Just an Excuse for a Booze Fest

I'm so grinchy about this holiday.

I hate New Year's Eve.

There is always all this build up and then everything that could go wrong goes wrong . . . plus everyone is hammered. And I've never had fun. There was the time I broke up a fist fight between the employees when I was working at the restaurant. Or that other time when I was pulled over . . . on the street that I currently live on . . . and the cop really wanted me to be drunk and I wasn't, so instead she wrote me for TEN over. (And no, I don't know how fast I was going. My road is very misleading but it is posted at 30 mph.) And then there are the multiple bars and parties that one pays for . . . with cheap booze and obnoxious people.

So I stayed in last year. It was nice. Would like to stay in this year . . . but Princess is having a party and her sister bet that I wouldn't come. Bet. So in my oppositional defiance I have to make a showing.

And it's supposed to snow. Eight inches, according to one radio report. And I didn't make any appetizers. But I do have an excellent bottle of champagne.

So Happy New Year to one and all. I have a couple of mild resolutions, but we will save those for later. And I will put on a happy face and try to have a better attitude. There is always a first time . . . maybe this year will be fun.

OMFG

So it started as an ordinary day . . . woke up to the phone ringing. Chatted with my mother. Showered. Got dressed. Made plans for tomorrow. Called my brother repeatedly. Finally got his count for the concert. Made sure the thing was all ages, because we are now bringing a 10 year old. (poor spider monkey, being exposed to all the wolves)

Drove done to the Majestic, because 3 dollars in gas is cheaper than the $4.25 a ticket service charge on the internet, especially when purchasing 7 tickets. Chat up the bartender. The show is not even close to sold out, so please come if you want. Ska Fest. December 29. Gangster Fun, Deals Gone Bad, The Exceptions and Mustard Plug (plus a few more bands at the beginning).

And then I see it.

It's orange. A flyer. That says "Matthew Good". As in THE Matthew Good? As in the only person that I am an excited starfucker about (sorry, mom). The Matthew Good that I would swoon if some of his sweat fell on me? The Matthew Good that I think, "God that guy is cute . . . he looks like Matthew Good"? Matthew Good, Canadian musician that no one has heard of and I have to go to Canada to buy his stuff . . . that Matthew Good?

The bartender didn't know, but I recognized his drawing on the flyer. So THAT MATTHEW GOOD. Is coming here. To this town. At the Magic Stick. To play his music. And I can buy tickets?

So I did. Bought tickets so early that the girl didn't even know if they would be on sale. Happy Birthday to me. Matthew Good in Detroit, March 18.

Now everyone will know where I will be. I might even go to Cleveland too.

And I'm very, very, very happy with this turn of events.

Too Many Cookies?

I had a horrible dream this morning . . . when I rolled over and went back to sleep. The new alarm is too close to my head, but if I move it across the room I won't be able to see the time projected on the ceiling, which was the whole point of the thing.

Anyhow, I had a dream, one of those really lucid ones that you have in the morning. It was Halloween, and I was dressed as a school girl for some reason . . . knee socks and plaid skirt. And yes, I do have that outfit, but I wouldn't wear it for Halloween. Anyhow, I was with another female, I think my sister and for some reason we slept in my car. A very comfortable sports car. And my dad came and woke us up . . . so we could go to the party store. While in the party store, I saw some actually school-age school girls and realized that they were skipping school. Which meant that I was also skipping school.

So then I had to rush to work. Somehow I had thought we got the day off after Halloween . . . some dream logic coming into play, Halloween being on a Thursday so we must get Friday off, cause the kids are just crazy anyhow. So not being at home, cause I slept in a car, I have to go in this school girl outfit. And it turns out that a lot of people didn't show up for work, so the administration is filling in. So the personnel director is in my room. And I thought it was 8 am at the party store . . . which would mean that I'm only 4 minutes late at that point . . . but somehow it's 10 am when I get there.

So I'm dressed ridiculously . . . and two hours late . . . and no one seems all that winged out about it, except me. And when I walk into my room, there are only adults, no kids. And all the adults want to know seemingly obvious things about lettering. And at the end of class, the personnel director comes up and says, "I don't know why they didn't call anyone . . . they really should have called you."

And I woke up in a "I'm late" panic.

Maybe it's the vampire time.

But All I Wanted was My Two Front Teeth

Yeah, I had to sing that song solo in fourth grade.

Diamond earrings.

I got diamond earrings . . . and you know that thing with girls and diamonds. I think they will live in my second set of holes.

I also got a roomba . . . which will mean that the crazy little robot will yell at me about clothes being on the floor. My brothers love them, the little robots, but my brothers also like to think about algorithms in their spare time. I do not. There will be little watching of the roomba for entertainment. But others are welcome to come over and watch it, if that is your thing. I hear they like attention.

I got a USB turntable, which means I have to buy a new computer . . . but still really exciting. I left it with my father, so he could play with it. He has mounds more vinyl than I have. But now I can take the B-sides off the Bela Lugosi glow-in-the-dark picture disk. So one of my life goals.

It was a very magnet Christmas, so now people can come over and comment that my family is all wearing matching shirts. Because my mother made magnets with family pictures. And calendars with family pictures.

My mother made me socks (yay, new socks!) and a felted purse. And due to my recent felting experience, that much have been a bitch to make. She made me some wrist warmers because I think it annoys her when I put my thumbs through my sweatshirt sleeves. Got a set of knitting needles that you can make any size by adding parts. "For knitting emergencies", which I do have on occasion, believe it or not.

Oh and that brings us to the silliness of Christmas Eve. My brother set up a webcam and my sister IMed us through the whole thing. So the Crabbypants Christmas was streaming live. Sorry, I didn't tell anyone. So my sister would send comments, like "Who has a knitting emergency" and there would be that little be-boop noise while you were opening your presents. And thankfully, we did not record the whole thing. Because no one wants to watch that on youtube.

Z really liked all his presents and was busy once he opened the legos. We really should have him open the legos first. He was very excited with his "ipod" (My sister and I got him a shuffle, which isn't really an ipod, but he seems to think so . . . ) and very happy with the wooden artist dummies.

Let's see, my father got me a bunch of tools that he got on clearance at Target. And a sink snake, which I may use today on the bathroom sink.

And I got an alarm clock that projects the time on the ceiling. And resets itself automatically. And will give me the phase of the moon, should I need it. Now I don't have to wear my watch to bed (I can't see farther than my wrist without my glasses on or contacts in). I got a bunch of other stuff but this entry seems rather long. It was the year of the glass nail file, so I can kill someone in a pinch.

Oh, and I got cookies and a mixed "tape" and bad cupcake magnets (cupcakes smoking . . . because my sister says I make bad cupcakes, very clever) -- so there's the rest of the magnet xmas comment -- and a coffin purse. Yes, a coffin purse. So perfect.

