Saturday, July 28, 2007

Dubious

I didn't want to title this "child abuse" because of the search engine bots . . . but the subject of the day is: child abuse. Not overt, call the police, have social services come in and check abuse. More like, "Boy, is that kid going to be f-ed up" situations.

Let's start backwards. I was just at Target . . . with Mason. I know his name is Mason because his mother said it at least 500 times while I was looking at cheap clothes. Now it doesn't take me more than say . . . a half an hour, tops . . . to do the clothing department at Target, including underwear and socks. So there was rarely a moment in that 30 minutes that I didn't hear the word "Mason". Mason was situationally deaf and chasing his sister through the racks. This would have been fine if Mason was under six and his sister wasn't screaming "Mason" to go with his mother saying "Mason". "Mason, Mason, Mason, MASON, masonmasonmason." Mason was probably about 12.

Now the child abuse going on here is that his mother kept making ultimatums that she wasn't going to keep, which is why Mason is twelve and thinks it's still cool to run in the women's department at Target. If he was normal, he would be playing video games in the electronic department. "Mason, STOP that." And Mason would just keep doing what he was doing.

I couldn't figure out if I wanted to hit his mother . . . or tell Mason to stop it and really mean it. I have a feeling that if I had turned and told him to knock it off, he would have.

Before I went to Target, I was at the mall. Somehow, I ended up in Victoria's Secret . . . until I remembered why I don't go into Victoria's Secret. So there is this family there. Yes, family. Mom, Dad, and three year old with mega-stroller. Didn't look into the mega-stroller to see if there was a baby because I was too distracted by the father holding up sheer lace underwear and saying across the aisle "Honey, how about these?" Maybe they have a great sex life. And that is wonderful. But I don't think their three year old boy needs to know that Daddy wants Mommy to wear slutty panties. Personally, I know I didn't want to know, so I can only imagine . . .

Last incident, which was actually the first incident of my day. I used the free parking in Royal Oak which meant I had to walk past the library. There were two blond, either nannies or mommies on the lawn. I do not make direct eye contact with mommies because it will make my ovaries explode with envy. So I didn't take much notice. However, there was this adorable two year old running around. He was trying to take his clothes off, which I thought was very reasonable. It's hot and clothes, they're bothersome. And then I heard the sorority girl voices.

"What's he doing?"
"(Sigh) I don't know."

They sounded like teenagers, the nanny/mommies . . . so I hoped they were nannies even more.
"Dragon? Dragon, what are you doing?"

Dragon had his shirt over his head. That's right. Dragon. I didn't hear it wrong, because I heard it repeatedly. The kid's name is Dragon.

"Dragon? Do you need to go potty?"

Dragon didn't need to go potty. Dragon just wanted to be naked. And if my name was something like "Dragon" I might just do the opposite of whatever my sorority mother said. Just because she named me Dragon.

Dragon just smiled at his mother and her friend and continued to try for nakedness. He was pretty far away from his mother, so he might have achieved his goal before she got to him.

I hope so.

So three cases of obvious child abuse that I can't call anyone about. Dragon is going to have to go to middle school one day, with that name. That poor three year old in the Victoria's Secret is bound to have issues . . . and my darling Mason, who I'm sure will be kicked in the head once or twice in prison. Because, Mason, you can't do whatever you want in the real world. No one will be there to say your name endlessly. They'll just either hurt you, or call the police. And the fact that all of these parents managed to find someone to breed with isn't making my ovaries feel any better.

Just saying.

Friday, July 27, 2007

Correction No.942

Mr. Crabbypants called. He left a very long message. I was asleep on the couch when he called.

He wants everyone to know that he NEVER said that The Polish Market had yogurt in glass jars. He simply said that they had European style yogurt. "And then your brother said, 'ooooh, like the kind in glass jars?' and then you people talked about that." So what he said and what I heard was different, according to him.

