After a Healthly Dose . . .

of pomegranate martinis . . . and because I have to tell someone.

I'm such a girl sometimes. I only cried once.

During the first episode. Of Grey's Anatomy. Because they got it right . . . the main character, her mother has Alzheimer's, and she goes to visit her . . . in the "facility". And she asks politely, "And who are you?" and she has to answer that she's her daughter.

My grandmother, she was always polite about that . . . everyday. "Sweety, and who are you again? I'm so sorry." And I would say, "My name is Emily." and she would say, "Really? I have a granddaughter named Emily." and then I would sometimes say "I know."

And they got the fidgeting right. Which is more painful really. The memory of the fidgeting. My grandmother would fidget endlessly. Scratch her temple. Fidget with her watch. Endlessly restless. As I suppose I would be, if I couldn't remember.

It was hard to tell, with my grandmother. She would keep the conversational topics general. The weather . . . how the kids were . . .

The rest of my mother's family didn't believe she was ill, even though she was very ill by the time she moved in with me. She couldn't remember that people needed to eat, by that point. Her brain had forgotten hunger. We would have the weekly fight about the bath. Baths are scary, slippery things.

And she couldn't remember who I was . . . so she thought I was a servant of some sort. And I miss her so much.

When I was a child, she taught me not to judge people. She was the most fun . . . I remember climbing the monkey bars, when she was well into her seventies. She was the most creative person I knew and the most "zen" like, for someone who grew up in a small town in Ohio. I loved her very much.

And it is the most painful thing . . . to watch someone disintegrate. Parts of her were still there, but never the whole . . . the loss of the whole. And watching the pain of my mother . . . at losing her mother in bits and pieces. And the pain of my grandmother, always such an independent person, knowing that she was dependant . . . being frustrated because she was dependant . . . and yet, keeping her grace through it all, even until the end.

So being graceful. What I need to remember. Living with grace. What my grandmother, Thelma, taught me. Kindness and grace.

And that life is too short not to have ice cream in between your waffles.

"It's a New Year, Trying to Be Nice."

Actual quote from my mother this afternoon.

This was after she told me that . . . well (lips smoosch to center) . . . the hair, it wasn't any better . . . well . . . the cut is better . . . but you looked younger with the black hair . . . maybe you should go back to that . . .

Okay, then.

Concert was awesomely awesome. Bought t-shirts. Actually M1 and I bought matching t-shirts, but we don't live in the same state, so it's okay. Wearing my pink "Deal's Gone Bad" tee today, with just enough of the jolly roger sticking out of my sweater. Good pit. Good music. No one to pick up. Oh, well.

M1 kept looking out into the crowd (it was sold out) and saying . . . "This is the dating pool." with a circular hand gesture. I thought she was being sarcastic . . . like I should try the bar at the Townsend instead . . . but she was serious and commenting on the bleak state of affairs.

There seemed to be two demographic groups at the Magic Stick last night. "Old" people who actually remembered Gangster Fun and the Parka Kings when they were bands. And their children. There were groups who looked like they hadn't seen anywhere except the inside of a mini-van for a long, long time. And they kept walking past . . .

"M? Do we look like that? When the twenty-somethings see us . . . do they see that? Do they think what I'm thinking right now?"
"No. We aren't carrying Liz Claiborne purses."
"Cause those people are old . . . and they're our age."
"Yeah. We don't look like that."
"Are you sure? Cause they don't know they look like that."

Now the ska crowd is geeky in general . . . boys in skinny ties and white shirts, newsboy hats (fedoras, if they are really into it) and spectator shoes, who look like they know how to really work a computer. Boys in glasses, who look like they might actually enjoy doing your taxes after they were done bouncing up and down . . . (my idea of hot, by the way) Boys with a bit of an edge, but way too nerdy (or too smart?) to end up pulling off goth.

But mix that in with groups of nerdy soccer moms (that married the nerdy old guys?) and it gets kinda surreal.

M1 did talk to the lead singer of Deal's Gone Bad, who was just wandering around, looking like he needed a friend. He remembered us from last year. M1 wanted to see what R looked like . . . and his doppelganger was at the show . . . but skinnier with neck tattoos. He was part of "the Rovers" (a scooter club, very manly) so maybe I'll see him again at the Front (just what I need, someone with neck tatts). No students this year. Almost disappointing.

Can't wait until next year though.

Socks and Safety Glasses

There is a knock at the door. There is never a knock at the door. No one shows up announced . . . and quite frankly, most people I know couldn't get here without instructions . . . "No really, if you get to _______ you've gone too far." To their credit, my house is exactly the same design as the house next to it, and the house next to that, and so on.

Find a robe. It is 1 pm, but I have shifted to vampire time very quickly this vacation. Hopefully, the transition back will be just a smooth, but I doubt it.

Seriously consider just not answering the door. It's not going to be anyone interesting . . . nothing good could come from answering the door. But it's a guy in safety glasses. "Hi, I'm from the gas company." Yeah, so? He starts pointing at the large hole in my front yard. Something about old meter. (I like that old meter. I paid for that damn meter, so it wouldn't be in the front of my house. That meter meant hours of negotiation. What do you mean 'a new meter'?)