So great Christmas. All liked their gifts, which is somehow more important to me. My whole family is now organizing their ipods . . . except for my father, who got display shelves.

Maybe I'll go program the damn robot.

It Doesn't Stop Being Funny

The sisters . . . with their beavers.

My brother keeps making Chairman Mao jokes about my hat, but I didn't have power at my house this morning . . . so there was no way to blow dry. In addition to no heat. So I got ready really quick . . .

My sister complained about not being "photo ready" but this is what we look like. Notice that I have a huge head compared to my sisters. And we have opposing dimples.

And beavers. We have beavers. My brother refuses to say beaver, which is extra fun . . . during presents when I can hand Mere's to him and say "Here. Hold Mere's beaver."

Way too much fun for $5.99 x 2.

Stuffed Beavers. Yah. That's What I Said.

My sister and I participated in the full contact sport that is shopping on the last Saturday before Christmas.

And we bought beavers. Stuffed ones.

We did IKEA first ("You Crabbypants . . . you love the IKEA") and despite the crowd of people pushing against the seat belt like barricades and pining "open, open, open" it wasn't as bad as I expected. We were eating breakfast watching them. And as that crowd raced through the store, we strolled leisurely to what we wanted to look at . . . I'm an IKEA savant, so I can always find the shortest route through the maze. Kinda like a rat in a cocaine experiment. (look! those rats go faster!) Bought some very heavy things for Mr. Crabbypants, which I did not put together. I figure it will be like legos for grownups on Christmas morning.

And that is where we come to the beavers. My sister and I had been discussing the stuffed bugs, with big zipper mouths, that were on sale. And what we would store in them. And what we could store in them. Next to the bugs were a surplus of beaver stuffed animals. Which led to much speculation on why in the world someone would design a stuffed beaver . . . knowing what the word beaver also meant in slang. We figured it was a Swedish thing, somehow someone thought it would be a great idea to sell stuffed beavers in America. After joking about it for probably too long, we decided to purchase a beaver each. (I'm sure there will be pictures tomorrow) (the girls and their beavers)

Now there is discussion about how they might become travel beavers . . . coming with us on trips to be photographed in different locales.

They were on sale. And they seem to have a lot of them, should anyone else want, desire or need a beaver. (Gosh, that is fun to say!) They are, however, noticeably absent on the IKEA website.

We then went to Ferndale, Royal Oak and Somerset, in the search for the sister-in-law present. Somerset was crazy, but only because everyone in the world wanted to valet. I found a spot right next to the door. And there was only a little elbowing and only one SUV sized stroller incident. Well, two . . . but who's counting? It's the holidays.

Still slave elfing tomorrow . . . have some things to finish. The girls received their sock monkeys on Friday, but I failed to take pictures before I handed them out. Perhaps because I was pretty much sewing them seconds before I gave them to people. They did turn out cool though.

More shopping tomorrow too. And have to wrap the world. And take a picture of my sister with her beaver.

Shameless Plugging

Just added the link to my former student's photo blog . . . feel free to hire him for things: weddings, baby pictures, pet portraits, and whatever. He's incredibly talented and I was very fortunate to have him as a student. Still more fortunate that he keeps in touch.

Not that we ever have favorites, but if we did . . . N. would be one. I have tremendous respect for him as a person. Recruited him for yearbook, back in the day. (We talked about how he is old enough to drink legally now . . . God, I'm ancient.) His senior year was an apex for me . . . dinosaur throwing and a fun crew that worked really hard. They were all really great kids.

And now I look at the work on his website . . . sniff . . . I remember when he bought his first camera. The Canon. His first football game and telling him to roll around in the dirt. Actually, I never had to tell N. much. Always researched it on his own. And he will make a damn fine National Geographic photographer someday, if that is what he wants to do.

But really. Look at it. Nick's photo site on the right.

Good Enough for the Felt We Go With

I'm playing phone tag with my sister . . . and ignoring the yearbook. My sister wants absolution for missing Christmas and abandoning me with my parents. I think. (Turns out she wanted shoes sizes of other family members)

Not going so well on the slave elf front . . . finished the scrap stripey hat and have hopefully found a "quick" pattern for the family boys. Keep forgetting that Z. is into brown, so now have to go find brown yarn, instead of the deep plum yarn that I am currently working with. And I have all those sock monkeys. Did get some stuff felted last night. Felting? Ziploc bag, hot water and soap . . . to basically shrink some wool (in this case, alpaca actually) . . . and THREE hours later (several messy ziploc bag explosions later also) I decided that the things must be done.

My father often says "Good enough for the girls we go with . . . " and yeah, with that project, they are . . . good enough for the girls.

So toiling away. Must find a short cute project for school . . . cheap would be good also. Just picture me chained to a bench with curved shoes, tights and a green hat with a jingle bell. Arrgh, I hate the jingling.

Chained to a Candy Cane Post

I have to knit like a slave elf this weekend.

Just saying.

Freakin' presents don't make themselves.

So I was making cookies and having a conversation with God

So I was making cookies and having a conversation with the higher power which, despite being very lapsed Methodist, I do every so often.

Hands covered in chocolate cookie dough goo and powder sugar . . .

"So being sad is a choice, right? Just a choice. I could just choose not to be sad."

And I thought of all of those posters that you see in middle school. The posters that I hate. The posters that say "attitude is everything" or "positive thinking zone". I'd much rather see a Rauschenberg painting or something. Perhaps some squares by Hofmann.

But I am playing with the Zen idea of controlling your obsessions and thoughts. Controlling your thinking. Because they are just thoughts. Not reality. And therefore I can choose.

And the cookies are pretty good. And the movie Juno was fabulous.

Just Like the BAD Cupcakes and Penguin Aprons

Finished another hat today . . . I may just get the picture up this time. Now just two more to go, plus a bunch of phone holders.

Want to make cookies for some reason. Maybe just to her Mere complain? There was a penguin apron that I almost got her for Xmas, except that I'm getting her something else for Xmas and haven't figured out anyone else, so it doesn't seem fair to have two gifts for the Mere. But I thought it would be a hoot to wear with the old people. It's at Anthropologie, Mere. Get it now. It's totally worth forty bucks for the old people to think you are adorable in your penguin apron.

So I'm going to make cookies. Mostly because I dragged this poor boy (man?) through a Borders to show him "The Cooky Book" which was a staple of my childhood. He was not impressed and a bit scared as they have not changed a thing since the day it was first published, in 1963. I think Chocolate Crinkles. But I have to get some vegetable oil. I want to make snickerdoodles too, but will save that for the weekend.

And I totally bitch and moan too much . . . why can't I just let things happen? When they want to happen. Working on that.

Not Very Bloggy

It's the start of a new trimester at work . . . and I just haven't felt very bloggy. Sorry.