And Mr. Crabbypants would like to express his frustration at "being constantly misquoted" in my blog. The management could like to extend our sincerest apologies to Mr. Crabbypants and would like to say that it will never happen again . . . but the management would like to also maintain it's integrity. So it will probably happen again. Sometimes for artistic license. Sometimes, because, as he, himself, pointed out, I just hear what I want to hear.

Mr. Crabbypants should feel free to click the "comment" word and may file complaints in writing should he become concerned. This would avoid blogs being written about his complaints. Instead there would just be a "comment stream", which no one reads, really.

So for the record: Mr. Crabbypants said there was European style yogurt at the Market. He did not promise glass jars. I was horribly mistaken and he was misquoted.

Hopefully this will avoid any legal proceedings, disowning, or continued voice mail correction.

No really. Sorry Dad.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

I will write as I am waiting for Princess to call. She is getting her hair done in R.O. and it is the only time she comes to town, so we'll go out. Getting her hair done takes two to two and a half hours and the last time I went early and then had to stand in the salon and wait. I don't like waiting . . . and I don't like "salons" particularly, and this one is a very, very small, exclusive one, so I kept feeling like a needed some air. I am toying with the idea of going to coffee though.

So as it turns out, sewing is not as easy as one would think. I watched my mother do it for years and she always made it look easy. My sewing? There is swearing. And lots of trips to the internet to look up terms because the pattern will just say "GATHER" without telling you how to gather. You will need to baste in three rows in order to gather and make sure that you pull the bobbin string gently. Just the bobbin string. And you will need to look up baste in order to do it three times. Of course, the internet does not roll her eyes and look at you in the "you're such a disappointing daughter how did I produce someone with no domestic skills" when you ask it what baste means. Which makes me glad there is the internet. But the apron is done. It has rick-rack covering all the times I could not sew in a straight line. Sewing beats knitting in that way . . . can't put rick-rack on when you drop a stitch.

Oh, and my car? The tumblers in the lock assembly were jammed. The key wouldn't move, forward or back. Went in, bought some yogurt and a kefir smoothie, came back out and my key wouldn't move. So my brother drove 40 minutes, sat in the seat, spoke lovingly to it and it turned. He says we can build a new lock assembly this week. Sounds very exciting . . . like a puzzle. And now, I'm just driving around with a can of WD-40. And I have to clean out my car. And get it detailed. As penance.

And then there was the parking lot that I was stuck in. My father went to the Polish Market last week (in Troy, on Maple) and although they were a disappointment about the ham (my father likes Polish ham, sliced very thin, almost shaved, but not shaved . . . he is the Sally of ham . . . and he likes a certain brand, which they said they had, but didn't really have), the Polish Market was said to carry European yogurt in glass jars. Yum. Yogurt in glass jars with surprise flavors because you can't read the labels. Just like in France. S

o that was my quest of yesterday. And they did not have yogurt in glass jars. They had beet salad in glass jars. They had fish in seal-o-meal bags. They had chocolate that you can't find at the grocery store (kinder bars . . . mmmmm). And they had yogurt but not the selection that I was expecting. In Europe, entire aisles at the grocery store are devoted to yogurt . . . stacks and stacks of yogurt. At the Polish Market they had four kinds yesterday, but four kinds that I couldn't find at Meijer. And the stuff I bought has chocolate flakes and is the consistency of frosting. Which is good. Not as good as glass jars, but good. And now I know where to get shredded beets.

Okay, maybe I will go to coffee. Her hair is taking a long time, and I'm sick of waiting by the phone.

Cheaper. Less Calories.

Hmm. Who knew?

If you search "goth in your thirties" on AOL search, there's me on the center of the page. Interesting how people find me.

So I'm feeling a bit under the weather today and I'd like to think that it wasn't the drinks that I had last night . . . but it was the drinks I had last night. My car broke. I talked to one boss and don't lie well and she asked about the other boss. I tried to keep positive. Tried. Yeah. So some martinis later . . . I felt really good. And now, I don't feel so good.

