts. Or we all go in on one "big" present. Or I wait until Dec. 24 and do all my shopping then. Better to stick with the $5 underwear and the sweater with a bow (yes, it's black . . . does H&M make stuff in colors?)
Funny that people can get so excited about inanimate objects . . . or just the fact that they are getting 6 dollars off . . .
Oh, and I was only bruised three times. One full body slam and two elbows.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Thankful
First and foremost, I am thankful that I have such a great family . . . I am blessed with a sister and two brothers that understand exactly because of our similar genetic make up and because we were all there for all of the weirdness. It was a beautiful thing, when I mentioned that my neck hurt from "the accident" and my sister said "Oh, I remember that phone call." and then did an dramatic renactment of it. (I was sucked into a piece of machinery when I was eighteen)
And again, my parents raised four of us . . . and managed to make sure that we all became responsible adults. It didn't always look like their hard work would pay off, but it did. Due to my career path, I know what a difficult task that must have been.
And I am thankful that we are all healthy, especially now that we have taken away Mr. Crabbypant's motorcycle.
I am thankful for the amazing friends that I have. The friends who listen to my cracked out news on the phone (M especially) and the fact that I have people who will listen to me carefully and point out when I am full of shit . . . cause sometimes I am. I am thankful that I have friends with strong enough personalities (M2 especially) to tell me what they really think about any given topic, including our lives. I'm very glad that I have people who will come with me on my cockamaimie plans (E2) and who will have a good time, no matter what.
I am thankful that I have friends that truly make me a better person. (in the case of Princess, a person with better hair . . . and she's probably going to be disappointed this time)
I am thankful that I have a job that I love (even though I bitch about it) and students who are continually challenging and lovable at the same time. I have students who are truly inspirational people, who function despite being in worlds of chaos. And sometimes, they'll pretend to be excited about what I'm presenting for that day. I also thankful for the fact that I get to work with Princess . . . and therefore get to think about a higher level of my craft for people who care.
I am thankful that my brother went out and bought a fork for me today . . . so he could have his first Thanksgiving. And that I can spend the afternoon, and the evening . . . and the morning when I'm at Best Buy at 4 a.m. with Mr. Crabbypants . . . with my family. This is awful, but I'm thankful that there is a Costco next to my brother J.'s restaurant, because now I can send Mr. Crabbypants down there to retire and know that he will be happy and fulfilled. Sit at the restaurant, drink beer and watch the employees . . . and then walk over to Costco. Mr. Crabbypants heaven.
Oh, and I'm thankful that Z. has what Mere has called the "zombie gene" and feel lucky that he has found me . . . because I also have the "zombie gene" . . . and we can go to Tim Burton movies and "skeleton stores" together. He's growing out of the zombie gene, though I'm sure it will make a roaring goth comeback in high school, and I still get to be the "cool" aunt who knows were to get the best jean jackets when you need them.
So yeah, this is sappy, but I have a great life . . . and I am thankful for it.
And again, my parents raised four of us . . . and managed to make sure that we all became responsible adults. It didn't always look like their hard work would pay off, but it did. Due to my career path, I know what a difficult task that must have been.
And I am thankful that we are all healthy, especially now that we have taken away Mr. Crabbypant's motorcycle.
I am thankful for the amazing friends that I have. The friends who listen to my cracked out news on the phone (M especially) and the fact that I have people who will listen to me carefully and point out when I am full of shit . . . cause sometimes I am. I am thankful that I have friends with strong enough personalities (M2 especially) to tell me what they really think about any given topic, including our lives. I'm very glad that I have people who will come with me on my cockamaimie plans (E2) and who will have a good time, no matter what.
I am thankful that I have friends that truly make me a better person. (in the case of Princess, a person with better hair . . . and she's probably going to be disappointed this time)
I am thankful that I have a job that I love (even though I bitch about it) and students who are continually challenging and lovable at the same time. I have students who are truly inspirational people, who function despite being in worlds of chaos. And sometimes, they'll pretend to be excited about what I'm presenting for that day. I also thankful for the fact that I get to work with Princess . . . and therefore get to think about a higher level of my craft for people who care.
I am thankful that my brother went out and bought a fork for me today . . . so he could have his first Thanksgiving. And that I can spend the afternoon, and the evening . . . and the morning when I'm at Best Buy at 4 a.m. with Mr. Crabbypants . . . with my family. This is awful, but I'm thankful that there is a Costco next to my brother J.'s restaurant, because now I can send Mr. Crabbypants down there to retire and know that he will be happy and fulfilled. Sit at the restaurant, drink beer and watch the employees . . . and then walk over to Costco. Mr. Crabbypants heaven.
Oh, and I'm thankful that Z. has what Mere has called the "zombie gene" and feel lucky that he has found me . . . because I also have the "zombie gene" . . . and we can go to Tim Burton movies and "skeleton stores" together. He's growing out of the zombie gene, though I'm sure it will make a roaring goth comeback in high school, and I still get to be the "cool" aunt who knows were to get the best jean jackets when you need them.
So yeah, this is sappy, but I have a great life . . . and I am thankful for it.
Lookin' for the Squirrel Song -- "Whee"
And found this instead . . . funny as heck . . . but maybe because we might be lit.
"Squirrely Wrath" has now entered my vernacular.
Squirrely Wrath song
"Squirrely Wrath" has now entered my vernacular.
Squirrely Wrath song
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Barrette Optional
See? Not all that different and not all that blonde, come to look at it. Still playin' with it. Think of it as highlights. Like a sorority girl or something.
Got One in the Closet Already
Sister on phone: "So you look like a skunk?"
"Well . . ."
"Cruella DeVille?"
"I'd prefer to think of it as kinda like a calico cat . . . but I'll let you decide."
"I'm going to get you a Dalmatian coat for Christmas."
"I already have one."
*** No actual dalmatians were harmed in the making of said coat . . . nor by this blog entry . . . nor by the writer herself. However, every dalamatian the writer has ever met has been extremely stupid . . . but maybe she is just not meeting the "right" dalamatians.
"Well . . ."
"Cruella DeVille?"
"I'd prefer to think of it as kinda like a calico cat . . . but I'll let you decide."
"I'm going to get you a Dalmatian coat for Christmas."
"I already have one."
*** No actual dalmatians were harmed in the making of said coat . . . nor by this blog entry . . . nor by the writer herself. However, every dalamatian the writer has ever met has been extremely stupid . . . but maybe she is just not meeting the "right" dalamatians.
Benefiting from Low Expectations
Mr. Cat has been fed . . . and kissed at his insistence. And I washed and disinfected his bowl before feeding him, because I don't like eating off of dirty dishes, why should he? And he can't just go out and buy more dishes . . . like I can . . . because my parents refuse to give him the car keys.
He shouldn't be this lonely, the Crabbypants only left this morning. Attention whore, that Catman. He has now sulked off to someplace warmer . . . Stately Wayne Manor is cold, as you would expect it to be. I'm about to steal some socks.
I still have to go to the store and get what I'm making for tomorrow. Heck, I still have to search the Martha Stewart website for what I'm making for tomorrow. And because I only cook two days a year, I will have to buy everything. Every ingredient. Wait . . . I have sugar and flour . . . I think . . . sugar and flour don't go bad, right? It's amazing that I'm considered a functioning adult. Oh, and I have brown sugar . . . so three whole ingredients in my house . . . and I might have some filo dough . . . and I know I have three bottles of V-8, due to failure to take inventory before going to Meijer. And V-8 does go bad . . . so I better get on drinking some one of these days.
