run over by the matchdotcom train . . . again

So once upon a time . . . or about four or five days ago, my mother and I have this conversation which turns toward matchdotcom and summer and possible boredom (although I'm taking a class at CCS AND taking yoga and something else AND volunteering at the MOCAD AND finishing the damn kitchen cabinets and dining room so I can have people over . . . so I don't know when this time is going to be when I'm bored). And mother makes this suggestion: "Why don't you just tell them that you're nice?"

And nice, to me, is a way to describe your not-so-cute cousin. Nice is that poster in middle school with the cat hanging and "hang in there". Nice is just not the best adjective. And so, in my profile, I write the conversation. And a geeky lawyer with glasses and sandals with socks winks at me. Remember, I think glasses and slightly bad fashion sense is hot. And I think, "No way. The nice thing worked?" And I sign up for the three day trial . . .

Actually, I signed up for a month because Princess said that she could not handle more than a month of me being a matchdotcom disaster again. But somehow, the match people forgot that I was ever a paying customer and offered me the three day trial. Either that, or they know it's like crack and figure it's worth giving you a little "rock" to lure you in for repeat business. And everything was going along swimmingly . . . emailed some people. Always loved the "who's viewed me section", always good for making you feel like a princess . . . ohhh, look at all of the people who looked at me today. Vanity . . . kills.

But I got the seven page strange email today about how I should take a chance because this person has frequently reviewed my pictures and has decided that he is my one. (I'm not making it up . . . I'll send you a copy . . . not even the part about frequently reviewing my pictures) And don't even go there, oh positive ones . . . I am not his one. He, however, could very easily be my stalker. Oh yeah, this is why I wanted to meet people in three dimensions. Three dimensional people are good. So I'll let know you what happens with cute bald lawyer guy and I'm off the crank-like match tomorrow. Because, to quote a friend, I always get the good ones.

And I am nice. Sigh. How boring.

Should Have Known

This is me in fifth grade, evidently before the braces. Probably could have predicted my adult outcome from this photo. To my credit, it was taken at a girl scout meeting and I was the only girl who would touch it. So girl with snake in library (one of my favorite places). What could be more charming?

And looking at this, everyone probably should have known.

At Lunch Today

"So is the boy still dating that girl?"
"Which boy?"
"Whatdayamean which boy? The one you went out with last night."
"Which one?"
"There was more than one?"
"Ummm . . . yeah. But that one? No. He tried to pick up the waitress. Turns out she was a lesbian."
"Maybe she just told him that."
"No. She told me that. I was on the way to the bathroom and I told her that he thought she was cute. And she said that she was a lesbian. I don't think she would have told me that . . . unless she was really a lesbian. But no, he's not dating that other girl anymore."

Get Some Elves

I did yard work all day. Mowed the lawn. Pulled neverending weeds. Cursed the fact that I have grass (mental note: do more research on that non-decorative landscape thing for the front).

I'm not even close to done. Maybe if I got some elves.

Anyhow, as I was mowing the last spot of the backyard that I was going to mow today, after I moved all the sticks, I thought to myself, while looking at the great bed of weeds that I'm growing next to my house, how does anyone do this . . . who works? I mean, like, at a job? Cause I'm off all summer and can catch up then. Maybe they just call the men. Or the elves. I gotta get the number for the elves. Because the landscaping cloth is not going to install itself.

I bought some watermelon plants. And some snow peas. Managed to plant most of the flowers that I purchased two days ago. Now I'm sunburned . . . and dirty. Very, very dirty. Just washed my shoes in the sink, which was a nice option. And there is something very soothing about gardening. A sense of accomplishment, when everything is straightened out and the weeds are all gone. Plus you get to pull out the weeds (kill, kill, kill). Never thought I would be into it. The ipod helps.

And before you get all excited, mother . . . no, I don't want to garden everyday and I will not own a "gardening hat". So calm down.

So to do:
Get some elves
More pots
Bigger ladder

New . . . Improved . . . with More Pictures

I've been bad about pictures . . . mostly because George -- the uber camera -- makes really big files. And then I have to make them smaller to upload them to flickr . . . or well, to anything. I know, I know, I could tell him not to make big files but then how would I edit them? Plus, George likes to make big files. He told me. Really.

So new masthead. Made fresh with my brother J.'s tattoos. New pictures up on flickr. Just click on one of the pics down there on the side and it will take you to the rest of them. Some nice Key West pics.