And you know that resolution you make with yourself? The one you make after drinking a bit too much? I'm never going to drink again. Yeah. That will be great. Cheaper. Less calories. No more drinking.

Except that I'm supposed to go to the wine bar with a friend tonight.

My brother was very sweet last night and fixed my car. Made it work again when things seemed hopeless. And fixed it for free . . . and made it work more that just that day with a can of WD-40. A very talented man. And I would probably be still stuck in the parking lot of the Polish Market with my yogurt going bad if he hadn't come to save me.

So my brother is currently a saint. And I'm not drinking for at least a week.

Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip 'Thou Shalt Always Kill'

it's long but worth it.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Pulled . . . or Finding the Bar Next to the Cyclotron

"I just commented on a post and now it's GONE."
"Yeah, I do that sometimes. I pull them. It was whiny."
"It wasn't whiny."
"It talked about work."
"Yes, it talked about work. It was revealing. But it wasn't whiny."
"Well, I can pull them. I usually put them back up after I get three or four more posts up."
"I just wondered if I was crazy. I had just commented."
"Nope. It's still there. You just can't see it."

Ah, the fine line of personal blogging. What is self-indulgent pratter and what is insightful? I was basically whining about my life . . . again. And I decided that wasn't pretty. So I pulled it to a draft. I always put them back up. I just wait, so that it is not the first entry one sees.

Basically what it came down to was that the internet (the "new" way to meet people . . . even though we've been doing it for years) is not working for me. And as I primarily talk to the waitress at Leo's and the barista at Starbucks, I would like to order something: slightly awkward skinny guy with glasses, dark hair, obscure sense of humor -- graduate degree a plus, but must be smarty pants. And one would think that you would be able to find that on the internet, cause isn't that where they all hang out? I need to find better nerd bars. Next to physics school or something. The ultimate question. Where do all the lonely engineers hang out?

Oh, yeah, forgot to add sane. The non-insane relatively good-looking lonely engineers who will worship the ground I walk on. Who are into alternative music. But not too into it.

And I wonder why I haven't met someone?

Anyhow, that was really what the pulled post was about: angst at not finding the nerd who will at least like me . . . though the nerd bar thing is a yummy thought.

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Harry Potter

No, there won't be any spoiling.

As I sit here recovering from my good cry over a children's book at 2:26 a.m. I realize how lucky we are to be able to communicate through writing . . . and to have authors that inspire us. And that I am lucky. To be able to read and comprehend with the speed to finish a J.K. Rowling book over the course of basically six hours.

It was an excellent read. And it ended in a way that I am not reluctant that I finished. And although Ms. Rowling used very common themes -- the importance of love and friendship, the warning that one should not judge others . . . that often the good in a person will surprise you, that absolute power corrupts, and the power of faith and believing in oneself -- she manages to convey this in an often surprising and unique manner.

So true to form, I have finished the last Potter book in a day. It was a good as "Order of the Phoenix", which was my favorite. If you haven't read them (because of the resistance to the hype or perhaps because they are considered children's literature), please consider it.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Awesome

Went to see Travis tonight and they were totally awesome . . .

Will write more tomorrow. Night.

Tired of Being the Project

In a conversation about how I've stopped looking for a significant other for the moment. . .

"Well, maybe you have to take some time. You know, to work on yourself. Get right with yourself."

And my first step? To getting "right with myself"? To finding "inner peace" before I "share it with others".


Not talking to that guy anymore.

Check.


Before you get all uppity with the comments, I have plenty of inner peace. I'm just not choosing to share it right at this time. It was a "pot talking to very expensive espresso machine about her perceived blackness" moment. And my first step is to not take advice from tea kettles anymore.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

You Can't Wait Here

I picked Princess up at the airport last night.