The best thing about cooking only two days out of the year? Everyone is really impressed when you pull it together . . . or it's just not burnt. Last year (was it last year?) I made a pie, from scratch, with little Martha Stewart-y leaves and everything . . . and there were the pumpkin cupcakes . . . though made too many of those. We had to eat them forever. Anyhow, I digress, it's easy to impress when there are such low expectations. Second best thing is going to touch all the produce at Whole Foods.
Don't tell Mom that I washed the cat's bowl with her scrubby. She'll wonder why it smells like liver and figure it out eventually. It is sorta a foodstuff and I cleaned it off really well afterwards. The guilt may kill me. It wasn't the favorite scrubby anyhow.
He shouldn't be this lonely, the Crabbypants only left this morning. Attention whore, that Catman. He has now sulked off to someplace warmer . . . Stately Wayne Manor is cold, as you would expect it to be. I'm about to steal some socks.
I still have to go to the store and get what I'm making for tomorrow. Heck, I still have to search the Martha Stewart website for what I'm making for tomorrow. And because I only cook two days a year, I will have to buy everything. Every ingredient. Wait . . . I have sugar and flour . . . I think . . . sugar and flour don't go bad, right? It's amazing that I'm considered a functioning adult. Oh, and I have brown sugar . . . so three whole ingredients in my house . . . and I might have some filo dough . . . and I know I have three bottles of V-8, due to failure to take inventory before going to Meijer. And V-8 does go bad . . . so I better get on drinking some one of these days.
The best thing about cooking only two days out of the year? Everyone is really impressed when you pull it together . . . or it's just not burnt. Last year (was it last year?) I made a pie, from scratch, with little Martha Stewart-y leaves and everything . . . and there were the pumpkin cupcakes . . . though made too many of those. We had to eat them forever. Anyhow, I digress, it's easy to impress when there are such low expectations. Second best thing is going to touch all the produce at Whole Foods.
Don't tell Mom that I washed the cat's bowl with her scrubby. She'll wonder why it smells like liver and figure it out eventually. It is sorta a foodstuff and I cleaned it off really well afterwards. The guilt may kill me. It wasn't the favorite scrubby anyhow.
Lifted
My hair professional and I have a deal. She doesn't tell me how to teach art and I don't tell her how to do my hair. With that being said, today when I came in I did not get the usual questions. "Are we doin' the same thing?" has been the standard question for a year and a half.
Today, I was told what we are doing. And now, I am much more blonde. Not blonde. But more blonde. Evidently there is a plan to take me into summer. I have already been shown the summer colors . . . which Jennifer can not wait to try (and they are really Elmo colored . . . and one like Grover's nose). Currently, I think I may look like a calico cat. Which, in a way, is sweet.
Let's hope my bosses think so too.
So while we were putting "the plan" in action, there was a lot of burning . . . as it takes something strong (peroxide? Do they still use that?) to turn my black hair into the blondeness. And it's back to sticking up . . . though I was assured that I could wear it down and it would be alright. It's hard to have sticky-uppy hair in the winter . . . can't wear a hat or it gets all squashed. And Jennifer got to talking, so it's too short, again. Which means it will look just right around Dec. 14, fifteen days before I get it cut again. I wonder if the plan calls for more blonde in December? Maybe I should have had her write the plan down or something.
(Then I could show it to the powers that be at work . . . see sir? There is a plan. Educators, they all love a good plan.)
Pictures later.
Today, I was told what we are doing. And now, I am much more blonde. Not blonde. But more blonde. Evidently there is a plan to take me into summer. I have already been shown the summer colors . . . which Jennifer can not wait to try (and they are really Elmo colored . . . and one like Grover's nose). Currently, I think I may look like a calico cat. Which, in a way, is sweet.
Let's hope my bosses think so too.
So while we were putting "the plan" in action, there was a lot of burning . . . as it takes something strong (peroxide? Do they still use that?) to turn my black hair into the blondeness. And it's back to sticking up . . . though I was assured that I could wear it down and it would be alright. It's hard to have sticky-uppy hair in the winter . . . can't wear a hat or it gets all squashed. And Jennifer got to talking, so it's too short, again. Which means it will look just right around Dec. 14, fifteen days before I get it cut again. I wonder if the plan calls for more blonde in December? Maybe I should have had her write the plan down or something.
(Then I could show it to the powers that be at work . . . see sir? There is a plan. Educators, they all love a good plan.)
Pictures later.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Explains It All, With Illustrations
I think this explains it all . . . except my disgust with itunes.
Made It In
I am officially an Oakland Community College student as of next Tuesday. I've been accepted. I feel so loved.
The application focused heavily on my high school career, so I was a little nervous . . . high school being so long ago and me only having a 3.3 grade point average, as I didn't really apply myself. But as it turns out they don't even look at your application. They look at your driver's license. And I have one of those, with three different endorsements. The picture kinda looks like me.
Stopped by the "counseling window" that has a big sign that reads "this window is for questions that can be answered in 10 MINUTES ONLY". My question only took a minute to say . . . about 40 seconds to answer. They will be needing my transcripts. I can take them to three different places in the building (I had asked another question, as I had more than 8 minutes left). Got a look from the other new student behind me because my question started with "Yeah, I have a master's degree and I want to . . . " Must have sounded like a snob. Heck, am sounding like a snob right now.
The application focused heavily on my high school career, so I was a little nervous . . . high school being so long ago and me only having a 3.3 grade point average, as I didn't really apply myself. But as it turns out they don't even look at your application. They look at your driver's license. And I have one of those, with three different endorsements. The picture kinda looks like me.
Stopped by the "counseling window" that has a big sign that reads "this window is for questions that can be answered in 10 MINUTES ONLY". My question only took a minute to say . . . about 40 seconds to answer. They will be needing my transcripts. I can take them to three different places in the building (I had asked another question, as I had more than 8 minutes left). Got a look from the other new student behind me because my question started with "Yeah, I have a master's degree and I want to . . . " Must have sounded like a snob. Heck, am sounding like a snob right now.
Weird being the oldest person in a building. Well, some of the construction workers were my age. I suppose it will be worse once I get into a class.
Anyhow, OCC seems much more easy-going when it comes to admissions than, say, law school or the organizational theory doctoral program that I'm interested in. Plus I don't have to quit my job, move, or write a thesis.
Just have to live with finishing a yearbook and taking 6 credits. Advanced Photoshop and Advanced Life Drawing . . . it will be fun. Maybe ceramics . . . but then you have to give all of it away. It's becomes like zucchini. And I already have too much shit. Paper I can at least store flat, with all of the other drawings in the attic.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Brothers and Sisters
My mother and father have been babbling about this show, Brothers and Sisters, for weeks now. I think there are a couple of comments on this about it. I had watched the first episode but then ignored it . . . I don't watch television much anymore. But since my eyes were almost bleeding and I'm putting off work that I need to do for tomorrow, I turned the thing on.
I only watched a half an hour . . . and despite the emotional manipulation (the father flashbacks, very sad), Ken Olin really does need to start paying us royalties for spying on us. I promise that the pie will not look like that this year. I'm not excited enough to turn on the T.V. every Sunday . . . after all, I get to see my brothers and sister in real time. And I do wish that we had glamorous jobs and 30 million dollars worth of land. And neither of my brothers would flood the engine with water. They have thrown a rod or two . . . and there was that one time, with the Great White Whale (my grandfather's car), when we gave it to J as a "free car" and he was in Michigan for like 48 hours and spent 46 hours changing the head gasket (?) so he could drive it back to Florida only to have it die in the middle of Georgia. Not the nice Atlanta part, either.
In watching the stuff on the website, we are not nearly as melodramatic or exciting. No drug overdoses. No secret family. Really we're boring.
