Watch Out

As I shirk my responsibilities at work (because it is Saturday, damnit. I want one day off.) . . . I have quite the adventurous morning.

First, the allergist. I got the nurse who hates life. Hates her job. Hates fat people. Hates me. Which was hilarious, now that I know that she is just like that. She likes her blood pressure cuffs to be very large, which leads to sighing on her part. (I don't know about you . . . but I think I have pretty regular sized arms . . . my butt is another story . . . ) She's a peach. Then the physician's assistant came in and admonished me not to "pick up rocks" in Arizona. Everything will be fine there, in terms of allergies, as long as I don't pick up any rocks. I had to ask for clarification. Are there allergens in the rocks? Is it like Hawaii and the goddess of fire will hunt you down and make your life miserable? What's with the tempting rocks?

"All the spiders stay under the rocks . . . well, spiders and bad things . . . like scorpions . . . all under the rocks. So if you pick them up, you might be in trouble."

Well . . . okay, then. No, touching the rocks.

The explanation came with a personal story, leading me to believe that the rock warning isn't all that creditable. Just because someone's mother stopped by the side of the road and picked up what she thought was a pretty rock and there happened to be a large spider on it . . . doesn't mean all rocks are dangerous. At least I don't think that logic works.

After the rock conversation, I decided to go get some french toast. Had the Saturday ad section of the paper, so coffee and some toast seemed the way to go. Found a small booth, even though it was Saturday morning. Cool. Except that I was next to two couples. I was unable to determine their age . . . couldn't tell if it was an "early bloom, early rot" situation, if if they were in their thirties . . . well, anyhow one of them had a "Holly wrestling" skull cap on and talked about wrestling. So maybe they were in high school? The wrestling guy proclaimed that he was still drunk. The two women hated everyone . . . "Why was he dancing with that skag? What happened to Eric, he was so cute. Now he's fat. See here on my phone? He was cute then. God, I hate that girl in the green sweater . . . " The other boy just talked about his food. He didn't understand what was taking so long (at this point, I didn't either . . . because I had no french toast) and he didn't even know what sunny-side up was, but he had ordered over easy. And what was the deal with his toast? He questioned his toast (as he was eating it) about six times.

They were gems. All four of them. And they have a better chance of reproducing than I have . . . leading me to the conclusion that the world may be doomed. Between that and the rocks.

Fingers Together

"Miss (my mother insists that I not state my last name anymore) . . . do you have any paint thinner? I glued my fingers together."

Knowing that I have only white Elmers glue . . . I mean, you can glue your fingers together with that. It's just not that effective.

"Glued your fingers together with what?"
"Super Glue"
"Super Glue? Where did you get Super Glue?"
"From my pocket."

I am now thinking that I am sooo lucky. Just fingers are stucked together. Super Glue, in a school, in the hands of a ninth grade boy . . . eyes could be glued shut . . . things could be glued to chairs . . . people could be glued to chairs . . .

"Give me the Super Glue."
"But it's mine. I brought it from home."
"Give me the Super Glue."

The large, incredibly large, tube of Super Glue is carefully given to me, with the non-glue affected hand.

"I'm going to get that back, right?"

Spew

For about two years, I have been very good at work. I try to be even keeled about my opinions. I try to see the other person's point of view. I try to walk around in the other person skin. And if I can't do that, I ignore them . . . in the case of my next door neighbor, specifically.

Today, I spewed. A lot. I told a large-ish group of people exactly what I thought. With detailed examples. If I had charts and graphs, I would have shown those too. And I had a evil glint in my eyes, because it felt soooo good. So enormously, fabulously wonderful to say what I actually had in my head.

I now realize that I participated in exactly what drove me over the edge . . . the no filter edge . . . in the first place. And I feel just a bit of guilt now. A smidge. A "I might not have done that" smidge. And I will try to be better tomorrow. Because you never know who is listening. And you never know truly where people's allegiances lie. In a group, anyhow.

And people should be glad that I have the filter on most of the time.

Countdown

I turn thirty-six in less than a month.

This one is going to be tough. Perhaps harder than thirty. And I had a moment of cruel detachment before thirty. Which I excused at the time as doing a public service.

And why is it going to be tough? Because the mental picture was married by thirty-six. And no matter how much I can pull back and be totally logical (I have a great life . . . I live like a rock star . . . I can do exactly what I want, when I want to . . . and make enough money to do just that . . . ), it's still the mental picture. So grieving for an idea. And perhaps even a stupid idea.

So keep me in check. No extra silliness needed. Not right now anyhow.