There is plenty to talk about but I just haven't been writing it down . . . or as E2 keeps pointing out, if I would just stop giving this address out, well, then I could talk about people.

I'm fine. I feel a cold coming on. There are multiple car issues but not bad ones. I'm having a money panic about the Christmas/new car combination and am thinking about just saying "cash" if anyone asks me what I want. But I've always lived on the edge . . . and I don't really HAVE to finance it over 36 months. I just want to.

I have been incredibly under motivated about selling the truck and have just looked on the Auto Trader website . . . finally. It will cost over fifty bucks for an ad. Oh, and I have a credit card that is paid down (perfect for Xmas) and I KNOW I put it in a safe place so I wouldn't use it on stupid stuff, like itunes impulse buying. And now I can't find it. And I'm wondering if I could just pay my father a 100 bucks to sell my truck instead of paying the auto trader people. And I have to get my tie rod fixed on the skunk (which has come back from the dead -- resurrection!)

So list:
Clean the truck, tape up the signs and put it somewhere visible. Do it.
Start the list for Xmas. Know what I'm going to get Mere and that's it. That means I still have Princess, M2, E2, Z, Mom, Mr. Crabbypants (who is soooo hard to shop for), Dave, S., J and M, and a little thing for bop bop. M1 is done too. Maybe I should dig through my gift drawer. Maybe I already have gifts for these people.
Clean house.
Do something about crap in the dining room and office. So I can have people over and live like a normal person. And find shit. I need to shred all this evening. But I know I will sleep instead.

So yeah, my life has been thankfully unexciting. Work, Pilates, sleep, work, pilates. Good Stuff.

Friendbox

How many times? What is it that I need to learn from all of this?

And I know the answer is patience . . .

Always the flicker of possibility. But just a flicker. And I am always watching for it.

I need to not look.

The best thing now is that I do not see it as rejection. I can truly say that. I would have in the past. It would have been all about me and what I didn't have. I would have taken it personally. But it is not about me.

The stars did not align. They could have . . . but they didn't. Perhaps compatible legos. Just didn't click. And I now see how lucky one is to be in the friendbox, to have a friendbox. Because I do try to be a good friend.

So no more watching. No more lights dancing just out of reach. I had a good day, with someone that could be a friend. And that is how I need to see things.

Indecisive

Red sparkley glasses? or Black sparkley glasses?

So hard to decide.

Quote of Day, part deux

"So how's it going with that? Are they still dating?"
"Yeeeah. Turns out that she kinda lied about her age. She's a bit older."
"Older? She fudged her age? That is so not good."
(10 year old at table interjects) "She what?"
"Sometimes women fudge about their age."
"Fudge?"
"You know, they don't really tell the truth."
"Oooooh, well . . . there's no truth in fudge. No matter how hard you look. And that can get messy."

Excellent. And so true. No truth in fudge.

Quote of Day

I do not want people to be agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them.
-- Jane Austen

Giving in to My Insufferable Yarn Habit

I spent a hundred dollars on yarn yesterday.

I spent $240 dollars on an alternator for the skunk. So I guess that is worse. But I need an alternator. I'm not sure I need the yarn. But really, I think I do.

I bought some 100% alpaca for a hat I'm knitting for a friend. Went to a new yarn store and they had the yarn listed in the pattern but only in yicky colors. So had to find other yarn, which is always iffy with a new pattern. And then the very nice lady messed up my bill and only charged me for two balls of yarn when I actually had three. Didn't want to ruin my karma, so corrected her . . . which meant I had to find cash, as she had already run my card.

Then went to Murray's Auto Parts and dealt with this tall guy. I think he thought he was flirting with me (confirmed the next day at pickup of alternator) but to me he was just arguing. I don't really want to discuss alternators . . . nor did I want his vast pretend knowledge of Neons. Just wanted to buy an alternator. But he was happy to see me back. Used my name a bunch of times for good measure. Can't wait to go give the "core" to him.

Then I went to my local yarn store and dropped another eighty bucks on some: alpaca silk -- yummy, some straight worsted alpaca in black and a fun color combination for a hat that I was making for hud. Until he looked at the pattern and chose another hat. So it will go to someone, I'm sure. Burgundy and green . . . but somehow it works.

Am making the gloves from Naughty Needles . . . as well as the pirate eyepatch. But have to get the hats done first. Have about one inch of six done on the first.

Pictures later. Have to go.

Computer Crank

I think I'm too dependent on instant messaging.

And while this is significant to my phone bill . . . because I was really in need of reassessment of my minute plan before . . . I'm now become proficient at typing three conversations at once. And no one should be able to do that. No one.

It doesn't provide enough focus.

And as much as I like the quality of having instant friends and acquaintances in my office . . . without having to actually clean my office . . . I think I need to get back to getting out more. Because it's really easy to be sucked into that monitor.

So cutting myself off today. We'll see how I do. (Okay, I'll leave it on . . . but won't be in the room. Of course I want people to be able to message me.)

Reminder

Must . . . not . . . smother . . . spider . . . monkey . . .

And no, I probably won't explain that.

O' Non-Denominational Tree, O Non . . .

Am putting my tree up today. And we all know how I am about that . . . with the matchey-matchey-ness. I'm thinking perhaps that I will make ornaments this year.

Pictures later.

Item one: I am thankful for my knockers

The teachers upstairs, they have a white board. Every week they write a topic . . . and then the others respond to it.

This week was "What are you thankful for?"

And a friend of mine, who will remain unnamed, wrote "My Knockers". Which is hilarious. And she should be, honestly.

So I am thankful for:

My Knockers -- no, really they're great.
My Family, even though they yelled about stale crackers for fifteen minutes. I have been listening to the stale crackers fight for 36 years . . . my mother does not care about crackers and their state of freshness. My father feels very strongly that crackers must be as fresh and crunchy as possible . . . directly out of the unopened package. They can discuss the state of the saltines for hours. And when I say discuss? I really mean yell.

"NORMA, THESE CRACKERS ARE STALE."
"No, they're not. I just took them out of the bag."
"THEY'RE OLD. THESE ARE DEFINITELY STALE."
"(innocently . . . like she doesn't know . . . ) I MUST HAVE KEPT THEM FOR YOUR BIRDS THEN DEAR."
"JUST THROW THEM AWAY. WHO DOESN'T THROW STALE CRACKERS AWAY? WHY DO YOU INSIST ON KEEPING STALE CRACKERS?"
"(dismissive tone) I WAS JUST KEEPING THEM FOR YOUR BIRDS. FEED THE BIRDS WITH THEM. (my sister just read this and commented "BULLSHIT. She didn't keep them for the birds.)"
"IF YOU WERE GOING TO FEED THE BIRDS WITH THEM, WHY WOULD YOU PUT THEM OUT FOR US?"