Okay, just found him in my house. Creepy. I didn't need any pilots lit. Everything is automatic. If my imaginary husband Buck were home, there would have been bloodshed. My fault for leaving the front door open, but he should have knocked. But he checked all my gas appliances, and gave me a larger meter (225 btu instead of 175 . . . seems like asking for a larger gas bill). Funny, typing here and finding a guy in his socks wandering in the hallway. And safety glasses.

He's gone. Door is locked.

Now I can take a shower. Start using that 225 btu super power that I've always wanted. Maybe the hole in my yard will be filled by the time I have my makeup on.

Lack of Plan or Secret Plan

My mother . . . she always has a plan . . . but sometimes (meaning a lot of the time) she doesn't communicate that plan. So my siblings and I will call, and ask for the plan, only to be told that there is "no plan". Which is soooo not the truth. Sometimes, the plan just isn't ready to be shared.

So I'm having a "plan" theme. Because of the lack of plan . . . the plan void . . . in my life. (Again, keeping in mind, there is always a plan. It's just not communicated) In fact, I even made a category. Cause, damnit, I think I need a plan.

Tonight, the plan is wine and taquitos. Not a good plan, but perhaps tasty. It's Christmas. Nothing's open and everyone is with their family. My siblings have abandoned me, so I will drink with Mr. Crabbypants.

Tomorrow, the plan is sales during the day. I love the rioting, the noise, the shoving and the pulling. I love being plugged into my ipod and people watching. Plus, I want a new cashmere sweater . . . and they should be on super sale at Lord and Taylor. Evidently, in the evening Luna is having Depeche Mode video appreciation night. So have to talk Princess into going to that.

Wednesday, there is pulling everything out of the dining room . . . which I am currently using as a storage room for things like my drill . . . and multiple toolboxes. I would like it to be a real dining room. With, like, a table and chairs and stuff. So there will be a "Kilz high" this week. And maybe going to Ikea to buy lighting. Very exciting.

In amongst this, I need to finish some knitting projects . . . and knit a hat for someone. Complicated but homemade seems like the best option. With the disclaimer that it didn't take long to make. And I have to find that damn book. And E1 is home and M1, so maybe some going out with them.

Thursday, picking colors. Hopefully. Want a shelf all the way around the room, with one color above and white below. Might just go with a simple wood shelf from Ikea, rather than making one, because it will be easier and I can cut them. We'll see. Am totally up for partying like a rock star, but did that on the 23rd, so could be over it too.

Friday is Mustard Plug. Saturday is hopefully recovering from the fun of Mustard Plug.

I'm ignoring Sunday . . . hate New Year's Eve and the build up. Oh, and I've decided that I have way too much stuff. So giving stuff away is part of the agenda.

Okay, Mr. Crabbypants is watching some dull plane show . . . have to go admonish.

Shiny Things

So I now have a knife . . . that will actually cut things. I am the new owner of this, which I am considering never taking off my body. I have new red lipstick and a "Cooky Book" (I was the only sibling not to have one) so I can whip up six dozen Snickerdoodles if I have to. And new homemade socks.

The Z. pictures were a big hit and Mere liked her sweater (it was a good color). We almost threw out Dad's wine wh0-ha's . . . the Crate and Barrel lady hid them with the decanter and I forgot about them. Oh, and I fell down the stairs with a bottle of wine in one hand and my glass of wine in the other. Ouch. And wine explosion.

Fell asleep watching Talledaga Nights -- The Ballad of Ricky Bobby

So today will be the "Grey's Anatomy" fest (which I am not watching) and waffles . . . and sitting around doing nothing. Z. is gone to his grandparents, so there are no action figures to play with.

Merry Christmas to all . . . hope you opened some Avatar action figures too.

The Plan

My sister just called for "the Plan" . . . and she's on the road from K-zoo, so won't be able to see it.

Here it is, from this moment forward:

Charge i-pod.
Charge phone.
Think about if I have any other random electronic devices to charge.
Brush teeth.
Curl eyelashes.
Put on make-up . . . but probably just mascara.
Wrap at least two presents.
Just frustrated with wrapping.
Put on shoes.
Find jacket.
Look outside.
Wonder if I can switch cars, or if the Neon will get stuck in the mud.
Go for it and switch cars.
Go get coffee.
Wonder why everyone has to be at Starbucks when I want to be at Starbucks.
Buy book for Mere. (Amy Sedaris, "I like you" . . . shhh, don't tell.)
Go to Pitaya and look at shirts.
Leave before two hour free parking is up.
Go to Target and get photos printed.
Get disgusted with Target photo department.
Leave.
Go to Costco.
Marvel at how busy Costco is.
Get photos printed.
Come home.
Put photos in frames.
Wrap frames.
Get angry phone call from mother because I didn't go to Stately Wayne Manor.
Consider going to Stately Wayne Manor to paint cookies.

That takes me to 7 pm or so. Will let you know after that.

Wet and Pleather

"You're very hard to shop for, you know. . ."

My sister said this over the phone last night, while I was calling to confirm that I had bought the right size of thing (the thing that does not have a size, because that would be spoiling the surprise, and she doesn't want to know, but the lady only gave me one gift receipt for two items, so Mere can't return it, so it has to be the right size).

Evidently, posting a list of things I wanted on the internet is not enough for my family. Nevermind that you can't find the first thing on the list anywhere (I've tried) . . . tire gauges aren't sold out at Murrays.