Traveling Fool

I now have trips booked to Phoenix and the Keys . . . and I still might want to go somewhere for my birthday. Have figured out that I'm short a night's lodging in Scottsdale, but I'm sure I will figure it out. And I'm still supposed to go to Kansas somewhere to meet the Swedish relatives. So quite the airporty spring.

And yet I still want to road trip.

Staying in the Theme

Today I stayed home and slept all day. Been trying to shake a cold for a week. And am still coughing up bits of gooey pleasure from my sinuses. Heavenly.

Am now toying with the idea of going back to bed, moving to the couch or getting dressed and going to work out (it's hot single guy night at the Y . . . tho' most of them are not playing for my team tonight). I did manage to get through the shower.

So if I only had a rock and some sun.

Like a Sea Lion

Scene: Parent Teacher Conferences -- stuffy high school gym with a 100 people milling around using air

M2: I so need some ice cream.

It is the end of conferences . . . fifteen minutes left.

Em: Mmmm. Ice Cream. I haven't had ice cream in sixth months. (she then thinks about how ice cream would destroy her digestive system for about 24 hours . . . as she has not consumed lactose in about as long)

M2: Yeah, I've had ice cream . . . about every time I feel like this.

Em: But you are a size 10, so it's okay. Do you realize that I've been going to the gym religiously for three months . . . and I've gained weight?

M2: One of the mysteries of the universe.

Em: No, I chalk it up to the Swedish. In Sweden, my relatives had to have blubber to survive. We're like sea lions.

M2: Sea lions?

Em: Yup.

M2: You should use that on matchdotcom. "I'm like a sea lion."

There's this Show

I don't watch television much anymore. Something of a time crunch in my current existence.

But today, I felt icky . . . and I'm coughing up some vile things . . . so I decided to pass on working out. Nothing more embarrassing than hacking up a lung while lifting weights. So I sat on the couch and started with a movie.

The movie was suggested by a person, that I know, who said that I would really like it. And I did like it, until I figured out the plot twist . . . with an hour yet to go in the movie. So then I slept through the rest. Really, once you see the bottle put in the suitcase, it's all over.

Once I woke up, I watched some t.v.. I watched my favorite show, NCIS, because Mark Harmon is hot and I like to know that someone Dark Princessey like me has a job (Abbi). I watched Law and Order . . . and remembered why I don't watch Law and Order. Again, with the obvious plot twist noticable in the first fifteen minutes. Then I flipped between CSI and this show that I only watch with my parents. Boston Legal . . . I think it's called. Has the character, Denny Crane, in it . . . with the "mad cow" disease that he uses as an excuse for everything. He reminds me of Mr. Crabbypants. So much so, that when he is being crabby, I now chalk it up to mad cow.

I only watch this show with my parents, who have several seasons on DVD. My father and I will do marathon sessions, with wine . . . I think we could have cigars, if my mother would let us. Anyhow, watching it alone made me miss them. And the show isn't as funny without them somehow. Which is why I don't watch it.

So where should I go for my birthday?

Luna

I went to Luna last night.

Intrigued by "free green beer" and the fact that I have never been there . . . plus there was the idea supplied by someone that old punk rockers hang out there, which of course is exactly what one looks for in a future husband . . . I dragged my poor friend H out on St. Patrick's Day.

We met there, so I had to walk in alone. And as I walked through the door, I was magically transported to the year 1988 or 1989 . . . and magically transported to what looked like someone's basement. And as much as I like Joy Division, it's amazing harder to dance to when you are not a depressed, mopey teenager.

Hell yes, I danced. Some sixty year old in Nikes, sweatpants and a baseball cap danced with me. It was very goth . . . or about as goth as it was in 1989 when he was dancing in City Club in less comfortable clothing. And dancing when you are in your thirties to music that you listened to as a teenager? Well, in some ways you are less self-conscious . . . it's your music, you know it inside and out. Your anthems. Rock on. And in some ways, as least I, was more self-conscious because I was well aware how dumb we all looked. My teenage students would have been mortified (and I guess since I am now old enough to be their mother, rightfully so).

We couldn't talk. It was smoky. And really loud. And very dark . . . except for the black lights. And I did not plan for black lights, did not lint brush appropriately. All of this made me long for the Front or the Emory, where I could sit down and have a conversation. Because I am old.

And there was no one that I remotely wanted to talk to, other than the people I was with . . . well, except for the guy in the homemade Ghostbusters costume, but only for these two questions: 1. What does the movie Ghostbusters have to do with St. Patrick's Day? (because the guy in the kilt, I get) And depending on the answer to one . . . 2. Why?