Her plane was an hour late . . . and I did not check the internet before I left to find out that information (at this point my father is rolling his eyes, thinking about where he could have gone wrong). When I went to pick up the prodigal son J. I pull up to the terminal and was told, very politely but firmly, that I could not stop my car "until my party was waiting curbside". This meant much circling, because J. being a Crabbypants, didn't check any luggage. So he was going to be momentarily curbside.

Princess is not in any way a Crabbypants. So I knew there would be checked luggage. Huge pieces of checked luggage. Plus she went to California for more than a week. If I was not a Crabbypants that would require many, many shoes. So even larger huge luggage. (turns out she was three pounds over the weight limit) So I didn't leave in a hurry. I pulled up to the terminal at 1:04, a full 17 minutes after her plane was supposed to land. The plan was for me to sit in the "cell phone area". But the "cell phone area" is complicated from my direction . . . you have to drive through the airport, go out on Eureka, find a place to turn around, go back toward the airport. I didn't know it existed until Mr. Crabbypants mentioned it. And I had some time with the circling for J.. But if you are east of the airport, you would not know about the mysterious "cell phone" waiting area.

But as I pulled up to the terminal, planning to be a good girl and going to wait in the "cell phone area" with my doors locked (it's not well lit . . . and basically is the side of a freeway ramp), I found that in the wee hours of the morning there is no plan for homeland security. Whereas, I could not stand with my car running for five minutes at 2 in the afternoon, I could park my car and walk away at 2 in the morning. And no one cared. I didn't do that, of course, due to my ingrained airport etiquette, handed down genetically. But I could have. The mini-van parked askew behind me had a college student and two small identically dressed children. She walked around everywhere . . . including . . . gasp . . . entering the airport itself. The weird green van in front of me, that had a clown car like quality of having an unlimited number of people enter and exit the vehicle sat for the same amount of time that I did. And was there when I left. As a rule follower, it was driving me crazy.

Not only was I irked by the hypocrisy of not letting me wait five minutes in the afternoon but being able to sit for an hour late at night. I also was alarmed by what I saw, things that I don't think should happen at an airport anymore. A man wandering around without shoes for a full hour. Parked cars with no one in them. The Nicaraguan clown van in parked in front of me. Totally unattended six year olds running about. People entering baggage claim from the outside world. (I'm sure they were just walking in a stealing luggage. No one checks. And they always tell you the wrong belt and then make you walk to another belt.) And while there were at least ten sheriff patrol cars in the afternoon, I saw one in my hour last night. One. For five minutes. They pulled over someone in the third lane. Forced them to the curb. I think because they were waiting in the third lane. So forced them to the same place they told me I couldn't wait in the afternoon.

So I don't like the airport in the wee hours in the morning. Makes me feel jumpy. Perhaps because I have a devious mind.

Princess's luggage was not stolen by the random guy with no shoes, perhaps because it was so heavy. She brought me a lovely gift. She did not know about the line of "Emily, the Strange" products and seemed to think that they fit me perfectly. So I now have a lovely key chain proclaiming me as strange . . . and that I rock. Which fits, really. I'm glad she is home.

Monday, July 16, 2007

Expectations

Ahhh . . . summer.

Remember when I signed up for all those classes? Cause I needed to have "structured time". Yeah. Remind me to NOT do that next year. Actually, remind me to just sign up for Pilate's . . . and something where I can cut things, sculpture, cooking, welding. I need more burning and cutting. More hands-on. More something.

This has turned into the summer of "well . . . that wasn't as good as I expected . . . " And that is not entirely true. Riding my bike to Royal Oak and just wandering around, talking to the ladies at the yarn store about knitting a ball gag ("the hardest part is finding the right ball")(and they brought it up . . . no, really). Fun. Pilate's at the Y? Fun. My instructor is like the Sandra Bullock of torturous positions and I love her. Always in pink. Always with a smile on her face. She is what I want to be in my next life, should I not end up a border collie.