So I'm done. Well, still have my brother and a two friends. I bought gifts for the friend's kids, but probably should buy something for the adult too. Although I think bathtub paint is good for all ages really. And my brother? He lives in Miami and doesn't ever come for xmas. So he gets after xmas sale stuff. Sad but true.

But this was supposed to be about my adventures yesterday. When I arrived at the eye doctor's, Mr. Crabbypants had already made his choice. A choice that I would not have made. He was all proud of himself . . . they were "free" . . . totally covered by insurance. I made some other selections and made him try them on, in an attempt to swing him over to my way of thinking. But the choice had been made. I would have been more insistent (my sister uses the line, "But Daddy, we have to look at you . . .") but somewhere in the conversation I was told that these are "extra" glasses. The glasses guy thought our conversation was very amusing. "Are you sure you aren't married?" he asked . . . even though if he thought about he has known our family for ten years and KNOWS my mother.

This is not the first time I have been out with my father and people have asked if we are married. Always gives me a crawley sensation. Don't know if it is because I will actively bicker with him, or if people assume because some men marry younger women. Whatever sales person says it, they too get grossed out when I say "Ummm . . . that's my dad."

From there we went to IKEA, so early that we were corralled in the cafeteria area until the rest of the store opened. Had a nice breakfast with the old people who show up to eat breakfast at IKEA. The old people did not appreciate when my father started swearing at his phone (his email) but by that time I was listening to my ipod, so I could only vaguely hear him. I walked him all the way through the IKEA, despite his loud proclamation that he "only wanted to look at lightbulbs. Where are the lightbulbs? Did we miss the lightbulbs?" The lightbulb section is on the first floor and you start on the second floor of this IKEA. So at the end, there were lightbulbs to look at . . . and he was happy. And I only bought four things . . . two of the items being 25 cents each.

We parted ways. It was too early for lunch, so no Swedish meatballs.

(spoiler alert: My brother D. and ALL his friends shouldn't read this until after xmas)

I drove to Comerica Park to get my brother's present. Parking was too easy, and then the attendant came out and told me it would be $10. Why would the gate be up if it was ten dollars? I think gates up is "free" in the international language of parking. Eventually found out that I could get parking validated. Well, why wasn't that mentioned in the first place?

It was raining. Rained all day. I'm Emily, so I don't have an umbrella, even though it rained all day yesterday also . . . and Princess didn't share her umbrella the night before . . . so I did have the thought in my head that I should get the damn umbrella and put it in the truck. But I'm wearing this dumb pleather jacket that I got at Target. (My father mentioned at breakfast, "So . . . when did member's only come back in?") So I'm somewhat waterproof. Not warm, but waterproof. And so far, all day, I've walked from parking lot to door and door to parking lot. So I'm dry and the hair is still somewhat good.

Walk to ticket office. Closed. And mysteriously there are all these people hanging out in the alcove. Like the ticket office could open soon. And they are people who look like they could afford tickets. They don't seem to just want shelter from the rain. Stand there for at 5 seconds . . . and see that the clothing shop is open. Walk to there . . . wet, wet, wet.

"How do you buy tickets?" No one in the official Tigers souvenir and clothing shop (the big one) knows. I was told buy them online (but I'm here . . . ) and then told to call 1-248-TIGERS (but that isn't enough numbers). Finally the manager takes pity on me and gets the main lobby of Comerica park . . . has to call three people to get the phone number and it is delivered on a piece of looseleaf paper. Evidently, the phone number to the main desk of Comerica park is a big secret (it's in my phone if anyone wants it). I call. They tell me to come on over. I get my parking validated without buying a thing.

I now have to walk around Comerica park. Wet, wet, wet. Get there. No tickets. "I'm really sorry, I haven't been here since Friday. We're sold out of those." Great. Wet. Cold. And blew the mission, so my sister is going to be mad. "But you can get gift certificates and he can just buy whatever he wants." Explain that I do not have the authority to make that decision. Call sister. Leave message. Make executive decision, precipitated by the rain and the fact that I am very wet. Buy more gift certificates that anyone needs. Have a nice chat about knives with the guy at the desk. Go and get even more wet.

I then take my soggy self to the Majestic complex. Meters only take quarters. Search for quarters. More wet. Again the box office is closed. Manage to buy tickets at the bar. Almost buy tickets for that night . . . but remember that the person I'm going with will back out at the last minute. Stick with just the Mustard Plug tickets.

Since I'm there, decide to go check out "City Knits" in the Fisher building. Park. Meter takes dimes, which is good, as I have no quarters (spent them all in Ferndale the night before). I have never been to the Fisher building, so there is a lot to look at. Get really wet walking there. City Knits is cool. Pure Detroit is kind of a let down (I'll go to the Made in Detroit store first next time). My sister calls and leaves an angry message about the tickets I was supposed to buy on Monday (and now have gift certificates on Friday . . . who knew everyone would buy their loved one a Pepsi six pack thingy for Comerica park?) Get really wet walking back to the truck.

So now I'm soaked, except for the parts covered in pleater. Decide to go to Northland. Then to Target. Then home. Just before I decide to get ready for the concert, IM the dude I'm supposed to go with to make sure his coming. He's not. Go to Twelve Oaks instead.