This goes on in a circle for fifteen minutes, until I snatch the crackers and put them in the trash. And then my mother will make me take them out of the trash and put them in the backyard.

I love them anyway.

I am thankful that I am at a point in my life that I can buy a pretty pretty princess jeep.
I am thankful for my wonderful, supportive, great friends. (yes, you and you . . . and you . . . )
I am thankful that I am healthy. And that I don't seem to have hand foot and mouth disease anymore.
I am thankful that I have such an interesting life.
I am thankful that I am talented (I can make sock monkeys), and smart, and am now confident enough . . . although it took a while, to see that I am talented and smart.
I am thankful for Mr. Cat, who fought valiantly against my knitting needles today. He's getting on in years, but still loves a good knitting needle kill.
I am thankful that I have several good pairs of shoes (if not fifty) and several pairs of jeans that make my butt look good.
I am thankful that I have people that will tell me when I butt doesn't look good . . . AND people who will tell me that I have a great ass.
And to round out . . . I'm thankful that I have a good booty.

As an aside, my mother is thankful that my hair isn't blue . . . because evidently, I am sooooo much more attractive when my hair isn't blue.

May everyone have a great Thanksgiving.

Exactly What I Wanted

So I did order the pretty, pretty princess jeep . . . with everything but Sirius radio because I do not have a Y chromosome and therefore do not have an undying need to pay for radio. I find the plain old free radio to be just fine. And it has an ipod thingy. And it is yellow and cute.

So this is my mid-life crisis car . . . my I didn't have any fun in my twenties, being all good and trying to work for a living and now I can sort afford it and don't have any children to fall out of it if I take the top and the doors off. Hell, I don't even have a dog.

And I had to order it . . . because they don't come the way that I wanted it.

Speaking of wants, I really wanted to get out of school and find a bar stool with my name on it. But instead I went to the reindeer games and only "played one game" and left. It's been a rough two weeks . . . no three weeks, what with the sickness and the pestilence and the kid who tried to burn down my room because he was bored. So I want a nice quiet weekend. Shhhhh. I mean it. Some laundry. Maybe a few errands. Nevermind that everything is 25% off at H&M on Friday . . . and IKEA has some things I might riot over. I have to buy a jeep . . . and Christmas shop. So am staying inside and not shopping.

That's right. Not shopping.

Maybe. If I can help it.

Fembot Harems and Girlie Wranglers

Going to the DIA member preview so just a quick update . . .

I think I like Deals Gone Bad better than Mustard Plug. Sorry Dave.

My jacket was wet with other people's sweat last night.

The only guy that I thought was cute (and old enough) (and was flirting with me) had a fembot harem. No really. Two girls that followed him around. With the same hair. And similar outfits. And makeup. And that is just wrong.

I think I saw the whole of Kalamazoo's punk scene. All thirty of them . . .

I tagged the bathroom. The marker was there. I think they were encouraging it.

Evidently, Kraftbrau is closing. So I kept discussing buying the place. Which is nuts. Because I don't need a bar in Kalamazoo.

I will put the links in later.

I have decided to buy a Wrangler. But not a off-roading hardcore one. A girlie one. In detonator yellow. A yellow princess Wrangler with power locks. So sneer all you want.

And yes, I ate lunch before I went to the dealership.

And parts of my hair are purple. But you have to look really closely.

And my tongue? One step forward . . . two steps back. Again. And again. I'm better. Still looks gross. But not as gross. And took a nap today, woke up and felt weird again. Plus, it's like I got high eating food. All light headed. My tongue/mouth doesn't hurt anymore . . . my tongue just feels . . . weird. Weird is better than pain. But still not right. So may have to go get chunks cut out. Bummer. If only to possibly get a real diagnosis. I really do think it's hand foot and mouth, but it's taking me forever to get over it (been sick for exactly two weeks, which is not out of line, but I would like my immune system to rally. Of course, I did just go to a concert, got covered in other people's sweat, plus smoke, plus was banged around in the pit, and had four hours of sleep . . . and I ate that McDonalds at 2 a.m. . . . oh, and did I mention the beer?)

Whatever, yellow princess Wranglers and purple hair are much more fun to talk about.

K-zoo

So I have made it to Kalamazoo for the Mustard Plug concert . . .

And hopefully it will not be sold out and there will not be swarms of college kids. Perhaps no one has heard of Mustard Plug in K-zoo. Let's hope so.

Kraftbrau house is very small and very, very squinchy . . . in that there are lots of small rooms and you have to walk forever to get to the bathroom (I think I remember, like, going down a long hall, through a couple of rooms, maybe outside and back again).

So no one come.

WooHoo

I ate solid food today.

See? Tongue Lesions!

I just read the insert for the medication that they had to special order for me at the drugstore and it says, and I quote:

"The mechanism of action by which amlexanox accelerates healing of aphthous ulcers is unknown."

It then goes on to talk about in vitro studies . . . and how it seems somehow to deal with inflammation. "Aphthous ulcers" would be canker sores. I do not have those. I have either Hand, Foot and Mouth disease (also called coxsackie virus, which is fun to say) or Shingles . . . but only in my mouth. Sounds lovely, doesn't it? My close friends and family love it when I show them, which I do often by sticking out my tongue as far as I can. "Thee? Ny ton ih gost."

Of course this is only a tentative diagnoses. Evidently, a best guess scenario from the medical profession. If it doesn't clear up in seven to ten days I have to go in and try again.

It all started with a sore throat. Simple enough. Sore throat and a headache two Saturdays ago. Inconvenient because I was putting up insulation. And I was tired. Very tired.

And the sore throat got worse. To the point that I went to see a doctor. During school. I left work to go see a medical professional. Almost never happens with me. And she looked at my throat for three seconds. She did a strep test. It was negative. She said it was a virus and that I should go to bed. Give it 7 to 10 days. That was Tuesday.

Wednesday I shivered in bed and slept.

Thursday, it felt like I had burnt my mouth with all the tea I was drinking. The roof of my mouth was swollen. My tongue felt burnt. So sore throat and mouth pain. Thursday evening, I did a lot of swishing around of salt water. A Mr. Crabbypants trick.

Friday I had a red spot on my tongue. I figured since it was cut and I rubbed salt in the wound. I started the antibiotic the doc gave me "just in case". Then two spots. Saturday different spots. But no sore throat. Sunday different spots but they were more ugly. And I couldn't eat. My mother nudged me until I went to the urgent care (another blog entry altogether) and that is where I got the HFMD or Shingles of the mouth (or allergic reaction, maybe . . . whatever, if it doesn't go away then go to the doctor again) diagnosis.

"So can I go to work?"
"Are you going to spit on anyone?"

So I haven't really eaten in going on four days (not really true, I had mac and cheese this evening) but I can have vanilla shakes. HFMD is only supposed to happen in young children but yeah, my body is weird, so maybe. My mouth is much better than Saturday. But I would like to remember when I didn't have to pay attention to my tongue all the time. M1 says people pick it up all the time in Indonesia . . . from escalators. And 7-10 days is coming up.