And I promise to put more up tomorrow. Have a whole load of Sedona that I have yet to get to . . . and there was the mother's day picture that I scanned and haven't uploaded. And a picture sitting in my car that I promised my mother that I would scan in. I'm so behind. It's like I had other things to do or something.

So stay tuned, I guess.

They're Creepy and They're Kooky

Actually, they aren't at all . . . but something about the pose reminds me of the Addams family. Here they are . . . The Crabbypants.

God, I look like my mother.

Rained Out

I had a positively grand day, in spite of the rain . . . maybe because of it.

I had planned to do yard work, until it was done. Instead I got to read the paper with a half order of french toast. Then I went to the Berkley knit store (Have You Any Wool) and bought some pink, mindless knitting, yarn to make up for all the projects that I have ongoing, all in mohair for some reason. And mohair is like knitting with thread. It never seems like you make any progress. So I need a couple of hats under my belt to feel like I can accomplish something (a hat takes me a couple of days). So pink hats it is . . .

I then checked all the stores listed in the Free Press entertainment section last week, when they showcased Berkley shopping. Shoe store was good. Found some cute little red numbers . . . but didn't want to peak early, so didn't buy them. For $39 I might have to go back though. Went to the musical instrument store and asked about fixing my viola. Kicked around Catching Fireflies.

Then I drove to Birmingham. Figured I would to the run of yarn stores. But the B'ham yarn store wasn't open . . . because it is never open. Walked all over downtown, window shopping. Then drove to Plum Market.

Because I am genetically related to Mr. Crabbypants, I love to look at grocery stores. In a new town? Let's check out and see if they have different mustard. In France? Ooooh, look at the yogurt aisle. And because I grew up with the vacation tour of grocery stores, I didn't know it was weird. Likewise with my fascination with new ones. Comes from my father having a degree and obsessive love of marketing. So off to Plum Market I went. To look at the wine selection and to see what I could see.

Honestly, I give it a B-. Very pretty without much substance. Lots o' expensive stuff . . . most of it being soap. As much soap as coffee. The cashier bubbled at me about how they put all the produce in the walk-in refrigerator every night. I guess that is an impressive use of labor cost. And there was a lot of produce. All of it seemed to be organic. Impressive cheese aisle, but that may only be because some geeky guy in glasses was looking at me, so I spent a longer time there. I'm such a sucker for geeky and glasses . . . and I do like cheese.

So all in all, a good grocery store for pick ups . . . but I wouldn't really buy anything there. Well, actually I bought three different mint plants (for my herb garden, that doesn't exist yet) (because I want mojitos), a bottle of French wine (because I almost recognize the name) and some snotty raspberry-lime mineral water. I was out for under $20.

Then the Gap, because it was close. Then to Lowe's . . . but I got distracted by shoes (DSW is next door) but there weren't any shoes as cool as the ones I saw in Berkley. So I managed to piece together some flowers, which are now sitting on my porch, not in their containers. Lowe's had put all their good flowers in containers . . . but I have containers and contented myself with the fact that the crummy flowers would probably grow. After all, they are plants and my porch has really good sun. Now if it would just stop raining.

So didn't get anything done that I was planning to get done. And it was lovely.

Blue is Good

"So would like to interview the new art teacher? Oh, and the new English teacher?"

"Wha- Yeah . . . I suppose I could get a wig . . . I'd love to be on the interview committee."

(rational brain is now bouncing about, quivering, trying to stop mouth . . . but now you have to explain the wig comment)

"Wig?"

"Well . . . umm . . . I'm dieing my hair blue as soon as school gets out. And blue hair. It's not so good for interviewing."

(What the hell? Did I just say that?)

"Blue? {pause} I like blue. Blue is good."

"Yeah, they were pretty upset about my other hair. Blue is good, just not for interviewing. I'll get a wig. It's no problem."

"Other hair?"

"My red hair. They really didn't like it. They still talk about it. So blue . . . yeah, I know a really good wig shop at Northland. I'll get a nice black pageboy."

(the rational part of my brain is now trying to remove itself from my body, maybe to possibly find a smarter one . . . it keeps poking and screaming STOP STOP STOP TALKING . . . which didn't work . . . black pageboy it is . . . )

(I really wish I had a tape recorder . . . for when my boss says things like "blue is good".)

bad dream

I just had a bad dream. The kind where you wake up all "fight or flight" and you have to go check the house because you are sure the bogeyman broke in . . . of course the dream didn't make any sense, but I still have anxiety in the pit of my stomach.