But in the category of "well . . . that wasn't as good as I expected . . . ", in no particular order: going to concerts spontaneously and finding they are sold out, my web design class, belly dancing, having blue hair

My web design class? I have learned absolutely nothing. And I would like to say that it was me . . . that education is what you put into it . . . but today, I did what he said and designed the site in photoshop first and not only could he not verbalize how I should start, HE COULDN'T MAKE THE PAGE EITHER. This was seriously frustrating. So I'm not feeling all that bad about missing the last class to go see Travis. I should feel bad. I won't.

Belly dancing was cancelled last week . . . by my instructor, who I think was doing the "I'm really sick . . . cough, cough, really really sick with a . . um. . . respiratory infection" and I was relieved. Belly dancing has turned out to be watching a white girl dance in front of a mirror. And that white girl isn't me. She doesn't teach us steps. She does show us steps but usually insists that we do them at the same time. And then she looks at herself in the mirror. One would think she would maybe make adjustments, so we don't look like walruses trying to stand on our tails and belly dance. However, it's the Y . . . so I should just get over it. It's an excuse to jump around for an hour. But I kinda wanted to learn how to belly dance.

And although it is fascinating to walk around the mall and be mistaken by four year olds for the tooth fairy, well, I'm a little tired of people giving me shit about my hair. It seems to be an inconvenience for my family . . . and let's face it, I'm just not all that weird. So when I'm in a dress and heels at the bar there is dissonance. And granted, I LIKE dissonance. But I also like to be liked a certain amount. So the blue hair may go sooner rather than later. My mother and father will be overjoyed with this news, because evidently, I am hard to be seen with. Who knew it would be a bigger deal than the red. People liked the red. And I do have someone come up to me everyday and compliment my hair, just like with the red. Maybe it's that I don't like the blue as much as the red. Mom suggested that I put red over and see if I get purple. Which may happen later this week.

However, I cooked today . . . which for the first time in my life I am finding more fun. Now if my family would just shut up about how bad I am at it . . . cause I'm not. I think they just have too high a standard. Or just like to give me shit.

And who knew that sewing machine could be so fun? That way exceeded my expectations. Oh, and pretzel sticks and peanut butter. That too.

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Whomever

Went to see La Vie En Rose yesterday.

Best line?

A woman is interviewing Edith Piaf on a beach. Edith Piaf is knitting through the interview.

"Who are you knitting for?"
"Whomever will wear the sweater."

It was pointed out that I do that too. But with hats.

Friday, July 13, 2007

Just in Case You Thought I Was Just Sittin' Around



My second sock monkey of the summer. I think I'll name him Syd.

Cupcake Science Fair



Exhibit A









Exhibit B




Exhibit C









So I did the cupcake science fair yesterday. Made some more of the chocolate filled cupcakes (Exhibit B) from the Martha Stewart recipe and tried
two new kinds of cupcakes, as I was in a raspberry chocolate mood (Exhibits A and C).


Exhibit A -- Chocolate Raspberry Cupcakes: Recipe called for frozen raspberries and room temperature everything. Very easy recipe (which I would give you the link to, but have forgotten it) and things pretty much went without a hitch. Will fill the cups more next time. Oh, and I used cake flour (see explanation for Exhibit B) and I think they are a bit too cakey. Raspberry flavor is good . . . not quite chocolaty enough though. Maybe add some chips. And they seem to be dissolving, so they might be the "serve right away" kind of cupcake. I dusted with powdered sugar and it seems to have disappeared overnight . . . helping with the dissolving theory. They taste AWESOME though.