I'm just really afraid about it not clearing up in 7 to 10, because that means biopsies. And that means cutting chunks out of my tongue. So let's just hope I get better. And hope all the people I have kissed have really good adult immune systems. (the rest of you are in little danger, unless I spit on you, which I haven't) (yeah, yeah, the forms all say really contagious . . . but you haven't been changing my diapers and I haven't been drooling on you . . . )

So I get a new dentist out of the deal.

So yeah, sorry, I'm gross. With gross things. And weird gross diagnosis. Could be worse, I suppose. Maybe.

And I am so getting a hamburger when this is over.

Just the Right Amount of Gangley

Just as soon as I recover from this pestilence . . .

I would like to date Ned the Pieman.

Perfect amount of slouchy, plus the shoes, plus the vocab . . . just way too cute, indeed.

And I want to be Olive in my next life. Either that, or just have her wardrobe.

More on the pestilence later.

But the Rabbit was Smiling with His Spoon

I have a sore throat . . . and chills. The kind you get when you are cold from the inside out. Which sucks, because you cannot get warm.

I am self-diagnosing strep throat but have been told that you cannot have strep throat without tonsils. "Maybe you have strep neck?" one of my students called out today.

My tonsils were removed when I was seven. Horrible experience. First time I realized that there was an adult conspiracy . . . although the "blanket fairy" was suspicious . . . I mean why would she think that I would trade my blanket with all the soothing smells for a doll? One would think that a blanket fairy would do more research on her customers. I didn't play with dolls.

Anyhow, I was told that in trade for my tonsils, I would get as much ice cream and Popsicles that I wanted. Seemed an okay trade for that. Stupid tonsils that made me sick all the time for yummy, yummy Popsicles. Wanted them in a jar (the tonsils . . . yeah, I've always been this way) but was too wimpy to ask. So I pictured myself in bed, like a princess, with an unlimited supply of grape Popsicles and vanilla ice cream.

And the hospital was scary and weird. And they didn't let me wear underwear in the operating room, which I was thought was terribly strange at the time. And still do. And then I woke up . . . and my throat HURT and my stomach felt awful. And that really sucked. So I demanded ice cream. And was told "no". So I demanded again.

The next nurse reasoned with me . . . or maybe it was my mom. All the blood from the removing the tonsils had drained into my stomach and if I ate anything, I would throw up. I then produced the book they had given me, explaining the whole "get your tonsils out and don't be scared" thing. "See? Here on page seven? ICE CREAM. The rabbit gets his tonsils out and he gets ice cream." (point at rabbit with spoon and smile on his little rabbit face)

"But they meant later . . . "

No go. The rabbit got his tonsils out and he got ice cream. Liars. They told me Popsicles and ice cream and now they were reneging on the deal.

So I got my vanilla ice cream. And I threw up that vanilla ice cream, mixed with my own blood (which, as it turns out, I was going to throw up anyway . . . ice cream or no). And I realized that adults would tell you things just to get you to do things that you didn't want to do. Ludicrous things. Like ripping your tonsils out.

End of story? Part of my right tonsil is still there. So I might even have strep neck, dammit.

I might go get some ice cream.

Best Line Ever

On Pushing Daisies, a show that I have never watched before:

"Still looking for a man Olive? . . . Because if your belly was full of fish, you wouldn't have to put out so much bait." (looks at cleavage)

It was the only funny line . . . but it was a doozy. Can totally picture my mother saying it. And thought about it as I was dressing for a date, which has now been cancelled. So more fun for me. Think I'll go to the yarn store and then go to bed early. Yay. I love these dates.

(No, seriously . . . I'm not being sarcastic. If I hadn't had a date, I would have stay at school. Now I have time on my hands and can wander aimlessly about. One of my favorite things to do. I might even go to the record store.)

Almost Got Cans of Soup

When I first moved to this house, the first Halloween was exciting.

My favorite holiday. I had lived here almost a year. And I bought a big batch of candy. My first trick o' treaters . . . in my new house. My very own. So exciting. And so, I bought good candy. Willy Wonka sugar and Reese's Peanut Butter cups. I was ready. Ready to be the best candy house on the block.

And no one came. Except a stray cat.

And the next year . . . different stray cat.

And last year, one child from next door.

So as of this morning I had not purchased candy. And I have thrown away all the candy in my house on one of my cleaning binges. So after school I tossed around the idea of NOT getting any, going home and taking a nap. But thought about it . . . and all I would have in the house to give out were cans of soup. Cans of Italian wedding soup to be specific. Santa brought me a twelve pack (from Costco) last Christmas.

So I went and bought one bag of candy from Target.

I had six trick o' treaters tonight. All got handfuls of Willy Wonka sugar and I still have most of the bag left. And I work in a school, so getting rid of the rest of it won't be a problem. But I won't be known as the house of soup.

Might be a Waste of Good Eye Makeup Though

I had the greatest date ever today . . . but I'm not sure if it counts if the other person doesn't show up. Good coffee, chatted with the Starbucks crowd and then went to a dinner that was awful for me. And the french fries were delicious.

Is that bad? I really enjoyed myself. Very glad that he didn't show up. And can't figure out if that is a step forward or a regression.

Will consider it a step forward . . . as I am thinking it is all in how you look at things.

The Guilt of American Girls

I went out with PB yesterday to deliver the hat. The hat I wanted to mail. But I didn't know his last name. And we went to The Fly Trap and had a lovely lunch. And he kept teasing me about "American girls and their guilt".
I'm not sure what that means. First off, PB is as American as I am . . . it's not like he is an expatriate from somewhere overseas, or that he grew up somewhere exotic. Although "out East" is certainly more exotic than Detroit, one could argue. But I could argue the other way too . . . Detroit is very much like a jungle sometimes. I digress.

And granted, he does travel internationally for his job, so maybe he can throw out an American girl generalization. Somehow, I am pleased that I can be generalized, although by his tone "American girls and their guilt" is not something to be wished for or envied. I think it's because we are saying "we're sorry" all the time. At least I do. Maybe.

And "The Guilt of an American Girl" is the best book title ever, I swear.

And then he could not carry the gift home on his motorcycle, as he did not expect it to be a nice day and didn't expect a box? So I ended up delivering the damn thing anyhow.

And now that I have thought about the Jewish tradition . . . one shouldn't even buy the gifts until the baby is born. I just said to not open it. Oops. So we shouldn't have gone out to lunch at all. But it was pleasant. And the chicken was yummy. (yes, I had chicken . . . and not even "family chicken")

So if someone could explain the guilt of American girls . . . that would be very appreciated. It was noisy in the restaurant and I don't think I understand the concept.