And that's how I finished my xmas shopping. And I'm not hard to shop for. And don't buy me an umbrella. I have one, I just don't bring it with me.

It's still dark

It's my first day off . . . and I'm up before it's light.

My father is picking out glasses this morning and has invited me . . . and well, I couldn't resist. The man is perfectly capable of picking out his own glasses but, if someone asks me for my opinion, I'll give it to him. He was an AV aide in high school and sometimes, just sometimes, it shows in his glasses selection. And I get to go to IKEA.

When we came up with this plan, I pointed out that IKEA was going to be like a demilitarized zone. People will be ill-behaved. There will be shouting, or at least some pushing. It's three days before Christmas. And my father, he is does NOT suffer fools gladly. He will tell them how to behave. Loudly. Which usually leads to more shouting . . . and potential shoving. Luckily, he is really intimidating, otherwise there would be shoving.

So happy, happy dad wrangling. And getting up at the butt-crack of dawn.

Fear Realized

There is a digger in my front yard. A cute little one, but a digger nonetheless. In my yard.

Well, mostly on the sidewalk.

So do I just hold my hand up to block it from view? Or just not look at directly?

Totally ruined my "ignore it" plan.

Things I am Currently Afraid of . . .

1. That I may actually be more excited about xmas break than my students . . . and possibly more hyper about it.
2. To check the damage to my landscaping, what little I have. It's dark and I can't see it, so I'm going to pretend that the diggers didn't come. I'll leave before it's light and it's been ages since I've been home before dark. Therefore, the giant digger tracks . . . they could just be shadows, right?
3. That I will be sick all break, since everyone around me is currently sick. Keep washing my hands like I have OCD.
4. Worried that I may have OCD because of all the hand washing.
5. Supposed to edit something, and am afraid to read it . . . because it might suck . . . or it might be tremendously good and I'll be jealous.
6. Afraid to call an old friend . . . after too many years . . . because there might be a reason that we are not still friends. Other than the reason I think.
7. Afraid that I will forget something/someone's xmas present. Problem with too many gift hiding places. And I'm never going to get it all done.
8. Afraid to apply for a job that hasn't even been posted, because I don't think I want it . . . and a friend really, really does.
9. Afraid that I will not get up on time tomorrow, as I somehow turned off my alarm today . . . and was just lucky.
10. Afraid that the antique lighted star on the top of my plastic xmas tree may burn my house down.

and those blonde highlights

emily: . . . better than talking about your hair . . . all the time.
E2: What? What about your hair?
M2: No, really . . . they always come up to Emily and start talking about her hair. (Blank) and (Blank), whenever they see her.
emily: Yeah, and it's . . . sassy . . . (word was filled in for person in charge by M2)
M2: Would you rather me say, "Emily. She's punk rock!"? (lame finger pointing gesture and squishy face)
emily: Really. No.

I think they get so excited that it's not Elmo-colored anymore. I practically blend into the scenery . . . or look like a normal person. . "Love your hair . . . so cute short . . . and those blonde highlights . . . " So they are trying complete positive reinforcement

Which so doesn't work with the oppositionally defiant.

And E2 got a good snicker about me wanting a matching xmas tree, too.

O' Christmas Tree . . . of Guilt

Yes, it's true . . . my mother isn't writing lies . . . it was my dream as a child to have a beautiful, MATCHING Christmas tree, just like the ones at Hudson's. I wanted the ornaments to have a color scheme, which would coordinate with the lights. Each year I would beg my mother to leave the hodge-podge of family ornaments in their boxes and start fresh. Couldn't it happen just once?

When moving to my own house, I inherited my Grandmother's (Thelma, not Flora . . . I'm not sure if Flora had a Christmas tree . . . ) artificial xmas tree. It is complete with my grandmother's hand painted markings, which don't match with the markings on the stem/trunk. And somehow there aren't enough "branches" for slots. And it's from the 1950's so I'm sure it's toxic and I've become barren and cancerous from putting it together this evening.

I love it. With all my heart. I love the fact that it's missing branches. I love the fact that there are forty-seven yellow marked branches for 12 yellow slots. I love the plastic evergreen-like prickles that are misaligned like hair that you have slept on. And last year . . . I made it matching. All matching silver ornaments. Lovely white star that lit up. Ahhhhh.

And this year, despite pretending to be Jewish for the most part, I went out and searched for the blue LED lights, that I had touched in late October and thought "I can't buy Christmas lights in October" . . . and then couldn't find them in December (Hartland Target. Evidently, no one goes there). Bright blue lights, coordinating silver ornaments . . .

And then my mother wrote her blog and the guilt set in. All those ornaments that she sent with the tree. Little silver bells engraved with the years 1971, 1972, 1973, 1974 . . . yeah, well, I don't have bells after that. I think because my parents had more kids and couldn't afford them. The weird piece of plaster with glued glitter that I made in kindergarten. The gold ornaments from Hudson's that they would engrave in front of you . . . shaky "Emily"s in some stranger's cursive. The late eighties, when my mother would buy an ornament and write on it with Sharpie (she had even more kids then) . . . I have a penguin from 1985.

I unwrapped them all and put them on the tree. I have to buy some tarnex for the silver bells. They are currently so tarnished, they are purple. But they are on the tree. The tree of guilt.