Okay, have to make my book for tomorrow.
I only watched a half an hour . . . and despite the emotional manipulation (the father flashbacks, very sad), Ken Olin really does need to start paying us royalties for spying on us. I promise that the pie will not look like that this year. I'm not excited enough to turn on the T.V. every Sunday . . . after all, I get to see my brothers and sister in real time. And I do wish that we had glamorous jobs and 30 million dollars worth of land. And neither of my brothers would flood the engine with water. They have thrown a rod or two . . . and there was that one time, with the Great White Whale (my grandfather's car), when we gave it to J as a "free car" and he was in Michigan for like 48 hours and spent 46 hours changing the head gasket (?) so he could drive it back to Florida only to have it die in the middle of Georgia. Not the nice Atlanta part, either.
In watching the stuff on the website, we are not nearly as melodramatic or exciting. No drug overdoses. No secret family. Really we're boring.
Okay, have to make my book for tomorrow.
Eyes are About to Bleed
Just made a photoshop layer . . . no. 92 . . . which means I've flipped, resized, and placed 92 pictures. All this for this fabulous cover idea that I have. The students looked at my sketch, figured out how much work it would be and told me that I was welcome to do it, if I wanted it so badly.
I know, I know. I should be letting them do the cover. They have promised to help once I do the resizing (hard) part and I can't fault them for not wanting to do this. It is the definition of tedious. My eyes feel like they are going to bleed though. I wonder how graphic designers do this all day. Sometimes I'm thankful that I do five shows a day, instead of staring at a screen all day. But only sometimes. The computer has not argued with me once. Been a little slow (asking this old girl to do a lot) but not argumentative.
Off to make a "comma book" for my presentation tomorrow.
I know, I know. I should be letting them do the cover. They have promised to help once I do the resizing (hard) part and I can't fault them for not wanting to do this. It is the definition of tedious. My eyes feel like they are going to bleed though. I wonder how graphic designers do this all day. Sometimes I'm thankful that I do five shows a day, instead of staring at a screen all day. But only sometimes. The computer has not argued with me once. Been a little slow (asking this old girl to do a lot) but not argumentative.
Off to make a "comma book" for my presentation tomorrow.
New-ish Template
Because the people were getting insistent about moving my blog, I'm taking some time to use their new features. One of them is labelling, which is cool because it organizes things . . . except when you are me and you just make a new category for every post. 535 posts and 500 categories. I love being primarily right-brained.
So I have categorized about 75 posts, so 400 or so to go. Figuring this might take a while. The categories are on the right and I will take suggestions. Please no whining about not having your own personal category (or in Princess' case, whining about having one), I may just have thought you didn't want one, or I haven't gotten to anything that I've written about you yet.
And now I have to decide on a category for this post. Crap. At least the beta thing has spell check.
So I have categorized about 75 posts, so 400 or so to go. Figuring this might take a while. The categories are on the right and I will take suggestions. Please no whining about not having your own personal category (or in Princess' case, whining about having one), I may just have thought you didn't want one, or I haven't gotten to anything that I've written about you yet.
And now I have to decide on a category for this post. Crap. At least the beta thing has spell check.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Culling the Herd
I bought shoes today. Which means I'm over the fifty count and will have to cull the herd. Do the flip-flops even count? I could just put three pairs in one cubbie . . . and then have room for the new ones.
I didn't just buy shoes . . . I bought ridiculous, frivolous, gorgeous shoes. Two pairs of them. A beautiful pair of pointed toe heels that I will wear as power shoes for Monday (I am presenting with Princess. She'll be so proud). They were on super sale, because they ran really small . . . and what woman wants to buy shoes that are a size bigger? Other than me, because I don't care as long as they are not pinchy. So beautiful, Stacie and Clinton say leg lengthening, heels to wear with pants.
The second pair? A pair of ruby satin pumps that I may only be able to wear inside my house. They look so good that a stranger walked up to tell me that they looked good. So I had to buy them. However, being that they are satin . . . they will be ruined if I breathe on them, let alone walk outside. When asking the salesperson if there was something I could put on them, like fabric protector, there was face squinching and "Well, I wouldn't wear them in the snow." Otherwise, the salesgirl was not helpful about the wearing of the shoes somewhere other than in my house. I will have to be carried. Or bring them in a Ziploc bag. But only to very clean places where nothing will be spilled or sticky. They really are gorgeous shoes though.
And then felt so guilty for dropping $100 on shoes that I did not buy an ipod. And there were no boys . . . just a girl with some interesting tattoos. I do think I want the red one though. And some knives . . . I'd really like some real "big girl" knives. Because the $9 Betty Crocker set is just not cutting it. (get it? cutting it?) And crap, I should probably think about Christmas soon, shouldn't I?
I didn't just buy shoes . . . I bought ridiculous, frivolous, gorgeous shoes. Two pairs of them. A beautiful pair of pointed toe heels that I will wear as power shoes for Monday (I am presenting with Princess. She'll be so proud). They were on super sale, because they ran really small . . . and what woman wants to buy shoes that are a size bigger? Other than me, because I don't care as long as they are not pinchy. So beautiful, Stacie and Clinton say leg lengthening, heels to wear with pants.
The second pair? A pair of ruby satin pumps that I may only be able to wear inside my house. They look so good that a stranger walked up to tell me that they looked good. So I had to buy them. However, being that they are satin . . . they will be ruined if I breathe on them, let alone walk outside. When asking the salesperson if there was something I could put on them, like fabric protector, there was face squinching and "Well, I wouldn't wear them in the snow." Otherwise, the salesgirl was not helpful about the wearing of the shoes somewhere other than in my house. I will have to be carried. Or bring them in a Ziploc bag. But only to very clean places where nothing will be spilled or sticky. They really are gorgeous shoes though.
And then felt so guilty for dropping $100 on shoes that I did not buy an ipod. And there were no boys . . . just a girl with some interesting tattoos. I do think I want the red one though. And some knives . . . I'd really like some real "big girl" knives. Because the $9 Betty Crocker set is just not cutting it. (get it? cutting it?) And crap, I should probably think about Christmas soon, shouldn't I?
Friday, November 17, 2006
With Membership Comes No Privilege
I said I would do it months ago. But it's hard to get down there when it's still open and let's face it, nothing moves there, so it's hard to focus my attention. I finally went to the D.I.A. and bought my membership. Now instead of paying my normal $2-pretending-to-be-a-student-by-handing-you-a-high-school-ID, I paid $45 to just walk in and out at will. Actually, I was upsold (just like I always am at the zoo, damnit) and so now a guest and I can walk in and out at will.
So I have to go to the D.I.A., like, twenty-some times in the next year for this to pay off because yes, I still have a current high school ID with my picture on it (and it's kinda cute this year . . . except that I am wearing a sweatshirt from my old employing school in the picture. Just a little ironic. But my former employing school . . . they were all about the sweatshirt) and yes, somehow the D.I.A. people accept this and give me the student rate, even though I look at least 27 and certainly am 35. So you are all going to the D.I.A.. And I don't care if you don't like art.
So it was one of those "Friday at the D.I.A." thingies, which I go to for the drawing in the galleries (good pencils, get to draw for an hour, all good). Read the web blurb. Today the live music was going to be Dan Zanes. His CD is at Starbucks. How bad could it be?