I know, I know, I want to dye my hair blue over the summer and therefore should not judge the man who carefully painted plastic plates and combined them with L.E.D.s to go out, complete with patches on his flight suit. But it's so hard not to.

So Luna . . . some goth kid's basement on steroids . . . with weird "I'm trying to be a suicide girl" bartenders, who don't quite make it (although everyone was incredibly nice) (despite the fact that they were almost naked, and therefore probably cold) some people wearing the same clothes (I did wear my leather jacket, circa 1991, so . . . guilty)

And if I wanna dance . . . well, I like my kitchen much better for the dancing.

And no, the free green beer did not pass by my lips . . . there was Guinness, though it was in a bottle.

What I Learned Last Night

I learned that in the age of cell phones, one cannot give a false phone number. Because it's then really uncomfortable when the man of non-interest calls it immediately. And your phone doesn't ring.

So the best course of action is to just say "No".

Thank you, Nancy Reagan.

Tide Envy

I religiously use two kinds of laundry detergent. Tide Coldwater for darks . . . and there are a lot of "darks" because otherwise my heart would have to be a different color . . . and Tide "Clean Breeze" for everything else. I do not trust the cold water stuff for everything, because whites, well, I just can't wash them in cold. Warm maybe, but not cold.

I was hooked on the "Clean Breeze" scent stuff by my sister, who proclaimed it's goodness a couple of years ago in the middle of the Target. Been using it ever since.

So last weekend, in a rare Target clearance browsing sister event (as she now lives in K-Zoo and I get speeding tickets going to K-Zoo) I mentioned that the clean breeze stuff was hard to find.

"Oh, I use the purple cap stuff." in a tone like she had used it forever.
"Purple cap stuff?"
"Yeah, the frebreze lavender stuff."
"You changed Tides?"
"I don't know. I picked it up one day. It smells good."

Now just to clarify, I don't think I'm the kind of girl that goes for persnickety detergents . . . I know that deep down (or maybe not so deep down) I am that kind of girl. But I don't like to admit it. So using a specific kind of Tide because my sister said it smelled better, somehow negated the fact that I couldn't just buy regular stuff. And we won't even go into my brand loyalty problems . . . that's from my mother. If they stop making Tide? Well, I'll just have to persistently buy new clothes.

"But you told me the clean breeze stuff smelled good . . . "
"Yeah, this stuff smells better."
"So purple cap kind? Cause I only bought clean breeze because you endorsed it."
"You buy Tide because I say so?"
"Well . . . yeah."
"That's so weird. I had no idea I had so much power . . . over your laundry choices."

Franny and Zooey

On Fridays we have silent reading and as a modeling activity I have been reading a lot of Salinger. Again, of course.

So I found this great quote to write about. But I didn't bring the school's copy of the book home and figured that I would be able to find it in my "library". I know I've bought the book at least once (I know I've bought Neuromancer more than once) and I also am realizing that I have forgotten to return one to a library (or two). But I have no copy of Franny and Zooey in the house. And the quote as long been forgotten in the trials of my never being able to leave high school life. (I keep telling the kids that someday I may graduate . . . someday)

Neuromancer is gone too.

So somewhere, with all of my lost socks are multiple copies of paperbacks. Damn those underwear gnomes.

So un-Salinger . . . the underwear gnomes. Either that, or very Salinger. I'm not sure which.

Not too Hard . . . Not too Soft

Today was one of those sneaky Michigan days. You stand outside and think to yourself . . . "yeah, maybe the weather isn't so bad." You almost convince yourself that it is nice to live here, that there are perks . . . the perks of spring . . . that certain smelliness, the feel of the air.

But having lived in Michigan for 34 years (I did a 2 year stint in Cleveland, but I don't remember it, so it's okay) I know it's all a sham. We still have at least a month of winter. Today, in it's seventy degree goodness, is just a test of our resolve. A trick. By Friday, it will be all snowy. Or worse, just cold and gray.

I walked to the YMCA tonight. In a light jacket. With sunglasses on. And it was extremely pleasant . . . I wasn't too hot . . . I wasn't too cold . . .

Today, was the Goldilocks of Michigan weather.

Not So Fabulous Anymore

Whenever my father gets bad service, or is unsatisfied with something, he will proclaim that the establishment is "off the list".

(I don't know where the list is . . . in his head? written on some piece of paper on his desk? which looks exactly like mine, by the way. I come by my organizational patterns honestly and directly through genetics)

Well, the city of Ferndale . . . it is off the list.