I figured surfing would calm me down, but I really would like to go to bed.

And I really would like to live with someone. Yes, I would have to clean more. But times like these, it would be comforting to have someone else here . . . waiting with me to be killed. You know, for company.

And every horror movie I've seen in the last year is playing in my head, which is why I don't watch horror movies. Damn that photographic memory thing. I suppose I could get up, dress, comb my Tinkerbell hair and go to breakfast . . . cause I can't shower . . . everyone gets killed in the shower . . . and because no one wants to kill you at a coney island at 5 a.m. . . . but I really just want to go back to bed. After I check under it, of course. Then I'll curl up with my mag light (the heavy 4 d cell one) for another hour of sleep. And scare the shit out of myself if it drops on the floor.

Gonna be a great day, right?

Rally Monkey, Rally

I am the worst type of hypochondriac . . . in that I'm so sure that I have something terrible, but refuse to do anything about it. Like going to the doctor. Why would I do that? This is why I couldn't breathe through the left side of my nose for fifteen years or so . . . ever since A.G. slammed his shoulder into it at band camp (once . . . at band camp . . . ) when we were proving how much more punk rock were.

So my neck doesn't "feel right", if that makes any sense. My glands are swollen? Maybe? But the back of my neck hurts too. And I'm pretty sure that my spleen is swollen . . . perhaps that is the pain in my side. And my bug bites haven't stopped itching. They may, in fact, be getting worse and I'm convinced there are more of them. And yesterday, I was just lethargic. In the worst, I-cannot-get-off-this-couch-and-clean-anything kind of way.

And I'm fine. Just stressed and tired. Oh, and I have a metallic taste in my mouth sometimes. Anyhow, I'm fine. And blonde. Very blonde. Looks like Tinkerbell currently.

Is it bad that I change my hair color so much that my mental image of myself doesn't adjust? Quite honestly, I picture myself with the black haircut . . . which was three hairstyles ago. So Tinkerbell in the mirror is kind of a shock, each time. So the blonde is working toward the blue, so that I don't have to be in the chair for three hours, just two.

And why? Why blue? Because I can . . .

But yeah, I think I may be back. I mean I have to go work out right now, but I'll try to write everyday this week. I promise. Thanks for waiting.

Cheese on My Sweater

Today was the kind of day where there is no place to sit in the lunchroom, so you sit on the couch and dump macaroni and cheese all over your sweater. But hey, at least you remembered to bring lunch.

A parent told me today that I needed to learn when to "pick my battles". She had already played the "are you a parent" card and was feeling pretty confident . . . I'm not sure to what end: either to feel significantly superior (she has created life, you know) or to bait me, push my buttons (her student does this pretty well, why we were having an impromptu meeting). I didn't raise an eyebrow.

Didn't share any of the thoughts in my head. About how, although I have never contributed any genetic material, I have had thousands of children at this point. And since I'm still in this business after thirteen years (most wash out before year three), I think I know something about battles and their selection. But thank you for telling me how to do my job . . .

Nope. Didn't say any of it. Just smiled sweetly. And then explained the battle I had picked. And why. "Oh, I didn't know that what that meant . . . " is what she left saying, "I let them say that all the time at home." Again, why we're having a meeting.

I haven't been writing because I don't have much nice to say. Forgive me. It is an interesting double bind . . . being admonished for being too negative . . . yet, having comments when I don't write. I should just not pay any attention. But I do. I don't want to be a negative person, to be seen as such, but really . . . it may just be in my nature. Mr. Crabbypants isn't really a negative person. He is a great guy, who is really smart and often frustrated with the world. I am also. And am half his genetic material. And quite honestly, Mrs. Crabbypants . . . not exactly "shiny happy people" material either. I love them both to pieces.

One last thing. In Key West, I was bitten by these little minute bugs . . . "no-see-ums" I think they are called. I did see one. It was a teeny-tiny black fly, smaller than a gnat. And I paid no attention, assuming they were like mosquitoes or fly bites, like black flies. Otherwise, I would have bathed in DEET. So after a couple of days, with the itching getting actually worse instead of better and there seeming to be more bites, even though I'm back in Michigan (did I bring them home?), I looked no see ums up on google. Turns out that the bites last forever, blister and sometimes fester . . . which is the best case scenario.