Well, I get there and there are all these couples, with little children . . . and the dreaded thing that comes with arty, yuppie couples and children . . . SUV strollers. I ignore them. Must be a popular family event. I immediately run into someone I know (with little children) and don't want to talk to . . . plus is, she doesn't really want to talk to me, so it works out well. Go down to the cafe to have dinner . . . and still the children everywhere. Like locusts. Running and leaping and shrieking and crying when they bump their heads on the table because their parents are not telling them NOT to run and leap and shriek. (really sounds like I want kids, doesn't it?) Put the Mp3 player on, to drown out the din (which I have to hit to get to work . . . Apple store, here I come). Wonder what the hell is going on? Did everyone want to culture their children tonight?
Turns out that Dan Zanes is somehow a "children's artist". He sings "family oriented" songs. And is on Sesame Street, according to the woman that I knew but we mutually did not want to talk to each other. We ran into each other again, as she was feeding her girls animal crackers, fruit wax and juice and it seemed wrong not to chat. So the fifteen million children were brought for Dan Zanes. I watched him sing for about three minutes. He was wearing an orange shirt with a purple suit and had hair that looked like a cat had died on his head. The song had a lot of quacking. I went to look at the Native American art instead.
As I escaped (I did not draw because the gallery with the adult drawing was lame and the children . . . they were everywhere . . . I was afraid I might step on one) I stopped by the membership desk and talked to the same person. She first tried to sell me another membership. "You already sold me one. When is the rest of the museum going to open?"
There are times when I think I'm just unfocused . . . a little ADD. And there are times when I think I'm just dumb. This is a time for "just dumb". She informs me that the rest of the museum will open after renovation NEXT FALL. I wanted to yell at her that the membership that she just sold me runs out next fall, but it's not her fault that I'm an idiot. I just purchased a membership for a museum that is only a third open . . . if that. (so when you all come with me, we won't be seeing much art) Yeah, their classics are up, but I can only look at the skull painting by Cezanne so many times. And the Gentileschi is displayed too high, so I cannot see it.
(There are certain touchstones at museums . . . the Seurat in Chicago, the Calder in D.C., Warhols in NYC, DaVinci in Paris and Gentileschi in Detroit. I have to go see it if I walk in the place.)
Between the children's music group and the "we're building a museum, but you can't see it", I'm such a space case. Damnit. I have to pay more attention.
So I have to go to the D.I.A., like, twenty-some times in the next year for this to pay off because yes, I still have a current high school ID with my picture on it (and it's kinda cute this year . . . except that I am wearing a sweatshirt from my old employing school in the picture. Just a little ironic. But my former employing school . . . they were all about the sweatshirt) and yes, somehow the D.I.A. people accept this and give me the student rate, even though I look at least 27 and certainly am 35. So you are all going to the D.I.A.. And I don't care if you don't like art.
So it was one of those "Friday at the D.I.A." thingies, which I go to for the drawing in the galleries (good pencils, get to draw for an hour, all good). Read the web blurb. Today the live music was going to be Dan Zanes. His CD is at Starbucks. How bad could it be?
Well, I get there and there are all these couples, with little children . . . and the dreaded thing that comes with arty, yuppie couples and children . . . SUV strollers. I ignore them. Must be a popular family event. I immediately run into someone I know (with little children) and don't want to talk to . . . plus is, she doesn't really want to talk to me, so it works out well. Go down to the cafe to have dinner . . . and still the children everywhere. Like locusts. Running and leaping and shrieking and crying when they bump their heads on the table because their parents are not telling them NOT to run and leap and shriek. (really sounds like I want kids, doesn't it?) Put the Mp3 player on, to drown out the din (which I have to hit to get to work . . . Apple store, here I come). Wonder what the hell is going on? Did everyone want to culture their children tonight?
Turns out that Dan Zanes is somehow a "children's artist". He sings "family oriented" songs. And is on Sesame Street, according to the woman that I knew but we mutually did not want to talk to each other. We ran into each other again, as she was feeding her girls animal crackers, fruit wax and juice and it seemed wrong not to chat. So the fifteen million children were brought for Dan Zanes. I watched him sing for about three minutes. He was wearing an orange shirt with a purple suit and had hair that looked like a cat had died on his head. The song had a lot of quacking. I went to look at the Native American art instead.
As I escaped (I did not draw because the gallery with the adult drawing was lame and the children . . . they were everywhere . . . I was afraid I might step on one) I stopped by the membership desk and talked to the same person. She first tried to sell me another membership. "You already sold me one. When is the rest of the museum going to open?"
There are times when I think I'm just unfocused . . . a little ADD. And there are times when I think I'm just dumb. This is a time for "just dumb". She informs me that the rest of the museum will open after renovation NEXT FALL. I wanted to yell at her that the membership that she just sold me runs out next fall, but it's not her fault that I'm an idiot. I just purchased a membership for a museum that is only a third open . . . if that. (so when you all come with me, we won't be seeing much art) Yeah, their classics are up, but I can only look at the skull painting by Cezanne so many times. And the Gentileschi is displayed too high, so I cannot see it.
(There are certain touchstones at museums . . . the Seurat in Chicago, the Calder in D.C., Warhols in NYC, DaVinci in Paris and Gentileschi in Detroit. I have to go see it if I walk in the place.)
Between the children's music group and the "we're building a museum, but you can't see it", I'm such a space case. Damnit. I have to pay more attention.
Threatening With Gifts
Princess came to my lowly place of business to drop off a bunch of work that I need to do this weekend . . . so lovely being a hired gun.
"I hope you haven't been wearing that hat all day."
"Can't wear hats in school [like she's forgotten in the three months she's been gone]; I'm just wearing it so I won't lose it . . . because I'm cleaning my desk." (you don't understand, cleaning the desk is an intensive undertaking . . . hats could get lost)
"Well thank goodness."
"Hey! I made this hat. I like this hat."
"Makes you look like a cat burglar."
"Just for that, I'm making you one."
"Why?"
"Because if I make you a gift, you will have to wear it to be polite. Because I made it."
"Well, don't make it in black."
I love it when Princess and I talk about hats. She is really constantly disappointed.
"I hope you haven't been wearing that hat all day."
"Can't wear hats in school [like she's forgotten in the three months she's been gone]; I'm just wearing it so I won't lose it . . . because I'm cleaning my desk." (you don't understand, cleaning the desk is an intensive undertaking . . . hats could get lost)
"Well thank goodness."
"Hey! I made this hat. I like this hat."
"Makes you look like a cat burglar."
"Just for that, I'm making you one."
"Why?"
"Because if I make you a gift, you will have to wear it to be polite. Because I made it."
"Well, don't make it in black."
I love it when Princess and I talk about hats. She is really constantly disappointed.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Wearing Down My Blasphemy
I'm going to have to go buy an ipod. I know . . . I've held out against the Apple demons for this long. But my Mp3 player is not working . . . again. And it's cold and wet. And I promised myself that I would walk to dinner, which now that I think about it, must happen in the next 40 minutes if I'm going to Westborn. Shit. Damn. Mother . . . .
Usually, if I hit it, it will work. Or stick my earring in the little reset hole. Done both. Currently, it's hooked up to the computer and "charging" and we'll see if it turns on in six minutes (will have to be out the door by 8:30 or all will be lost). Otherwise, it's off to see the Apple demons tomorrow in their shiny little lair at Somerset. Thank goodness it's payday. I think. (Remember, I don't have a calendar?) I hate that store with it's shiny candylike everything (okay, I do want to press it . . . the pretty, candylike button . . . always) and it's good headphones and it's ubercute employees with overly cool everything. I hate that I will have to succumb to the itunes and everything evil that comes with that submission. Gaarrgh.
And no, I'm even considering a zune, or whatever the fff-ing thing is called that Microsoft is putting out. I already have a Mp3 player that shuts down if I look at it funny, don't need one that will run like Windows.
Okay, 8:30. It's working. Pray that I don't have to go kiss the pretty candylike simple design gods.