Exhibit B -- Vanilla Filled Cupcakes: My siblings gave me a lot of shit about the first batch, so I took their suggestions. Tried cake flour on my brother's suggestion (as he used to own that bakery and all). Found that vanilla beans are very reasonably priced at Trader Joe's and so used two this time. Beat the hell out of the sugar (as I do not have a mixer . . . well, I have one somewhere, I think, maybe, packed up in my Northville apartment junk . . . but when you move into a house with no kitchen and then buy new everything for your new kitchen because you deserve it after the tar floor debacle, well, okay, so I don't know if I have a mixer or not). Result: Cupcakes are not all that much more fluffy. Maybe minorly fluffy. Approaching fluffy. And the one cupcake that I "taste tested" the chocolate had sunk to the bottom and stuck to the paper cup. So maybe the all purpose flour brickness was to hold up the chocolate. And they still taste good. Just need some milk.

Exhibit C -- Raspberry Chocolate Cupcakes deux: I was excited about this recipe . . . well, the tablespoon of vinegar was a little weird. But just using raspberry preserves to fill them? Cool. Cause that comes in a jar. Already made. And the recipe has you fill them before you bake them. So no cutting up your cupcakes or piping. Because piping would mean more kitchen gadgets . . . and we just talked about the box of kitchen gadgets in the basement. So you make the chocolate cake and then fill the cups with one tablespoon, then one teaspoon of preserves, and then another tablespoon of cake. Great. Except that there wasn't enough cake. And a teaspoon of preserves is a lot of preserves. And when they baked? Huge mess. Volcanoes of hot raspberry syrup. And then there was the falling in like craters. They were not pretty. And do not taste as good as Exhibit A. Solution? Frosting. Lots of frosting. So basically they are paper cups filled with frosting, with a raspberry on top. But hey, some people like that.

So if you like frosting, ask me to drop off Exhibit C. If you have milk (I don't drink milk and therefore usually don't have it in the house) go with Exhibit B . . . and if I really like you, you can have some of Exhibit A. Give me your order and I will leave them on your porch.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Evening Activity

I read Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix in one evening. I remember, not because I read most books . . . and for some reason especially Harry Potter books . . . in the course of an evening (currently reading Winkie . . . slowly, which is unusual). I remember because (spoiler alert, for those who haven't read it or seen the movie skip to the second paragraph now) I was crying at 5 in the morning because Sirius Black died. And feeling very silly because it was 5 a.m., I was crying about a character in a Harry Potter book, and I wasn't ten years old.

So I went to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix this evening and true to the adage, the book was way better than the movie. And that part that I was so upset about was just a blip in the movie. Hardly a sniffle. It was worth seeing, but only if you have read the book. I'll lend it to you if you would like . . .

I thought I would be the only person in the theater, because who goes to the movies at 11 p.m. on a Wednesday? But there were families and couples. All who wanted to talk, unwrap loud candy wrappers and crunch things. If we had thrown a cell phone into the mix, it would have been perfect . . . the boys in front of me were constantly texting. So Sunday morning is a better time for movies. If we are comparing, anyhow.

And now everyone will compare me to Tonks. The posting of all the new rules and the changes at Hogwarts reminded me of "somewhere". I think I will take to posting "Rule 119" in the same way.

Monday, July 09, 2007

What I Came From


My grandmother is the little girl in the center with the bow. Aunt Leona is being held on the left. My grandmother's older sisters Hazel (on left) and Ina are the girls in the white dresses.

Nothing Scary . . . Just my Week

My Great Aunt Leona died last week.

She was ninety-six and had led a very full life. But it was very sad. Aunt Leona was my grandmother's sister, but was also her best friend. And while my grandmother had severe dementia for a very long time, Aunt Leona was lucid to the end. She remembered.

Aunt Leona did not have children of her own . . . so she was a second mother to my mother. Much like my grandmother, she had this amazing sense of fun and sometimes mischief. She never had anything bad to say about anyone. She had travelled the world and always had stories to tell. She expanded our worlds by telling them. She always had a giggle and a sparkle in her eye, even at the end when she really wasn't feeling all that great.

Even though there were four of us . . . and she had really breakable stuff, Aunt Leona would have us all over and loved us. She would play games with us for hours and seemed delighted to play "High Ho Cherry O". She had beautiful clothes and jewelry and elegant furniture. She showed us how to appreciate fine things.