Hand+Wringers

Sans Back Seat

"I mean, what do I need a back seat for? . . . I'm not going to have kids anytime soon."

I'm looking at sports cars, I think. Because I am closer to forty than thirty. Because I don't have any car seats. Because I can.

And I went out to breakfast with my father and listened about Prague. Watched someone drop her kid on her head. Watched cute dad with two under two. And there were diapers, and screaming, and goo.

And I'm going to shop for a sports car.

And I have changed the handmade baby present presentation three times in the last 24 hours . . . want to sit and talk, but hard to avoid subjects when you bring presents celebrating them. So the air of dread, which it shouldn't be. I should have just mailed it.

And I have become better, finally and perhaps just for this moment, at thinking positively about my situation. I have a job that I get to draw and I get hugs in fifth hour (I teach the developmentally disabled that hour), I have a nice house, good shoes, and too much stuff. And I'm in the market for a sports car. F**K, I'm the new American Dream. Or at least the boy version.

Going to see "Lars and the Real Girl" this evening. And hopefully it will have an ending that will not create "I don't have a relationship" angst . . . although I have too many relationships already, really, truthfully. They are not Relationships with a capital R but relationships, nonetheless. I am not bored or boring. But perhaps I can get my own "missionary". He he.

But I still don't need a backseat.

Lucky Girl

Every so often it will smack me on the forehead.

How lucky I am. I get paid to draw. And paint. And make spiders out of styrofoam and pipe cleaners.

I get paid to roll my eyes and be slightly sarcastic. I get paid to tell the truth . . . like, to a student joining the Marines, "I really think you need to reconsider a career path based on your love of the costume." (But, the Marines have swords, Miss ______. Swords.)

I get to make a difference. Most of the time I won't know about the difference, as that is the zen of how it works, but I'm pretty sure I make a dent somewhere. Maybe a scratch or two. A redirect, here and there.

And today is not the best day to reflect on this, as I can hardly keep my eyes open. Parent Teacher conferences were last night. But maybe that is the best day to think about it. I am blessed. I can draw. I can make things. I can improvise. And I have a biting wit.

Not everyone has those skill sets.

And I have found a place, a career, that will compensate me for doing what I love to do . . .

New Favorite

My city's still breathing (but barely it's true)
through buildings gone missing like teeth.
The sidewalks are watching me think about you,
all sparkled with broken glass.
I'm back with scars to show.
Back with the streets I know.
They never take me anywhere but here.

Those stains in the carpet,
this drink in my hand,
these strangers whose faces I know.
We meet here for our dress-rehearsal to say
"I wanted it this way"
and wait for the year to drown.
Spring forward,
fall back down.
I'm trying not to wonder where you are.

All this time
lingers, undefined.
Someone choose
who's left and who's leaving.

Memory will rust and erode into lists
of all that you gave me:
some matches, a blanket, this pain in my chest,
the best parts of Lonely,
duct-tape and soldered wires,
new words for old desires,
and every birthday card I threw away.

I wait in 4/4 time.
Count yellow highway lines
that you're relying on to lead you home

-- Left and Leaving, The Weakerthans

Home By Midnight

Yeah. It was awesome.

Poor Skunk

The skunk was diagnosed today . . . with a $1460 problem. This would be fine, my love for the skunk being deep, except that the skunk is not worth over $2000. And that is through my biased eyes. It has over 150,000 miles on it. And a possible bearing problem. In addition to the bad PCM thingy.

Can one hold a funeral for her car?

And can someone drive me there to pick up the skunk? From the expensive people?

My brother has offered some other options, but I think I may donate it. Makes me so sad though. My little racecar. Sigh.

The Weakerthans

I have the ticket. It's in my kitchen. I'm so going to get a shirt . . . so I can advertise their goodness everywhere to everyone. And I can hardly wait. Hope they do "Plea from a Cat Named Virtute" and "One Great City!"

And it's only about 33 hours from now.

Simple Kind of Life

Now all those simple things
are simply too complicated for my life
How’d I get so faithful to my freedom?
A selfish kind of life
When all I ever wanted was the simple things
A simple kind of life
-- "Simple Kind of Life" No Doubt

We were talking about something I did. A classic Emily move, suitable for television writing, which expanded to a discussion of someone following me around for an HBO show.

But my life is not quite that interesting . . . and quite frankly, I never wanted it to be. My plan was to be coming home to someone, maybe making dinner, putting the kids to bed . . . maybe watching a little T.V., telling the dog to get off the couch. The mundane intrigues me because I do not have it. And my reflection is so idealized . . . like a punk rock Leave It to Beaver.

Didn't even have it when I wasn't actively looking for people to meet. When I was holed up in my shell. Not looking for adventure, as I am now. There have always been "classic Emily" stories. This life finds me. And I suppose I am, and will always be, never one for simple.

Two by Two

E2 and I went out to dinner yesterday . . . yesterday that was the "hallmark holiday" of Sweetest Day.

"We are the only people in this town that aren't a couple. Look."

And there it was . . . just like Noah's ark. Two by two, the couples wandered by.

Therapy

Retail therapy is the best.

Went to Harp's. Dragged someone through a knit store. Had an excellent lunch, awesome dinner. Found a new store, that I'm reluctant to share, because it had such cool stuff that I found Christmas presents galore. Bought shoes. And have shoes on the list for next payday. Found red things to buy. To go with the red things I bought with my sister the day before.

So despite the last blog entry, which I got phone calls about -- how sweet, thank you Princess -- it really was a very good day. And I play on having another one today. Maybe going to buy some socks at Target. Or IKEA. New throw pillows at IKEA. And Swedish meatballs. Yum.

And to bed early. Have concerts this week and parent teacher conferences. And plural concert is never good when there are school nights.

Going or Not

It was supposed to be simple.

Phone call. Confirmation. Buy tickets.

That's all I wanted. Are you going or not? Because I'm sick of the girl alone thing. Sick of the attitude that takes. Always being on your guard. Safety in numbers.

And it dissolved into the same complaining . . . always the same story. "Too good for this" is your f-ing mantra, I swear. And so I called you on your shit. And you yelled at me. Yelled. Yelling. And I hung up.

There was a call of apology. Which dissolved again into "don't be like that" "don't patronize me". And so I kept quiet . . . which made you even more unsure and made me exhausted. Exhausting not telling you what I think . . . especially when you ask me what I think. But you don't want to know.

So I guess girl alone at the show . . . again . . . it is.

Top Ten English Teacher Pick up Lines

Actually seen on the white board in the English/Social Studies office:

1. Will you be the ellipsis in my parenthesis?
2. Don't dangle your participial at me, it makes me hot!
3. You are the direct object of my affection
4. Can I preposition you?
5. Is that an exclamation point or are you just happy to see me?
6. So, do you conjugate here often?
7. You are the subject of my fantasy.
8. Can Harbor your Pearl? (okay, that's from the Social Studies one from this week)
9. I'll be your Sacco if you'll be my Vanzetti.
10. I can pre-amble all night.