Usually, if I hit it, it will work. Or stick my earring in the little reset hole. Done both. Currently, it's hooked up to the computer and "charging" and we'll see if it turns on in six minutes (will have to be out the door by 8:30 or all will be lost). Otherwise, it's off to see the Apple demons tomorrow in their shiny little lair at Somerset. Thank goodness it's payday. I think. (Remember, I don't have a calendar?) I hate that store with it's shiny candylike everything (okay, I do want to press it . . . the pretty, candylike button . . . always) and it's good headphones and it's ubercute employees with overly cool everything. I hate that I will have to succumb to the itunes and everything evil that comes with that submission. Gaarrgh.
And no, I'm even considering a zune, or whatever the fff-ing thing is called that Microsoft is putting out. I already have a Mp3 player that shuts down if I look at it funny, don't need one that will run like Windows.
Okay, 8:30. It's working. Pray that I don't have to go kiss the pretty candylike simple design gods.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Crabbypants putting the "Fun" in . . . Dys. . .
So my mother emails me to let me know that "everyone" is going to Miami for Thanksgiving . . . at 8 a.m. on Wednesday. Following the "24 hour rule"* "everyone" will be back by 9ish on Thursday. The menu includes tacos, from Lime (see link to right), the baby brother's restaurant.
I don't know about you . . . but I have to work on Wednesday and cannot just jump on a plane to Miami, lest not getting paid for the holiday. Plus, I have a hair appointment that afternoon and we all know how hard it is to get one of those . . . if I cancel, my hair might actually need cutting by the time I can another appointment. (and it might be more of its natural color . . . wince.)
Turns out, "everyone" is Mr. and Mrs. Crabbypants, who are abandoning their real and good children for Thanksgiving. The children who live in Michigan and wrangle them on the weekends. The children who put up with their antics about not wearing pants because they are new and the wearing of orange hats. The children who purposefully did not move to Miami . . . mostly because . . . well . . . Miami is full of not very nice people. (Except for my brother, of course. He is very nice. Especially when he is trying to sell you something. Like tacos. But he has been on MTV . . . and the food network)
So there will be no Crabbypants Thanksgiving in Michigan. Someone will have to adopt me. Or I could ignore it altogether and just go shopping. At least Mr. Crabbypants won't miss Black Friday. I don't think I could manage Best Buy at 4 am without him. I would have to sniffle. Or sleep in.
So anyone want to adopt me?
* The 24 hour rule was instated by my father, when dealing with his parents . . . who also lived in Florida. A visit could last no longer than 24 hours, or it could possibly be unpleasant. Great idea, except when driving to visit them. So we would drive 24 hours, stay 24 hours and drive back. All for the sake of sanity. My brother and father now have the same agreement in place. Luckily, we take advantage of air transportation these days . . . but people still look at me like I'm a freak when I tell them I'm going to Miami for five hours. But then again, it's Miami.
I don't know about you . . . but I have to work on Wednesday and cannot just jump on a plane to Miami, lest not getting paid for the holiday. Plus, I have a hair appointment that afternoon and we all know how hard it is to get one of those . . . if I cancel, my hair might actually need cutting by the time I can another appointment. (and it might be more of its natural color . . . wince.)
Turns out, "everyone" is Mr. and Mrs. Crabbypants, who are abandoning their real and good children for Thanksgiving. The children who live in Michigan and wrangle them on the weekends. The children who put up with their antics about not wearing pants because they are new and the wearing of orange hats. The children who purposefully did not move to Miami . . . mostly because . . . well . . . Miami is full of not very nice people. (Except for my brother, of course. He is very nice. Especially when he is trying to sell you something. Like tacos. But he has been on MTV . . . and the food network)
So there will be no Crabbypants Thanksgiving in Michigan. Someone will have to adopt me. Or I could ignore it altogether and just go shopping. At least Mr. Crabbypants won't miss Black Friday. I don't think I could manage Best Buy at 4 am without him. I would have to sniffle. Or sleep in.
So anyone want to adopt me?
* The 24 hour rule was instated by my father, when dealing with his parents . . . who also lived in Florida. A visit could last no longer than 24 hours, or it could possibly be unpleasant. Great idea, except when driving to visit them. So we would drive 24 hours, stay 24 hours and drive back. All for the sake of sanity. My brother and father now have the same agreement in place. Luckily, we take advantage of air transportation these days . . . but people still look at me like I'm a freak when I tell them I'm going to Miami for five hours. But then again, it's Miami.
Okay, Totally Creeped Out
So you see that little photostream over there? Right over there on the right? With the changing pictures, that don't change all that much because I rarely upload to flickr?
Well, I looked at the flickr account because someone mentioned my truck . . . and I thought "Hey, maybe I should look again and see what people see on that thing . . ." And oh, someone has "favorited" one of my pictures and it's been viewed a 140 more times than any of the others. Why? Because he or she is into chicks in gas masks. There's a whole group of them, with a picture collection of different women wearing gas masks.
And all that time when I was joking about quitting my job and going into the foot fetish website business . . . when I should have been looking at the gas mask market. Didn't even know there was a gas mask market. Shows you how thorough my marketing research was . . .
(No, really Mom, I'm not going to quit my job . . . I didn't do any market research . . . and I'm sure that people just stay at their computers . . . no one is coming to find me because I'm wearing a gas mask. And there are no pictures of my feet. It will be fine. It's flattering in a way.)
Well, I looked at the flickr account because someone mentioned my truck . . . and I thought "Hey, maybe I should look again and see what people see on that thing . . ." And oh, someone has "favorited" one of my pictures and it's been viewed a 140 more times than any of the others. Why? Because he or she is into chicks in gas masks. There's a whole group of them, with a picture collection of different women wearing gas masks.
And all that time when I was joking about quitting my job and going into the foot fetish website business . . . when I should have been looking at the gas mask market. Didn't even know there was a gas mask market. Shows you how thorough my marketing research was . . .
(No, really Mom, I'm not going to quit my job . . . I didn't do any market research . . . and I'm sure that people just stay at their computers . . . no one is coming to find me because I'm wearing a gas mask. And there are no pictures of my feet. It will be fine. It's flattering in a way.)
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
In Reading Back
Ummm . . . yeah . . . it wasn't Friday the 13th . . . it was the Friday before that. So turns out that the panic attacks were for something.
Xs on the calendar? Huh. Gotta go get a calendar.
Well, in all the soul searching and reflection at least I know where I stand. Sorta. Kinda. Not really at all.
And I'm not tired at all. And kind of grinding my teeth. Damn Golden Monkey crack.
Xs on the calendar? Huh. Gotta go get a calendar.
Well, in all the soul searching and reflection at least I know where I stand. Sorta. Kinda. Not really at all.
And I'm not tired at all. And kind of grinding my teeth. Damn Golden Monkey crack.
Diggers in my Front Yard and the Golden Monkey
As a disclaimer, I'm am very caffeinated at this moment. So I may not take responsibility for any posts later this evening . . . because evidently, I'm not sleeping tonight. Damn Golden Monkey.
But first the diggers. I arrived home to diggers in my driveway, complete with piles of dirt and digger men. To be more specific, the diggers were blocking my driveway and the piles of dirt were what was part of my front yard. I know that I don't pay attention, but should the city have sent me a memo or something about this? I've gotten a couple of memos inviting me to talking about it, which I skipped granted, but for this I think they should have given me a sticky on my front door or something. "We are destroying your yard tomorrow" it could read in Sharpie. There was no sticky. I looked.