There will be pictures shortly. Just to prove to my mother that I unwrapped them all. Cause she's not coming over. I live east of I-275. And I can do the matching tree thing next year. And the kitten ornament is cute. The poodle ornament made by some aunt, not so much.

I'm So Excited, I Might Do Something Drastic

Like cry.

Or hug someone.

December 29. At the Magic Stick. Mustard Plug. Parka Kings.

And Gangster Fun. Gangster Fun that I used to do security for? That Gangster Fun?

I'm sooooooo going . . . and you are all going with me. If only to put some cash in Dave's pockets so he can pay for those babies xmas presents.

No really. It's going to be a GREAT show. I'm sure of it.

F*ck yeah.

Flora and the "est"s

The spirit of my Grandmother, Flora, escaped from whereever it was . . . and ended up in my body today. Again.

I was supposed to be xmas shopping. This means no shopping for one's self. Only petting the cashmere sweaters at Banana Republic and wondering if you should spend that much for a sweater for a brother that lives on the surface of the sun. But it is the perfect color. Would bring out the color of his eyes perfectly. And for $200 it should. But it was beautiful, and wonderful, and would probably go get a soda for you if you wanted it to (because it should for that much money) . . . or at least pick up a girl that could go get the soda. And yet, it has sooo many things stacked against me buying it. And then grandmother took over.

I had the strongest urge to buy lipstick. There are many, many shiny reflective things at the wonder mall and every time I saw myself, I thought "lipstick . . . need lipstick . . . must buy lipstick . . ."

Now my grandmother, she was all about the "est". As in coralest. The brightest lipstick, the most coral color she could find. Also the opaquest (or more correctly most opaque). And while I did not buy coral lipstick (because that would be a horrible mistake), I found myself at the MAC counter asking for the reddest lipstick they had. At the Macy's MAC counter that is "Lady Woo" but I didn't like the salesgirl, so I went to the Nordstrom MAC counter. There version of reddest is "MAC Red" and "Lady Bug" . . . and the salesgirl was all about my hair (it was faux-hawky today), so we were fast friends. Tried things on. Went with the MAC Red. A good blue red. Very much like the Wet n' Wild stuff I used to wear in college (M1 remember? I think you still have some in your bathroom, don't you?) except that this wasn't a dollar. Stays on the same way too. Gotta love a bright red lipstick that you can sleep in and wake up with lips still red.

Flora was not satisfied with just the reddest lipstick. I then went for the pinkest (and therefore I know how hard it is to get the MAC Red off). Bought something called "Pervette" . . . sheer but very pink. With a thick layer of this placed on my lips, Flora was somehow appeased. Amazing that I didn't have an urge to do something with my hair . . . or a hankering for crispy chicken salad. Maybe she flew off to make sure my sister is wearing enough mascara. Merry xmas Grandma, whereever you are. Thanks for the presents.

And thank you for saving me from buying the sweater.

he he, sounds like you're going to the vet

"Gotta go get my shots."

I'm down to allergy shots every two weeks. So will only amuse E2 half as much by making it sound like I'm taking myself to the vet. And they hurt today.

Am on a Ben Fold kick this afternoon. Currently loving "Learn to Live with what you are".

About to go worship the god of consumerism. For the xmas. Just bought a present for someone, something they requested, wanted . . . that totally insults my sensibilities. I may have to go get her a nicer one to go with the one she wants, just to balance the universe out. And my brother just told me not to spend that much money on him . . . does he understand that I'm a s.i.n.k.? So I think I can swing the vacuum . . .

And I don't need anything.

Crate and Barrel. MAC. Urban Outfitters. Coney Island. Sounds like a lovely afternoon, no?

Thirtysomething

Friend on the phone last weekend: When I was in my twenties, I was networking . . . I was out, at the bar, part of the scene. And now, well . . . I'm lucky if I remember that it's Friday night. Remember last week? When I wondered why The Emory was so busy? What happened?

Tomorrow is Friday. And I am looking forward to the following:

A union Christmas party that I am required to attend. At Jack's. The fifty year old divorcee bar. And my buddy isn't even the D.J.. So I can't request ridiculous songs, like "Gold digger" or something from The Smiths.

From there, a visitation at a funeral home. An acquaintance's mother died yesterday and the viewing is tomorrow. It is near the party . . . and I can't imbibe at the party (lest, I tell people what I think . . . of them), so I will stop by and show my support. Her mother was ninety, so it was not a surprise, but still.

After that, maybe I'll vacuum. Definitely will do laundry. And I have to take apart my toilet, because it has gotten to the point that I cannot ignore the fact that it is running all the time.

So yeah, my Friday night plan is to disassemble my toilet. And hopefully, reassemble it to working condition. All before ten o'clock, because that is when the Depot closes, in case I have to buy a new one . . . in the worse case scenario.

So yeah. What happened?

Post-it note saying "Deeper than hell"

So last week was hell . . . so I don't know what this week is . . . something deeper.

My mother is telling me to put post-it notes on my fridge, so I won't forget this when I am happy.

And I'm really trying to be more in control of my emotions. Except that no one around me is on that plan . . . and it's hard not to react for the sake of reacting when people are in chaos around you.