And the credit should go to the English/Social Studies teachers . . . not me.

Beware the Ides of March

Or, why I can no longer date.

I don't like psychics.

And this dislike goes back to when for fun, E1 and I went to a psychic fair . . .

Got my palm read . . . blah, blah, blah, . . . typical stuff. Except the ending. "Do you want me to tell you this?" the man said. "I don't usually tell people stuff like this that I see."

There is a man your life that is evil. Very dark. Avoid him. He will try to become close to you. Bring you down with him. Avoid him.

E1 was with me. You could ask her.

And I chalked it up to the recently broken-up with ex-boyfriend (who was really just annoying, maybe bad, but not evil . . . ) and called it good.

And then that thing went down . . . you know that thing . . . and I didn't trust anyone for years and my life was completely f**ked up . . . and I was spending every night watching, making sure nothing happened . . . and it took over my life. God love the friends who listened to my crap at that time. God love my family for putting up with me. And thank goodness I took that social workers advice.

So I don't take psychic stuff lightly. And I know that it will never happen in any way that you would think it would happen. I assumed it would be a romantic interest . . . instead it had to do with my career. I wasn't on guard. Had forgotten all about it.

And my mother called yesterday. Said her friend, who sees things, asked about me. Said I would meet someone who is a danger to me. On the internet. Said that I should be very careful about my personal information. This to a girl who blogs her life on the internet. Said some other things to . . . but I don't want to jinx the good things by writing them down.

So fun is over. Cause I can't tell who is a danger . . . and it could be the dating or it could be work or it could be the random guy on the street. Or the dvd I buy next week. And I wasn't there to ask questions. And what level of danger? Annoying? Kill me in my sleep? Destroy my psyche? It sounds like I'm being flip, but I'm not. I'm actually freaking.

E2 offered to give the kids my address and have them toilet paper my house, just so I wouldn't dwell.

And for the record . . . I wasn't trying too hard. I was having fun.

Chapter Eight

It has been requested that I tell the story of yesterday between 3 and 5 p.m.. Somehow, Princess thinks this will be interesting. And we all know what happens when you don't listen to Princess.

I had already cancelled once. He had been too pushy on email. Slightly. The kind of guy who will email you again if you ignore his email. So red flag. So give no last name, no phone number, no location. Everything vague . . . like smoke.

We were meeting at a Starbucks out near him. Another red flag. I live in one of those damn "cool cities" of Jenny Granholm's vision. Men usually offer to meet near me. So I have to drag myself out of my orbit.

And he wants to meet early and only for " a half and hour". Okay. Well, I have lots of rules . . . about children, about not dating the newly divorced . . . I'll tell you how to live your life, no problem. Seems only fair that someone else have some rules too.

I run home from work. Change clothes, shoes. Am fixing my make up when the phone rings. "Private call" Interesting. "You are coming, right?" Why wouldn't I be? I explain my philosophy about being stood up. Just more of a chance for "me" time . . . I'll just get to read my book for half and hour. But assure him that I am not standing him up. (yes, I finally gave him a phone number -- I have caller id)

He then starting freaking out about the meeting place. He knows a guy that goes there three times a day and doesn't want to run into him. " . . . just don't want to deal with that . . . " Another red flag. So you are asking me out but don't want to be seen with me? And men are so weird about meeting on the internet. "Just say we met at the grocery store." I say. "Yeah, that'll work" he agrees.

I am five minutes early. Have the book that I keep carrying around, hoping that I will have time to read. Spook Country. The new Gibson. I have read chapter six three times. And Gibson always starts with about twelve chapters of characterization before he connects the plot line. And he is ten minutes late. At least I'm now to chapter eight.

It funny how your capacity to observe changes when you are waiting for someone. I rarely look at everyone in a coffee shop when I'm just there for coffee. Three employees. One with his mustache dyed to match his toupee. Two women, one pregnant, telling the story of how she announced she was pregnant at school. I assume she is an elementary teacher. One Asian man sitting in the corner, on the comfy chair. He is frowny. One good looking man, slightly older in the other corner, working on a laptop. And when my date arrives, I secretly wish I was on date with laptop guy.

He is not my type. But I knew this from the pictures he sent. But despite the red flags, and the tardiness, and the bo-hunk exterior (which very bleached white teeth), I give it a chance. Eternal optimist.

Within five minutes he is telling me about his girlfriend . . . and his other girlfriend. This dating thing is too much. Too much emotions expended and he doesn't know where the emotions should go. Which girl should he pick? And the one girl? She hasn't called him back. And it's been a whole . . . FIVE HOURS.

"So you decided to solve this dilemma by going out with another girl?"

"Yeah, well . . . I'm sorry, my head is just not in this . . . " Really? I'm shocked? And the half an hour thing? Girlfriend no.2 (the married one) is coming over to his house. (but she is now separated . . . and he just doesn't know what to do with that) And I can't figure out if he is lying or really serious about all this. No, really, wait . . . where are the cameras? Am I on punk'd?

I cut him off at half an hour. Nice meeting you. Go get your head together. Sorry I don't know who Catherine McPhee is (American Idol?).

Maybe I need to start to work on "No". Just saying it in the mirror or something. But then again, where would I get my stories?

And I did get to chapter eight.

Pilates Geek

I managed to do "roll-overs" tonight. All of them.

Roll overs have you bring your toes to the ceiling while on your back and then lift and pull your legs over your head and then roll back down. There are zipping and spreading of legs too while in this position.

And I did them so well, that the instructor let me do "jack knife" . . . and not everyone gets to do jack knife. And I did all of those too.

Yeah me.

Wasn't Meant to Be

Chatting with my friend H last night, when that came up. "Wasn't meant to be." The ultimate in placation. The fates wove your thread in a different direction. Wasn't meant to be.

But doesn't that make you want to ask "What is meant to be?" To question the weavers. Where is this going? Why?

And there were lots of fish and fishing metaphors, that we have all heard before . . . plenty of fish, throwing out lines, fish out of water . . . how we are atypical . . . about small target markets . . .

But what is meant to be? If there is "wasn't" certainly there is a was somewhere. Somehow.

And I don't want predictable. And I like the tapestry I have so far . . . even the holes and dark spots. So I don't want to change anything. Just want to question for a bit. So how do you know what is meant to be?

What is it that happens when you question the fates?

Caffienated Goodness

There is a tremendous amount of coffee being consumed today . . . even switched up the order at Starbucks. An extra shot of espresso is called a "triple" soy latte. Who knew?

So watch out at 3 p.m. when I crash.