So I could not park in my driveway. And then there was the walking through all the dirt, wincing about my brick edging (now under dirt). I'm sure they'll put it back . . . better than it was. Right? Upon leaving, I had to quiz the digger men. How long are you going to be here? (Mostly because earlier this evening I had sleeping on the agenda . . . and the beeping of the diggers was not going to facilitate that. Now it doesn't matter as much.) What time are you coming in the morning? Digger man and I established that I would be able to sleep without beeping and get out of my driveway in the morning. Excellent. I was late, so I didn't chat about the dirt piles. Again, I'm sure they'll put everything back. Right?
Still managed to get to Ferndale (fashionable? really . . . still?) slightly early and not having any idea where I was going, decided to not be early and go shop quickly. Because early would have been bad . . . or not as good as on time. See kick ass knitting bag. Decide that I do not need knitting bag . . . and want it in another color. Find that it is the only bag of it's type in the store. Decide to leave it up to the fates. If it was there when I got back, I could buy it. Shopping Russian roulette. Always dangerous, because if someone else decides it's cool, well, then you'll never get over the longing. You could have bought it. You had it in your hand. Go to find the place I'm supposed to be.
Ferndale now plays eighties alternative, over loud speakers, downtown. I wonder who in the DDA thought up that plan, because I find it disconcerting to have Sixousie and the Banshees in the background as I'm walking, looking for place I'm supposed to be in two minutes. A bit too John Hughes movie for me. That kind of stuff is only supposed to go on in your head. A common personal soundtrack . . . well, it's not personal.
I think the place only served tea. They had a menu . . . which I read a little. But went with the "Golden Monkey" . . . because if you have a chance to order something called "Golden Monkey", wouldn't you? Hell, I want a shirt that says that. I hope it wasn't $85 dollar tea or something . . . I probably should have been paying more attention (boy, isn't that the theme of the week?). Talked for a hour with another human being that I found interesting (sometimes hard for me . . . ). More aptly, was questioned for an hour by another human . . . plus drank really caffeinated tea. But didn't figure that out until about another hour later, when I found myself on the ceiling of a Barnes and Noble.
There was a window of time. So after went to the "record" store, which is now full of CDs and bought the Shiny Toy Guns CD. Only currently like one song, thank you very much, but it might grow on me. And the kick ass knitting bag was still there, with 40% off socks and 50% off tank tops, plus a camouflage shirt that I will wear on Friday (and try to be convincing about it being a school color). I then went to Barnes and Noble and bought poetry books and wondered why I was bouncing off the walls. Hmm . . . what was it that I drank at that place with the tea? Liquid crank? And if it wasn't a Tuesday . . . well, that would be great.
So I guess I'll be figuring out three weeks worth of poetry lesson plans tonight . . . I'll be up and all. Maybe I'll crash. Let's hope for that. Because I can't knit in meetings anymore and there's one tomorrow . . . and I can't tell anyone what I think. Because no one likes that.
Again, I will be in denial about anything I write later . . . at 3 a.m. . . . after I have graded all the papers I have (yeah, right) and cleaned the grout in my bathroom. Riding the Golden Monkey.
But first the diggers. I arrived home to diggers in my driveway, complete with piles of dirt and digger men. To be more specific, the diggers were blocking my driveway and the piles of dirt were what was part of my front yard. I know that I don't pay attention, but should the city have sent me a memo or something about this? I've gotten a couple of memos inviting me to talking about it, which I skipped granted, but for this I think they should have given me a sticky on my front door or something. "We are destroying your yard tomorrow" it could read in Sharpie. There was no sticky. I looked.
So I could not park in my driveway. And then there was the walking through all the dirt, wincing about my brick edging (now under dirt). I'm sure they'll put it back . . . better than it was. Right? Upon leaving, I had to quiz the digger men. How long are you going to be here? (Mostly because earlier this evening I had sleeping on the agenda . . . and the beeping of the diggers was not going to facilitate that. Now it doesn't matter as much.) What time are you coming in the morning? Digger man and I established that I would be able to sleep without beeping and get out of my driveway in the morning. Excellent. I was late, so I didn't chat about the dirt piles. Again, I'm sure they'll put everything back. Right?
Still managed to get to Ferndale (fashionable? really . . . still?) slightly early and not having any idea where I was going, decided to not be early and go shop quickly. Because early would have been bad . . . or not as good as on time. See kick ass knitting bag. Decide that I do not need knitting bag . . . and want it in another color. Find that it is the only bag of it's type in the store. Decide to leave it up to the fates. If it was there when I got back, I could buy it. Shopping Russian roulette. Always dangerous, because if someone else decides it's cool, well, then you'll never get over the longing. You could have bought it. You had it in your hand. Go to find the place I'm supposed to be.
Ferndale now plays eighties alternative, over loud speakers, downtown. I wonder who in the DDA thought up that plan, because I find it disconcerting to have Sixousie and the Banshees in the background as I'm walking, looking for place I'm supposed to be in two minutes. A bit too John Hughes movie for me. That kind of stuff is only supposed to go on in your head. A common personal soundtrack . . . well, it's not personal.
I think the place only served tea. They had a menu . . . which I read a little. But went with the "Golden Monkey" . . . because if you have a chance to order something called "Golden Monkey", wouldn't you? Hell, I want a shirt that says that. I hope it wasn't $85 dollar tea or something . . . I probably should have been paying more attention (boy, isn't that the theme of the week?). Talked for a hour with another human being that I found interesting (sometimes hard for me . . . ). More aptly, was questioned for an hour by another human . . . plus drank really caffeinated tea. But didn't figure that out until about another hour later, when I found myself on the ceiling of a Barnes and Noble.
There was a window of time. So after went to the "record" store, which is now full of CDs and bought the Shiny Toy Guns CD. Only currently like one song, thank you very much, but it might grow on me. And the kick ass knitting bag was still there, with 40% off socks and 50% off tank tops, plus a camouflage shirt that I will wear on Friday (and try to be convincing about it being a school color). I then went to Barnes and Noble and bought poetry books and wondered why I was bouncing off the walls. Hmm . . . what was it that I drank at that place with the tea? Liquid crank? And if it wasn't a Tuesday . . . well, that would be great.
So I guess I'll be figuring out three weeks worth of poetry lesson plans tonight . . . I'll be up and all. Maybe I'll crash. Let's hope for that. Because I can't knit in meetings anymore and there's one tomorrow . . . and I can't tell anyone what I think. Because no one likes that.
Again, I will be in denial about anything I write later . . . at 3 a.m. . . . after I have graded all the papers I have (yeah, right) and cleaned the grout in my bathroom. Riding the Golden Monkey.
Monday, November 13, 2006
My newest guilty pleasure . . . Shiny Toy Guns . . . so 1988 and city club. I can hardly stand it.
What's old is new again. And we are going to ride the racecars. (the bridge is lame . . . but they do use rests to their advantage)
What's old is new again. And we are going to ride the racecars. (the bridge is lame . . . but they do use rests to their advantage)
Moving Day
"WTF? Your blog is moving?"
"Yeah, sorry. The people. They were getting insistent."
"Not sorry . . . just weird. Did it pack already?"
"Well, it's my blog . . . so mostly it threw all its stuff in milkcrates and Marshall Fields bags."
"Too funny."
". . . and hoped desperately that its mother would show to organize things."
"Yeah, sorry. The people. They were getting insistent."
"Not sorry . . . just weird. Did it pack already?"
"Well, it's my blog . . . so mostly it threw all its stuff in milkcrates and Marshall Fields bags."
"Too funny."
". . . and hoped desperately that its mother would show to organize things."
Saturday, November 11, 2006
IHOP
"I have yogurt and cereal and pop tarts, if you want any breakfast . . ."