She had gotten ready. Gave my mother a list, which my mother completed for her. Evidently, all of the items were food related . . . rhubarb pie, green onions . . . and then she left us, quietly, before lunch on a Saturday.

We cleaned out her apartment that day. That was Saturday. I offered to dye my hair. I spent Sunday with my brother and parents.

Monday I just didn't feel well. I skipped class. My mother went and made the arrangements.

Tuesday I was stood up for a date. Which wasn't all that big a deal. Just annoying. And then he called with an excuse . . . an excuse that was more annoying. And then I went to a movie with Princess in which the main character finds fulfillment in having a child. Literally, the message was "have a child and then you won't need men". Being single, 36, stood up, and childless, I did not find the message of the movie uplifting. It made me sad.

Wednesday my father called and informed me that he was taking my mother to the hospital. Go to hospital. Know mother is feeling better when she tells us to take the sock monkey home and "go roomba the kitchen". We go roomba the kitchen (it's very noisy, the roomba). I make boozy pie.

Thursday I bake. They found nothing wrong with my mother (THANK GOODNESS) and we chalk it up to bad chicken. See what happens when you don't eat family chicken?

Friday I pick up the prodigal son from the airport. We have lunch. I deliver him to the family. My sister tells me that my cupcakes are bad. My brothers support her opinion.

Saturday is the funeral. And it is very sad. And my family keeps making fun of my wig. My brother keeps bowing and asking me when I joined the communist regime. I get really tipsy at Ashley's and find that the bathrooms are still kinda gross . . . not as gross as I remember, but gross. We go to my parent's house and light the fireworks that were supposed to be for the Fourth of July.

Sunday one of my friends lost his job. Which makes me feel bad for him. And things weren't going so well for him to begin with, so it's sort of like watching a train wreck.

And in amongst this, I join yahoo personals for week (hence the blind date that stood me up). Somewhere, somehow, during the chaos of the week, I came to the conclusion that I deserve more. Maybe it was the one that started with how he really wanted to "fusk me" . . . maybe it was the one that is "looking forward to our physical relationship". Maybe it was the train wreck that just happened. But you know what? I deserve more.

And part of this push to meet people (people being men to date) was that I didn't want to be Aunt Leona, whom I saw as childless and therefore, alone. That was part of the dating panic which was really dying alone panic. I didn't want poor Z. to have to take care of me . . . being my step-nephew and all. If I was going to be a burden, I wanted to be a burden to someone who I pushed out my womb. It seems only fair.

But you know what? Aunt Leona had a really great life. And a really great couch. And things worked out for her, even though she and Uncle Manning dated forever (11 years). And so . . . things will work out for me.

There. Doesn't everyone feel better?

And I'm still not going to answer my phone. Sorry.

But I might give you a bad cupcake.

Sunday, July 08, 2007

Walking the Line

There is a fine line between non-judgemental . . . and just not using judgement.

And right now, I think I'm guilty of the latter.

So I need some alone time.

And I'm not using the phone. So leave a message, IM me, or email me if you want something.

And yes, Dad, if you call . . . if I can find the phone in time . . . I'll answer it.

So there will probably be more bad cupcakes. Thank goodness I don't eat them. I just torture my siblings with them.

Friday, July 06, 2007

119 Dollars Later





One tank of gas so I could leave the house: $32


Trip to Target for a whisk, cooling rack and additional muffin pan: $25


Holiday Markup for Dutch Cocoa, Vanilla Beans, and Orange Liqueur: $62


Having lots of cupcakes with long names and a "I was stood up on a Tuesday" booze pie . . . well, not priceless, but it kept me busy.


Now someone has to come and eat this food. Expect packages on your porches. And no, they are not poisoned . . . though watch the boozy cupcakes. The icing is pretty strong . . . and they do not come out of the wrappers well. Something about the Coca-cola, I'm sure.