And when I get home, I should meditate or run or at least go walking . . . and instead I get here and curl up in a ball on the couch . . . and sleep. Which causes me not to sleep at night. And my headache started at about 2 p.m. yesterday . . . I'm trying to just ride the intensity of the pain, to feel the pain for the quality of pain (at least I know I'm alive). But it sucks to go back to the deeper than hell with a migrane. Makes me want to hit someone . . . or cry. And that would not be controling my emotions, now would it? Maybe if I thought about it seriously beforehand and did some reflection afterward?

Fashionista

Be still my heart. A boy that loves shoes.

My nephew and I went shopping for Christmas today. My vision was to get him and his mother done in one trip . . . buy him an outfit, which he would get to pick out (there seems to be control about his clothes, so the present was really "choice") and then to take pictures of him in the outfit for his mother. Quite the adventure.

I rarely get the chance to take boys shopping. Occasionally a brother . . . once for ring shopping, usually for "what would my wife like" shopping. Never the clothing shopping. So Z. and I went out to lunch, tried some new food, (When trying new food, he only takes the tiniest bit. Not enough to really taste it. Made him try a whole bite. He found out that he likes spinach pie. Add it to the list.) wandered around Gap kids. Clothing stores are "boring". Pants aren't cool. Only jeans are. And jean jackets. And shoes with ties are bad. But fancy leather loafers . . . good. Love the grown up shoes. And you can get to school faster if you don't have to tie your shoes. Oh, and the High School Musical CD and Pirates of the Caribbean II on DVD are on the wish list for Christmas. And D and his mom are painting his bedroom gray and he doesn't like it. And would like a white leather jacket for some reason. At the moment.

Turns out that if you get to pick out stuff, then clothing stores are not so boring. Dressing room was a challenge, if only because there were about 25 people waiting for dressing rooms and you could only bring in five items . . . and he would unbutton every button and then have to re-button after he put in on and then unbutton after he showed it to me. Soon Aunt Emily was standing in the doorway saying "Arms up" and throwing things over his head. He only likes medium wash jeans . . . and seems to understand the concept of labels. We had a chance to really think about our purchases, as the line for the register was to the middle of the store. We did all the math. I pointed out that we could buy three pairs of jeans at Old Navy for the same price as this pair of jeans. Nope. Really want these clothes. The selection? One pair of jeans, medium wash, with the least amount of holes that Abercromie jeans can have, one shirt that looks like what my brother would pick out . . . blue with stripes, and one polo shirt, which was against my better judgement because it is white with brown stripes . . . and little boys (and myself for that matter) . . . they aren't so good with white . . . it stains.

Then went to Macy's to look at shoes. Not seriously look at shoes, because he wears a size 7 men's shoe and I just can't get next to paying $100 to put shoes on a 9 year old. I can pay that for an outfit, just not shoes. But then a light from the heavens appeared in the clearance section. Steve Madden black leather loafers, size 8 (close enough, his feet are still growing) for $25. Down from $100. The shoes completed the look and when I looked doubtful, Z. would list all the places he would wear them . . . church . . . Christmas . . . Easter . . . affairs of state . . . dinner with the President . . .

So new shoes were purchased. It kinda looks like he's wearing his dad's shoes, but it works for him. So we went home and tried to "re-gel" his hair but his parents weren't home. So he worked on his hair in the Starbucks bathroom and we took lots of pictures. Black and white. Very Abercromie. Lots of attitude, due to the cool new shoes. The best are in front of this rusted iron gate. He was very afraid that I was going to run out of film. "It's digital. I won't run out of film." So out of the 75 or so shots that I took throughout the day, I should have 5 really good ones to print up and frame for his mother. I kept having to tell him to close his mouth . . . and every time I gave that direction, he would close his eyes first. Made me really glad that I didn't go into professional photography.

I took all the clothes and sadly, the shoes, so I could wrap them. Otherwise, he would have very little to open. When I pointed this out, he made me promise that he could open them a day early (we do all our gifts on Christmas Eve . . . and then just lie about on Christmas day . . . ) so that he could wear the clothes for the Christmas Eve festivities. Fair enough. Have to get those shoes on for the affairs of state before he grows out of them.

And the pics turned out cute.

Free Range

Speaking of chickens (and family chickens), dooce did a hilarious bit on organic chicken broth, received a bunch of chicken-lovin' hate mail, and then shared the hate mail. Gotta love it. Kinda made my day.

Okay, maybe I wasn't speaking about chickens yet . . . but I'm stuck in a cage right now with a bunch of them, and they are metaphorically eating their own feces and pecking at each other. As my Grandma B would say, they are dirty, dirty birds. I'm all about subverting the system from within. Sort of how I've set up my life. But all of the pecking . . . well, it hurts sometimes . . . and is just annoying the rest of the time. But I can't figure out how to be free range.

Speaking of metaphorically, I taught two vocabulary words that I never needed . . . for that MSU English degree anyhow. "Tenor" and "vehicle". So I (and others who will not be mentioned) would be the tenor of the metaphor and chickens would be the vehicle. Yeah, they are so going to need to know that.

And had to talk about Christianity today, while covering "Boast Not, Proud English" which hurts everyone's brains. Should probably stop ruining the paradigm that "everyone in the world is Christian". It starts those "Emily is a satanist" rumors, at Christmastime . . . AGAIN. Just used a hypothetical to make a point -- "So if the people were coming to convert me . . ." They got stuck on "why would anyone need to convert you?" which wasn't the point. Interesting conversation, but certainly isn't going to win me any popularity points with the chickens.