"What I'd really like is some IHOP. Do you have IHOPs here?"
"I can make you an omelette."
(make squishy face) "Aayucka!" (I hate eggs . . . and my sister has known me for 27 years and has never seen me eat an egg)
"Well, I don't have an IHOP in my kitchen."
"No, Mere . . . I meant do you have IHOPs in this town?"
"Oh, yeah, it's on Westnedge."
"Mere . . . well . . . she doesn't leave the house much." says my mother.
"What I'd really like is some IHOP. Do you have IHOPs here?"
"I can make you an omelette."
(make squishy face) "Aayucka!" (I hate eggs . . . and my sister has known me for 27 years and has never seen me eat an egg)
"Well, I don't have an IHOP in my kitchen."
"No, Mere . . . I meant do you have IHOPs in this town?"
"Oh, yeah, it's on Westnedge."
"Mere . . . well . . . she doesn't leave the house much." says my mother.
Kalamazoo, part two
My sister moved to Kalamazoo. My brother likes wine tours. They are currently mowing her lawn in the snow. I don't know why.
So we are having a family fun weekend in Kalamazoo at my sister's house. Her bathroom is incredibly small. So small, that I can't believe I let her buy this house . . . if you step out of the bathtub, you are standing in the sink. Not good. She has nice towels though.
So my mom, sister-in-law, brother and I are all at my sister's house. Mr. Crabbypants stayed home with his television. I'm on all sorts of drugs to stave off the cat dust. And I would like some IHOP. Do they have IHOP in Kalamazoo?
Dave made the heater work in the garage . . . so he will be out there until the wine touring starts. My sister has a lot of garage. Two of them, in fact. They are now augering drains in the snow. It occurs to me that I should probably assist in that process, with all my extensive drain augering knowledge. The cats are totally freaked by the people, and the lawn mowing and the drain augering.
And it's cold in Kalamazoo.
So we are having a family fun weekend in Kalamazoo at my sister's house. Her bathroom is incredibly small. So small, that I can't believe I let her buy this house . . . if you step out of the bathtub, you are standing in the sink. Not good. She has nice towels though.
So my mom, sister-in-law, brother and I are all at my sister's house. Mr. Crabbypants stayed home with his television. I'm on all sorts of drugs to stave off the cat dust. And I would like some IHOP. Do they have IHOP in Kalamazoo?
Dave made the heater work in the garage . . . so he will be out there until the wine touring starts. My sister has a lot of garage. Two of them, in fact. They are now augering drains in the snow. It occurs to me that I should probably assist in that process, with all my extensive drain augering knowledge. The cats are totally freaked by the people, and the lawn mowing and the drain augering.
And it's cold in Kalamazoo.
"Guest" Blogger
Hello. I am a guest blogger, by request of this blog "owner". Quite an honor....but the pressure is on, as I am not 1) a good speller 2) usually clever, witty, and/or entertaining, and 3) have no topic in mind or provided for me to blog about. I am, however, pretty good about rambling on and on about something....So, welcome to "guest" blog by a "guest" author searching for a topic to ramble on about.
I could mention the SNOW, which is happening as I type (not really ready yet for this stuff this year!). I could carry on about the torrential rains, lightening, and thunder that happened last night (these were Kansas summer storms....not something you find where I live in NOVEMBER!) I could blog about 5 lb. cans, and how they will only hold 5 lbs., no matter what you put in them, or how you rearrange it. (there are 5 of us and 2 cats in a house usually inhabited by one with the cats!)
I could blog about the birds in the attic (we spend an unexpected day blocking their entrance and removing a huge trash bag full of nesting material), or perhaps I could tell you about the cat antics with popcorn ball and candy wrappers left over from Halloween (don't worry, L. only plays with them, nothing morbid or disgusting happens!)Perhaps I could recount how "M" had to tell the mower man how to start the mower that Mr. Pants "gave" to her, then had to have fixed so it would run (long distance) and how Mr. Pants did not see that this was a problem--talking to fixer people by girls!! The mower macho man was devastated by a girl having to start and drive the mower off his truck! Pretty funny (for us girls!)
I could talk about insulating the attic, discussions about the potential floor plans, the bargain we found on a drain snake (everyone should have one as a back up --no pun intended--plan!) or finding some new restaurants in town that we like...but no one probably really cares. So as the guest blogger without a topic, I have probably rambled on enough. Besides, a turn in the shower may turn up soon while there is still hot water, and I want to be ready! It has been fun!
I could mention the SNOW, which is happening as I type (not really ready yet for this stuff this year!). I could carry on about the torrential rains, lightening, and thunder that happened last night (these were Kansas summer storms....not something you find where I live in NOVEMBER!) I could blog about 5 lb. cans, and how they will only hold 5 lbs., no matter what you put in them, or how you rearrange it. (there are 5 of us and 2 cats in a house usually inhabited by one with the cats!)
I could blog about the birds in the attic (we spend an unexpected day blocking their entrance and removing a huge trash bag full of nesting material), or perhaps I could tell you about the cat antics with popcorn ball and candy wrappers left over from Halloween (don't worry, L. only plays with them, nothing morbid or disgusting happens!)Perhaps I could recount how "M" had to tell the mower man how to start the mower that Mr. Pants "gave" to her, then had to have fixed so it would run (long distance) and how Mr. Pants did not see that this was a problem--talking to fixer people by girls!! The mower macho man was devastated by a girl having to start and drive the mower off his truck! Pretty funny (for us girls!)
I could talk about insulating the attic, discussions about the potential floor plans, the bargain we found on a drain snake (everyone should have one as a back up --no pun intended--plan!) or finding some new restaurants in town that we like...but no one probably really cares. So as the guest blogger without a topic, I have probably rambled on enough. Besides, a turn in the shower may turn up soon while there is still hot water, and I want to be ready! It has been fun!
Kalamazoo
There is cat hair on this computer . . . in Kalamazoo. There is cat hair on everything . . . in Kalamazoo.
And my brother showed me the llama song. Don't play it. It's obnoxious.
More later. It's been a busy week and I've been tired. Been going to bed at 9 p.m. But I promise to write things soon.
And my brother showed me the llama song. Don't play it. It's obnoxious.
More later. It's been a busy week and I've been tired. Been going to bed at 9 p.m. But I promise to write things soon.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
"You're a Superstar . . . at the Gay Bar"
It struck me that St. Andrews hadn't changed much since I'd been there last . . . say, fifteen years ago. I don't remember the bar being located along the west wall, but the last time I was at St. Andrews I didn't drink, so it could have been there all along. I wouldn't have noticed.
By the time Electric Six was getting ready to go on stage the crowd was divided into three sections: The under 21 crowd in front (with some frat boys mixed in for good measure), the "older crowd" (my age) up in the balcony, and the die hards in back. I'm pretty sure the die hards were all animatronic robots because they looked exactly the same as they did in 1992 . . . same hair, same clothing. I know the eighties are back "in" but it was surreal. Like they kept them in a closet and brought them out to fill the place.
We ended up in the frat boy section.
Electric Six. Well, they didn't live up to the hype. I kept reading and hearing about this great band . . . and they were good . . . but the lead singer's whole act seems to be to either direct the crowd to make hand gestures (which they all did, like good trained monkeys) or stand on stage with a goofy grin on his face (which the crowd always laughed at). A cute little frat boy warned us, with a very earnest look, that we didn't want to be "down here" because it was "gonna get wild" and for a minute I was worried (the band hadn't started yet) . . . but the most anyone did was pogo-ing. Lame. So funny lyrics just can't carry you if you are six aging white guys. Who knew?