Thursday, July 05, 2007

Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Booze Pie

I just made a "I was stood up last night, booze pie".

And Paul tells me that if I cook, it doesn't matter if I'm ugly or not, cause boys, they are all about the food.

But I'm not really interested in cooking . . . I am interested in baking. So if you want you could have the "My mom went to the hospital, and thank God nothing is wrong with her" cupcakes. They will have chocolate hidden inside.

Making up Pie

Just because I know you all want to know . . .

He didn't show.

And I drank my tea, read the Metro Times and listened to my ipod.

I now know how much Golden Monkey tea is . . . and although it is not $85 dollars, true to my usual unconscious choice, it is one of the most expensive teas. And I will now be up for four days.

I only had two cups and then decided to be early for the movie that I was going to after with Princess. Thank God for Princess and the movie after. And he called. I didn't listen to the message, Princess did. Something about being "hung up" talking to someone. He was nervous and very apologetic. But not the best start.

And the movie we chose, I did not find uplifting. But Princess liked it . . . and maybe I'll make a pie tomorrow.

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

Because Men Hate Shallow

Okay, this makes me smile every time I think about it.

on the phone

Me: So I'll meet you after my blind date. I'll just have one drink with him.
Princess: Are you sure? What if it goes well? Maybe you'll want to stay.
Me: Ah, he doesn't have a picture. Hasn't sent me one. I'm sure one drink will be enough.
Princess: Maybe he doesn't have a picture because he is so gorgeous. He just wants to make sure you aren't shallow.

And just that thought will get me through anything that happens. Because that is the most lovely positive spin I have heard all week.

What He Heard

"Well, I'm on summer time . . . so you could call me sometime after you get out of work. I'll be up."

What he heard: I want you to steal all your freedom.

What I meant: It's really boring when you're up at 3 a.m. with no one to talk to . . . and you'll do.

"Oh, so you'll have all the kids? Well give me a call, we'll go to a museum or something . . . I'm good at finding free fun."

What he heard: I want to steal your soul.

What I meant: It must be hard to handle three kids and do anything. And hey, I want to go to the MOCAD . . . that might be fun with little kids.

The most fun of the conversation is, with this particular person, I could see the translation going on as he processed what I said. I was just being nice. Making conversation. I don't want to "date" him per say . . . but he is a good friend. Perhaps that is why I could see what was going on in his head.

And there are all these personal ads written by men saying they don't "want any games". I think of Scrabble (which I find boring) and Monopoly (which I find so boring that I don't think I've ever gotten through a whole game). But they aren't talking about that. I'm sure of it.

And I have been guilty of doing the "what does he really mean by that". And you know what? Most of the time, he meant exactly what came out of his mouth. Unless, he is breaking up with you . . . and then he is going to say whatever he thinks won't make you cry. Oh, there is that other time . . . but my parents read this.

And maybe I don't pay enough attention to what other women are saying and doing. But I didn't know there were games. Well, okay, maybe I did. But men play them just as much. If not more. And I really am just nice. Sorry, my parents raised me that way.

I don't even want anybody else's soul. Geez. Where would I put it?

New and Streaming

The new Matthew Good album comes out July 31st . . . but is streaming now from his website. And yes, you have to register to listen to it, but of course I had already registered. Maybe, just maybe, the U.S. itunes will carry it. I wonder if I can download things from itunes.ca, or if I have to download another version of itunes to do that.

It is sad . . . and angry . . . but mostly sad. And while I love his work, I would not use the term "uplifting" to describe it. And there are songs about a woman jerking him around . . . hmmm, where have I heard that before?

And that will lead into the next blog . . .

If he comes anywhere near the state of Michigan, we are all going. Stop whining, it will be a good road trip.

Monday, July 02, 2007

Well Loved

"Well it's more Grover than Cookie Monster. And your head . . . it looks like a well-loved stuffed animal. Like a Grover doll out of somebody's memory box."

Thanks Mere.