The Quay Brothers

I went to the most beautiful movie tonight. A collection of Quay Brothers' short films, my favorite of which was "Street of Crocodiles". The Quay boys were the inspiration for many of my favorite music videos, "Sober" and "Prison Sex" from Tool and I think "Closer" from Nine Inch Nails. (Closer video is NWS)

A really short, short Quay Brothers' film can be found here. And a video they did for His Name is Alive (evidently when he was big and had money?) can be found here. It has a bunny in it. (and I still don't like HNIA)

It is all stop animation and absolutely amazing.

Now two things to bitch about:

1. The program listed His Name is Alive as a British band . . . when HNIA is from Livonia. One would think that the people at the Detroit Institute of Arts could get that right. Especially when the first listing on google says "Michigan's finest".

2. The two guys behind me . . . one of them found all of the movies incredibly funny. A laugh riot. And NONE of the movies were funny. So laughing at the bunny. Laughing at the doll losing its' hands. I couldn't figure out if he just didn't understand the movies, if he was laughing nervously because the subjects made him uncomfortable, or if the guy next to him was just tickling him. Yes, that's how much he laughed.

Okay, one nice thing:

There was a couple, well into their seventies, if not their eighties, who were obviously on their first date. And that was really, really cute.
At the end of the first short:
"Well, what did you think of that?"
"I didn't understand a thing."
"Neither did I."
"Oh, well . . . then I don't feel so bad."

They were adorable. I just wanted to squeeze them both.

Quote

Quote you are my soul unquote
Now does that sound familiar?
You kissed the girl and make her feel this way

Quote well this is me unquote
And You have been so ugly you're entire life
So why change now

Is this how you wanna go down,
right before my eyes
You're the saddest sight i know

You're quiet
you never make a sound
But here inside my mind
you are the loudest one I know

Quote Well is me unquote
How different I've become
And no one understands, my dear,
no one really cares

And you were right,
right from the start
It took everything you had,
but you finally broke my...

And know the old flames will pass away
I saw your life once
Did you see mine
But not all things will pass away

You turned your light off
So I turned mine,
away from your sadness,
away from the nothingness
you feel for me

Quote, hey listen cause ill only say this once
I finally found the words
That mean enough to me
Good bye my soul, unquote

--- Quote, Evan's Blue

It's always hard for me to accept. That I will never talk to a person again. I will call "friends" out of the blue, just to reinforce my belief that we had a connection . . . had a connection for a reason even. I'm sure the guy I used to work with eight years ago just rolls his eyes when I call. But I'm not good at Christmas cards. And so I call.

Or worse yet, we'll run into each other and do the "we should really get together" thing, when neither of us wants to do that. But I will.

So really what I'm struggling with, today while mowing my lawn and sucking up cobwebs with a shop vac? Rat Bastard contacted me. Unsolicited. And in a moment of growth on my part, I told him that I didn't want to be the girl that he crawls to whenever he is feeling bad about himself. That I didn't want to talk to him.

Oh, and don't get me wrong . . . I back peddled immediately as he was collecting his argument for treating me like shit. But I got it out there (I so don't like conflict). And now, he won't contact me again. Whipped him good with a couple of sentences. Perhaps why I back peddle so often. My words can be terribly cutting. Miserably so.

And therefore, it should be finally over. But like the song says . . . even though he is quiet, it is the loudest thing in my head. I don't want him back. But currently, I don't know what I want. And back then . . . I was so sure. To the point of breaking my heart.

So have to go find something to do and stop thinking so damn much.

Title Intentionally Left Blank

Just words.

And I'm sick of it.

Small Problem

Either my watch band has gotten bigger . . . or my wrist has gotten smaller.

Either way, annoying.

Belmont, cont.

It was pointed out today that I missed two parts of the story.

First part: E2 leans closer to me and says in a low voice, "I think we are the only people here with no tattoos." This was unsettling to her. Having the lowest tattoo count (of zero) and having the best hair. Like they were going to jump us, mess up our hair, and get out the buzzing ink guns to make us belong. E2 also noticed that people kept coming in and out of this door marked "private" . . . eventually, I figured out that it lead to the basement and I appeased her curiosity by telling her "that's where the bordello is . . . " when really I think downstairs is where they were doing all the drugs.

Second part: In addition to the obnoxious "toilet" band, there seem to be two overly zealous groupies for said band. And they are a couple that are my parents' age . . . and they have a video camera. Which leads me to believe that they are the lead singer's parents. In addition to clapping the loudest for every song, and video taping the whole thing, they were also dancing as wildly as a sixty year old can dance. So proud of their boy. The boy who cannot spell polyp . . . but can sing as crudely as he can about them.

Surreal.

Okay, I'm done with the Belmont.

Vaginacide

Saturday Night.

We go to the Belmont to see an acquaintance's band. The drummer for The Cut Loose. And the Belmont is in Hamtramck. Somehow, E2 (whom I'm dragging with me, poor girl) has heard about Hamtramck, even though she is an extreme West Sider. And really, Hamtramck doesn't look all that different. And the Belmont looks like a bar that should be in Hamtramck. . . full of arty hipsters with bad haircuts (oh, Princess . . . the bad hair I didn't expose you to). Black floor, green walls, exceedingly hard to get a drink. Smokey. And very "art fag". (high school term for artist with nose up in the air, thinking that no one could possibly understand the deepness)

And E3 spots me right away. Is very nice, friendly. Chats with us over the noise.

But there is a "surprise" opening band. E3 thinks they may just do a couple of songs. It is the bar owner's birthday and the "surprise" opening band is part of the present. And they take forever to set up. There is taping up a bed sheet. Seems very Wayne's World.

And finally, they start. There seem to be strippers, in gold lame bikinis and thigh-high athletic socks. And they are hitting the bar owner with plungers and wrapping him in toilet paper, while the lead singer yells the most vile things he can think of into the microphone.

"Bloody, bloody tampon . . . I want to eat your bloody, bloody tampon . . . " And as you can see from the playlist . . . this goes on for hours. At least an hour and a half. It seemed like a lifetime. And it kept getting worse. The strippers did not strip (which would have at least been interesting), the lead singer did strip (and had horrible man boobs), and the loud vile yelling went on. It's as if a bunch of ninth grade boys had gotten together (or better yet, seventh grade boys) and thought up as much toilet humor as they could think of. "Vaginacide, vaginacide . . . I want to crawl up in your hole and die . . ." I kid you not.

And we couldn't leave, having come all the way to the bowels of Metro Detroit to see E3 play. And the poor guy was so embarrassed. And just when we thought it would end, there would be another song. "Seething F**K Patties" The name of the band. No, really. I think they even have a myspace.

And when The Cut Loose could finally set up, E3 stole their playlist for me. It was just sitting up on the stage. So I thought I would share it with you. And warn the world.

The Cut Loose are pretty good, however. Kinda like Doors, plus Buddy Holly, with a little punk edge. At least live anyway.