Oh, and there was this wife/girlfriend/groupie section, up in the balcony, who kept throwing things at the band and then would try to talk to the bass player while they were playing. Like, "honey, look . . . I threw that at you . . . yeah, that was me! . . . " So that wasn't distracting. At all.
I guess I'm hard to impress. The coney island food at 2 in the morning was good. And we didn't run into anyone I knew.
By the time Electric Six was getting ready to go on stage the crowd was divided into three sections: The under 21 crowd in front (with some frat boys mixed in for good measure), the "older crowd" (my age) up in the balcony, and the die hards in back. I'm pretty sure the die hards were all animatronic robots because they looked exactly the same as they did in 1992 . . . same hair, same clothing. I know the eighties are back "in" but it was surreal. Like they kept them in a closet and brought them out to fill the place.
We ended up in the frat boy section.
Electric Six. Well, they didn't live up to the hype. I kept reading and hearing about this great band . . . and they were good . . . but the lead singer's whole act seems to be to either direct the crowd to make hand gestures (which they all did, like good trained monkeys) or stand on stage with a goofy grin on his face (which the crowd always laughed at). A cute little frat boy warned us, with a very earnest look, that we didn't want to be "down here" because it was "gonna get wild" and for a minute I was worried (the band hadn't started yet) . . . but the most anyone did was pogo-ing. Lame. So funny lyrics just can't carry you if you are six aging white guys. Who knew?
Oh, and there was this wife/girlfriend/groupie section, up in the balcony, who kept throwing things at the band and then would try to talk to the bass player while they were playing. Like, "honey, look . . . I threw that at you . . . yeah, that was me! . . . " So that wasn't distracting. At all.
I guess I'm hard to impress. The coney island food at 2 in the morning was good. And we didn't run into anyone I knew.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
I'm Goin'
. . . to Electric Six tonight . . . and you're not.
Hope they dress up as the Lincolns (third video down), cause that would be really fun.
And it was my first experience buying tickets online . . . and I'm never going to do that again. Figured that the service charge would be worth it to not have to go down there or worse yet, get there and find that they were sold out. But at $5.20 extra a ticket, next time I'll chance it. We could always go to Small Plates to dinner instead.
Hope they dress up as the Lincolns (third video down), cause that would be really fun.
And it was my first experience buying tickets online . . . and I'm never going to do that again. Figured that the service charge would be worth it to not have to go down there or worse yet, get there and find that they were sold out. But at $5.20 extra a ticket, next time I'll chance it. We could always go to Small Plates to dinner instead.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
While Sitting in the "Cone of Silence"
I talk to a lot of divorced men. Something about being single and 35. And I always take their stories with a grain of salt . . . figuring that there are two sides to every story I hear (and sometimes three or four). I never get to hear the ex-wife, but know I would present my story in a way that is favorable to me. We all do it to some extent. It's psyche preservation.
And I don't really want to hear from the ex-wives anyhow. Not even curious. Well, maybe with that one . . . and the moving away to live in the single wide with the "platonic" friend and the goat . . . but just because it's such an interesting story.
And unfortunately, the stories are very similar . . . married in our twenties . . . thought I knew the girl . . . people change . . . she doesn't want to be married anymore . . . she left.
With a smattering of infidelity mixed in.
And as someone who really wants to be married, I never understand the motivation. As someone who really wants children, I can't understand why anyone would leave them. And so I listen to the stories and hope that there is another side. A rationable, reasonable side . . . though not too reasonable (like he beat me) because I'm probably about to go out with the storyteller.
And then I went to Starbucks today and my fears were realized. (No, I didn't run into anyone's ex . . . but that would have been fun, wouldn't it?) People talk on their cell phones like they are in a magical "cone of silence" somehow and the woman next to me . . . she is leaving her husband. She knows that it is at least 50% her fault, but she can't be married anymore . . . just can't. And single people, they can do anything, you know . . . they can be authors and . . .
The whole time, her toddler is sleeping in his mega-mobile stroller.
And he wants to sell the house . . . and she could get a pretty good job . . . and yeah, I've thought about marriage counseling but really, what's the point?
I wanted to snatch her parenting license away . . . until I realized that there is no parenting license. A woman on her cell phone telling her friend that she was leaving her husband. Not because he was mean, or beating her, or for any other good reason that I can't think of right now, oh, like cheating on her . . . just because she didn't want to be married anymore. And those single people . . . yeah, well, they have it so good.
I really wanted to turn and tell her about being single, but I talk to strangers too much about things they don't want to hear. So I held my tongue. I didn't tell her that she could be whatever it was that she so wanted to be . . . and she could still be married doing it. I didn't talk to her about the stress and needless crap that her two-year old was going to go through because she just didn't feel like staying married anymore. Didn't talk to her about the dating pool for 35 year old women, like ourselves, who would all be men like her husband . . . except a little more angry because they had found someone that they wanted to commit to . . . and that other woman didn't feel like being married anymore either.
I really didn't want to think that the stories were true. And yet, here, in the seat next to me, was the confirmation . . . gabbing into her cell phone . . . surrounded by her imaginary cone of silence. And I felt horrible. And sad. For all the stories that I have heard.
And I think I should get props for slipping a "Get Smart" reference in . . . and not hitting anyone at the Starbucks.
And I don't really want to hear from the ex-wives anyhow. Not even curious. Well, maybe with that one . . . and the moving away to live in the single wide with the "platonic" friend and the goat . . . but just because it's such an interesting story.
And unfortunately, the stories are very similar . . . married in our twenties . . . thought I knew the girl . . . people change . . . she doesn't want to be married anymore . . . she left.
With a smattering of infidelity mixed in.
And as someone who really wants to be married, I never understand the motivation. As someone who really wants children, I can't understand why anyone would leave them. And so I listen to the stories and hope that there is another side. A rationable, reasonable side . . . though not too reasonable (like he beat me) because I'm probably about to go out with the storyteller.
And then I went to Starbucks today and my fears were realized. (No, I didn't run into anyone's ex . . . but that would have been fun, wouldn't it?) People talk on their cell phones like they are in a magical "cone of silence" somehow and the woman next to me . . . she is leaving her husband. She knows that it is at least 50% her fault, but she can't be married anymore . . . just can't. And single people, they can do anything, you know . . . they can be authors and . . .
The whole time, her toddler is sleeping in his mega-mobile stroller.
And he wants to sell the house . . . and she could get a pretty good job . . . and yeah, I've thought about marriage counseling but really, what's the point?
I wanted to snatch her parenting license away . . . until I realized that there is no parenting license. A woman on her cell phone telling her friend that she was leaving her husband. Not because he was mean, or beating her, or for any other good reason that I can't think of right now, oh, like cheating on her . . . just because she didn't want to be married anymore. And those single people . . . yeah, well, they have it so good.
I really wanted to turn and tell her about being single, but I talk to strangers too much about things they don't want to hear. So I held my tongue. I didn't tell her that she could be whatever it was that she so wanted to be . . . and she could still be married doing it. I didn't talk to her about the stress and needless crap that her two-year old was going to go through because she just didn't feel like staying married anymore. Didn't talk to her about the dating pool for 35 year old women, like ourselves, who would all be men like her husband . . . except a little more angry because they had found someone that they wanted to commit to . . . and that other woman didn't feel like being married anymore either.
I really didn't want to think that the stories were true. And yet, here, in the seat next to me, was the confirmation . . . gabbing into her cell phone . . . surrounded by her imaginary cone of silence. And I felt horrible. And sad. For all the stories that I have heard.
And I think I should get props for slipping a "Get Smart" reference in . . . and not hitting anyone at the Starbucks.
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