Worse case, I have some horrible fatal disease that kills my liver and kidneys or some parasite that had a horrible name like nematode. Oh, and if you don't get that, too many bites . . . the venom only can cause kidney failure. Kidney failure from little flies that you can't see. I think there should have been signs or something.

Ah, all small stuff . . . and I'm letting the universe take over and not sweating the small stuff . . . or the itchiness . . . but the itchiness is, well, very itchy.

Xizor . . . Who Knew . . .

So the slurpiness on Saturday.

Everything took longer than expected. The allergy shot line was long. Had to drive to my brother's house. My brother's friend showed up way late. We got lost . . . in Taylor.

So it's at this commercial building, which looks like all the other commercial building that you see in "commercial parks". There aren't that many cars, but there are lots of out-of-state license plates. We walk to the back of the building and there are three men smoking and two porta-potties. Hmmm.

I walk in the door. "Are you registered?" I am asked immediatly. After the disappointed look at my response, I am given a form to fill out, asking me more information than I feel comfortable giving. And they cannot make change. After all the money is straightened out and the forms filled, I think we are free to wander. "Don't forget your badges!" I make badges for the boys. My handwriting is neater.

To the left of the entry is a geek garage sale. 40 thousand different flavors of Star Wars figures. Other figures . . . Spawn is one that I remember. All the Star Wars gear that my mom has in her basement (though no Dagoba system). All of the Paladium books. They did something with Ninja Turtles. Interesting.

Then there are the shirts. P really wanted to buy one and I wouldn't let him. Asked him if he needed another shirt that he was forbidden to leave his apartment in . . . said "I saved Palladium books and all I got was this t-shirt" with characters on it. Sorry. No. We browse the silent auction, which is all stuff my brother and his friends already have. I then check out the gamers.

They seem to be shut-ins. Or people who pay no attention to the outside world. The archetype or stereotype seemed to be in force . . . I seriously wondered aloud where they all found pants that were three inches too short. Thick glasses from the seventies. Stains on their shirts. Nothing matched . . . or more accurately, everything clashed. And ponytails are very in. There was one in every group. And not wimpy, can barely make it into the rubber band ponytails. No, I've been actively not cutting my hair for ten years, ponytails.

I will say the ratio was definitely in my favor. I was one of three women there . . . and the other two were in bad outfits. Well, one was in a leotard . . . so I guess that was a good outfit from the crowd's point of view. She would have looked better without the gold helmet . . . but whatever. I had cleavage and good shoes. And no one looked up from the games to notice. Well, the artist guys noticed. But that was it.

So the best part? My brother loves this movie called Free Enterprise. And it is very much like him and his friends. But there is a line in the movie -- "Xizor, who knew?" when they find an action figure at some comic book store and the kid behind the counter corrects them in the pronouciation of the name. (It's pronouced "Shes-or") It is a common family saying when we discover something. "Hey, Dave, did you know that Trader Joe's has raspberry trail mix?" "Xizor. Who knew?"

So in the festival of geek garage sale, I asked if they had a Xizor . . . partially because I had just discovered that Xizor was actually a character in Star Wars (to which I did say, "Xizor. Who knew?). Scariness when P pointed out that if they had one, it would be with the "Shadows of the Empire" label, but those boys, they know their Star Wars figures. So they found two. And the mark-up was only one cent . . . judging from the Meijer price tag still on the package. Evidently, Xizor has not really appreciated in value. Who knew? So now my brother and I both have a "Prince Xizor with Energy Blade Shields". Well worth the ten dollars.

Oh, and they are N.I.B. which means that I cannot remove him from his clear plastic coffin and play with him. Because then he would not be N. or I.B. And that would destroy his value. So says Dave.

And the guy who's username was "rat_bastard" (I know . . . ) was the cutest guy there. He put it on his nametag.

Who knew.

Sugar Free Jello

I didn't buy tickets beforehand. Why? Didn't seem like the spoken word fest from the former lead singer of the Dead Kennedys would be sold out. Few people my age know who Jello Biafra is . . . and if you ask the young-uns, the people who go out and listen to things . . . well, you hear crickets.

"Oh, Dead Kennedys? Yeah, my dad listened to them." was the response from one of my students. Only one.