So it's been a great week. It's almost over. Just have to live through tomorrow. And there will be more pecking. And eating of our own feces. Wonderful image, isn't it? (by the way, if you let the chickens wander around . . . they still will eat their own shit . . . my Grandmother's chickens were "free range" in 1918, before the concept. And they were dirty, dirty birds then too.)

And before you send me hatemail, yes, the chickens . . . they should be allowed to wander around and choose to eat whatever they want. And I don't usually eat chicken, thus not supporting chicken farms. Cause it's not family chicken, unless someone in the family cooks it. And the Crabbypants? We don't usually cook. It makes a mess. And what are all those restaurants for?

Being Self-Sufficient

. . . sucks when you need someone to hold the damn flashlight.

I think I'm charging the truck's battery. Maybe. We'll see in a couple of hours. And now, I have the coolest battery charger in the world.

And should I take Advanced Jewelry making in Orchard Lake, Advanced Figure Drawing in Royal Oak, or Beginning Digital Photography? Orchard Lake is going to be a hike. And I am leery of taking advanced classes . . . though I am qualified. As I remember, schools like to groom people to the advanced classes. But I do know how to melt things and shoot them into a mold, so I guess I am advanced. Maybe.

Emily and . . .

the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day . . .

I remember the day, the moment, that I found Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day in my elementary school library. Now here was a book that wasn't all happy and sunshiny . . . here was a book that I could relate to. And if anyone has read it, I have had one of those days today. I didn't fall asleep with gum in my mouth but I probably should have, just to top it off.

"I think I'll move to Australia"

So . . . who wants you killed?

We did my brakes yesterday and, of course, test drove the skunk. And the skunk made noise but not any more or less noise than a economy car that has 146,000 miles on it.

Drove home from State Wayne Manor, stopped at the Southfield Target (which currently has better clearance than the Wixom Target) . . . hmmm, is that a clutch noise? I've never changed the clutch. Nope, gone.

This morning, am ten minutes early because of the snow. Glance at the tires because I was warned that one might be losing air. Thank my lucky stars that I have free snow tires for a Neon. Off to work.

The noise starts on Woodward. A vibration. Maybe the snow tires. Maybe we didn't rotate them after all (we were unsure if the marking meant where they took them off, or where they were supposed to go). Get onto 696. Noise worse. I stay in the right lane. Am not driving all that fast because of the traffic and the light snow. By Dequindre, it sounds like my driver's side wheel is going to fall off. Well, I can pull over . . . but it's a yearbook deadline . . . and I don't want to hang out on the side of the freeway this morning when it's 23 degrees . . . and there is no one to come and get me (well, AAA. But that's a pain in the ass.) . . .

So I keep driving. Figure I'll either make it to work and deal with it. Or not make it to work when my wheel falls off. I make it to work.

At work, I have access to approximately 500 hundred boys, who would love to look at my car rather than be in class. Have boy look at the wheel. Ask him if I threw a bearing. He doesn't think so . . .

Call my brother. It's like being at the doctor, the diagnostic questions. Finally, "did you check the lug nuts?" Nope. That could really be the problem. Okay, easy enough. I can tighten lug nuts. (Can't fix bearings though) But you have to jack up the car. "I have to jack up the car?" Like, with a real jack? Not a hydraulic one? Walk into a classroom, borrow two boys with coats. They check the tire first. It can wiggle. They check the lug nuts next. One falls off in the boy's hand. "Where did you get this done?" I didn't get it done. "If you got it done at Tuffy, or Midas, you need to go and yell." "And get your money back," the other chimes in. I didn't get it done. "So . . . who wants you killed?" "No one, I don't think . . . maybe my brother . . . " The boys jack up the car, tighten the lug nuts, tell me that you don't want them too tight. But that was the problem from before, wasn't it? The not too tight?

Second phone call to my brother (keep in mind that cell phones are not allowed in school). "Yeah, musta been when Dad told me to turn the torque down." "Better check all of them." Great. It is now after school. No boys. Well, freshmen in my room for homework help . . . but they do not have cars because they are freshmen. Therefore, they do not know how to fix cars like the others with the teenage wrecks. I do not jack up the car. Someone helps me with the lug nuts on the other wheels (all loose). There is no noise when I drive home.

So Mr. Crabbypants is trying to kill me. Just for that . . . he's getting new clothes for Christmas.

Repeat Customer

Have to go see Aunt Leona, so more on the weekend later . . .

However, wanted to announce that if you are a repeat customer . . .

The ladies at Harp's will let you go into the dressing room, by yourself, and will trust your assessment enough to just hand you things through the curtain.

"Like Butter" or . . .

Wow, I can stop the car.

My brother is consistantly yelling at me about "drivin' like a grandma". According to him, I need to slam on the brakes more, thus keeping them clean. Something about friction and scraping.

About two years ago, we changed the brakes on the Skunk Neon. When we bought all the stuff at Murray's they gave us the wrong rotors. They only had four holes instead of the five holes required. Mr. Crabbypants was frustrated by that point and said that I didn't need new rotors . . . and then changed the brakes pads. The rotors were to be returned later. Something about doing brakes on a Sunday.