It seems when I was in attendance at bad blind date no. 423 (the "oh no, you're skinny enough to date" guy) I received a parking ticket for having an expired meter. I did not have enough quarters on the night in question and figured I would "chance" the last half hour before 9 p.m. When I arrived at my car at the end of the awkwardness, I found a parking ticket which informed me that I had a week to pay $6.00. Seems reasonable to me. I did play parking roulette.

As an aside, or perhaps more accurately, another aside, I have never, ever paid a parking ticket on time in my life. Maybe it's my desk organization style . . . or my life organization style. But I always pay those suckers late, and happily pay the extra money . . . because I was late.

But this time, for the first time in my life, maybe because I'm getting things more under control, maybe because I'm more grown up, maybe because I didn't want to pay the outrageous late fee; I paid this ticket ON TIME. Quite the turning point. I dropped my six dollar check in the drop box. I even made sure that the check cashed. A new high point. And all was forgotten.

Yesterday, I received a letter from the "City of Ferndale Bureau of Parking Enforcement". Hmm . . . did I forget about a ticket? No. The nasty letter and bill contained in the envelope says that I now owe $42.00 for a ticket received in November and then proceeds to tell me all the awful things they are going to do if I do not pay $42.00 right now, right now, RIGHT NOW. But I paid the ticket. So I call the number on the nasty letter, which leads me through a maze of automated voices, none of which will help me or direct me to a human. Then I call the City of Ferndale police department . . . because they are the people who wrote the ticket, right? Nope, I have to call the court but the court is not open. Says I should call during "normal business hours" . . . and I don't know about them, but I work during "normal business hours" and I work far away from the City of Ferndale and their money-hungry parking violation department. So now, I have to go to the court building, in the currently non-fabulous city of Ferndale, during "normal" business hours to contest an obvious clerical error, because I have a printout of the cancelled check. And frankly, paying $42.00 would be easier, and cheaper in the long run, than doing the badgering that I'm going to have to do to get this fixed.

But I won't. I paid the damn ticket. On time, no less. So I will go. I will get a sub. I will drive to Ferndale during "normal" business hours. And I will be polite as possible. And I will stare lovingly into their eyes, as I slide the copy of the cancelled check through the slot in the safety glass. And I will smile at my reflection, as I muse about how this may be why municipalities need safety glass . . . to keep me from throttling someone. I will nod with mock concern and sympathy as they tell me there is nothing they can do and I must fill out form 5623A in triplicate and turn it in with copies of my license plate, driver license and a pint of blood gathered during the new moon on a Tuesday.

Because it's the principal of the thing, damn it.

And Ferndale. The whole city of Ferndale. They are sooooo off the list. At least before 9 p.m..

Here is the Crappy Picture I Turned in

Totally Sucked in

This guy is hilarious . . . thanks for the link anonymous.

He reminds me of my brother, J.

Crap, I'm Old

So I'm chatting with my jewelry class instructor and somehow high school comes up . . . because I teach high school. He was talking about how dumb his high school yearbook was, I think.

"So what high school did you go to?"
"Blankity Blank High School"
"Really, what year did you graduate? I did my student teaching there."
"Oh my God, I knew you looked familar."

Yes, I taught my jewelry instructor in art class his junior year of high school. And don't feel a bit old . . . shit.

Love Song

My life has disintegrated into The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock . . .

and the boys, they come and go, talking of Michelangelo

Yeah, maybe the month of March is off too.

At least I don't have to think about work.

Do for Me

"So what do you want a man to do for you?"

I was asked this yesterday by a very sincere, earnest boy, who is dating my best friend. He is in love. Totally, unbashedly, in love. And like most people in love . . . he wants everyone else to feel like he's feeling. So he is trying to set me up.

And I was totally taken aback by the question. Do for me? I don't want anyone to do anything for me. Maybe that's my problem? Or his slip of the tongue . . . he really just wanted my list, the list of what I am looking for. And I have forgotten all about my list. Seems it only takes a month off to forget totally and be at a loss for words.

When I was in my twenties, I thought I had men all figured out . . . I worked at an all boys' school, with primarily male teachers. My thought was that the male brain was simple. Linear. There were clear established patterns. Food. Sex. Money. Power. But now, after this week, not so sure that I have it figured out. Well, actually, I know that I attribute more emotion and thought to what is there. But it never occured to me . . . men like to do things. They are doers.

Hmmm. . . so what do I want a man to do for me? Sounds so . . . put on your loincloth and get go me some bison.

Same Place, Year Later

Amazing how things come full circle . . .

Scanning pictures. Talking on im. Emails about me always wanting the last word. Making mixed CDs for M1.

And it's March. Must decide if I'm taking this month off too.

Oh, and I must do my nails tomorrow. And call my ratfink brother to see if he sent the gift for the other brother.