Quite frankly, the line was offputting. But they hadn't let anyone in. With or without tickets. Talked to a cosmetology student in line. Bought my ticket for twelve dollars. A dollar cheaper than they charged before the show. Sometimes it pays to be unorganized. A former student of mine was in line about four people behind me. It was nice to see him. Admonished him about not staying in school.

They did have t-shirts. One said "Vote Republican" with a large Nazi flag between the vote and the Republican. Shit. Digging through the memory banks. I thought Jello hated everyone. Now it's just Republicans? I bought a Guinness and waited to be outed. Sat in the back row. Corner seat. Visions of pitchforks.

Took a chance and spoke to someone I recognized from high school. Exchanged pleasantries. "Oh, yeah. I remember you." which was not remarkable, as we were in the same clique. "You were in a band once." I said to him. "Yeah, I'm with Cheilos tonight." he said. I don't remember anyone named Cheilos . . . of the friends that I remember that he had anyhow. "No. I'm with Jello." he corrected. How's that for name dropping? He walked away without any further clarification. Leaving me to wonder, was he with with Jello? Or was his band on the Alternative Tentacles label? Once I was informed, he seemed to think I was suitably impressed?

Waved at the people I knew were coming and then Jello was on stage, so talking seemed rude. All the photos of Jello, on his website, on the Majestic website, in the Free Press, seem to be from 1989. Jello now looks like Mr. Crabbypants. At least the guy on stage who said he was Jello does. And the ranting began.

Now I will say that the last time I saw Jello Biafra speak, I was much more to the left politically. And I will say, as pointed out frequently by my social studies friends, that my supposed "right" leanings now are more oppositional defiance than actual ideology. I work with a bunch of bleeding heart liberals. At least, they are the most vocal. And I did agree with some of the things Jello said. And didn't agree to others. And I listened attentively and clapped politely to the things I agreed with. Laughed at the things that I found funny, that were meant to be funny. And he dogged the Democratic party too . . . just not as much. And for the most part Jello made sense. For three hours.

At three hours, he said he was going to take a break. Which meant he was planning to come back. And I, quite frankly, couldn't do another three hours. So I left. Feeling slightly guilty. And old. But I was tired . . . and there is only so much Jello one can take in one sitting. Plus, with all the conspiracy theories thrown about, I'm sure the Republicans had inserted something into the back of my neck that was making me glow green. Or, more likely, my F.B.I. file was being added to just by being there. So I went home.

His speech did make me think. I should go check out the libertarians. See what they are up to. Or if they have an office. Or a secret handshake. And I am very much in favor of free speech. And most people aren't.

Never did figure out what "with Jello" meant. And from now on . . . there will only be pictures of me from 1992.

My Weekend

There was a dead rat under my shed.

My brother tried to convince me that it was just a small badger.

And I'm too tired and sore to say anything more.

Everyone Loves Jello

I am going to Jello Biafra by myself . . . and suddenly feel like the lamest girl in the world.

Two days ago, this was totally okay. No one likes Jello Biafra (though everyone still likes Jello). Most have never heard of Jello Biafra. It was good.

But now there are going to be people I know there . . . which is my own damn fault . . . because I told them. Which is great. They are perfectly nice people. But I don't want a pity fest. The "oh, come sit with us . . . you sad, sad little thing . . . "

Which won't happen. Just have to turn my mind around to that, right? Jello is going to be hilarious. I just got a manicure and a Shreikback CD. Life is good. And maybe there will be shirts.

But He Asked

"So what would you do?"

Someone in authority asked. I'm sure it was an rhetorical question on their part. And the person doesn't know me well. We are usually talking about my hair.

And of course, I told him. Exactly, to the letter, what I would do in his situation. Very lucky I didn't draw a diagram.

I should never be in a room with that question.

Mob Manners

Not me: So do you think they'd let me bring a pitchfork? What if I filed down the ends? Cause I'd really like to bring a pitchfork.

Me: So would we all have to have pitchforks?

Not me: You could bring whatever tool you wanted. But what do you start a mob with? I think a pitchfork.

Me: Why a pitchfork? How about clubs? Or torches?

Not me: Because I want to put her on there, like a kabob.

(when kabob was mentioned, I could NOT stop laughing and giggled for about five minutes. maybe it's because I had kabobs at Princess' house on Sunday. don't know.) (and before you contact the authorities, we are most likely NOT going to start a mob) (most likely) (definitely probably not)