But I really did need new rotors . . . and so the car shuddered to a stop. It made noises. It was wobbly. Had my brother check it (and my father) and was told that the old rotors would eventually grind down . . . like they would get used to the new, alien brake pads. The car did stop and was totally controllable (it didn't affect the steering) but made my passengers slightly nervous. But I don't usually have passengers. And I have two vehicles. So somehow the problem was just not addressed.

So now I have new brakes. And they stop like butter. And I think part of the reason that I drove like a grandma was that I wasn't always sure that the other brakes would stop. So I always gave myself extra space and time. Which, looking at the amount of rust on the old rotors, probably compounded the problem.

So the Skunk Neon stops. Smoothly. It is eight years old and has a 146,000 miles on it. I still love the thing. I still can't sell it . . . and soon I will have to build a garage around my poor little skunk.

Oh, and had to go to several auto parts stores to look for sleeves for my worn caliper arms. They had grooves in them and my father insisted that they made a stainless steel clip to go over the surface. Yeah, the auto parts store men looked at me like I was psychotic . . . probably just because I had entered the store in the first place. The second store had license plates at the register reading "If I had wanted a bitch, I would have bought a dog." Which was very charming and made me feel very welcome. The parts people looked carefully into their books and computers and then told my father that the part he was describing was imaginary. Oh, and I was wearing a fuzzy, pink kitty hat at the time. (might explain the looks too) So we just filed them down, making them all smooth with a Dremel tool. Cool when you get sparks off a Dremel.

And my father muttered again about doing brakes on a Sunday.

Overscheduled

I had three things to do this morning . . . and none of them are done. I did just manage to get some socks on, so forward progress.

Had accidental plans last night. Have plans for early afternoon (Harps with a friend . . . so more not touching the bras), early evening (Noel Night) and evening. Then I have to wake up at an reasonable hour tomorrow so we can change the brakes on my car. (unlike this morning, where I woke up at a reasonable hour but didn't get out of bed) (cold day, blankets and duvet . . . good.) And I can not be crabby for the brake changing, because my brother is doing it and not charging me a dime . . . and brakes, they're important. You want them to work when you are operating a motor vehicle. So sunshine and friendliness tomorrow. Smiling and ready to hand over the correct wrench thingy.

Have to back to Somerset and return things that are the wrong size. Last time I listen to the saleswoman at Soma. "Oh no, you definitely want a size ____" which wasn't the size I already have. But Somerset has three Starbucks, which would not be all that bad a thing to ingest right now.

And I shouldn't be this overscheduled on a weekend. It's making my stomach kinda tight . . . or that might be the not eating yet. (And no, those who read this. I do want to go to all the fun this weekend, just didn't expect the sleeping in . . . and now have to catch up.)

All I Want for Christmas

Despite my pretending to be Jewish . . . I should probably give my family some hints. D. and I are just buying ourselves knives, wrapping them up, tagging them with the other person's name, and then acting surprised. I have a plan for my sister-in-law's gift, which will cost me an outfit at Abercrombie and a fancy lunch but will be well worth it if it works out. (I know Abercrombie is awful about the whole image thing . . . even the kids ads are about being ultra-attractive . . . and I don't think that 10 year olds need cologne . . . but they have good fabrics and good clothes . . . so Z will look cute. And Plymouth appreciates a quality fabric. I know, I grew up there.) (Plus Z. and I always have fun with the napkin lessons. And the trying of new food.)

So I really want this. So much so, that I may not wait to see if I get it for Xmas. And some MAC lipstick in Russian Red. Cause I lost my old one. Oddly, a new tire gauge would be nice. And that thing from Nike to put in your shoe and connect to your ipod. Cashmere is always nice. I would like someone to make me deal with my dining room. And some cobalt blue sheets, as I only have one set and since I bought the pink duvet cover the sheets link it to the paint on the walls. Oh, and a gift certificate to IKEA might be nice.

I think I have a plan for Mom. A plan that does not involve sock yarn. Have to discuss Mere with my brother, as I would like to get her a big thing. Or rip out her kitchen for her. Or buy her a nice drill. J. is very hard to shop for . . . so might just buy him fancy snorkel gear . . . or just stuff for the eight cats. (If anyone would like a cat for Christmas, I have an "in".) And I have no idea what to get my father, so it might be nice if he would comment with his list . . . because evidently, after the ipod debacle of last year, I'm no good at picking his gift. And I never pick out the "right" clothes, so have to have him with me. (he has soooo many rules about sweaters, no buttons, no zippers . . . no colors . . . ) Already have things for him in the "gift drawer" but would like to buy something that he actually likes . . . and would use this year. (never uses the ipod)

Have Princess taken care of . . . will get M2 a funny book or something at Urban Outfitters . . . don't know about E2, she may get the same thing as Princess in a different color and style. Both E1 and M1 will be home for the holiday, but will plot about them later. Z. is getting socks and underwear, other than the lunch and outfit from Abercrombie. He does not care that he broke the gameboy. Told me so . . . so no heelies for him.

By the way, I pretty much just buy whatever I want anyhow. And certainly don't need anything, except maybe that knife safety video my sister keeps threatening to give me to go with the knives. And maybe some wine.