My Mother Doesn't Have Enough to Do

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

Thoughts

Okay . . . so I'm knitting like some sort of deranged elf slave . . . and I just obsessively drove to three different places to look for new lights for my tree . . . and two places for a Mr. Crabbypants gift . . . and I needed to go to the other "side" of the mall but just couldn't bring myself to do that . . . I have all weekend, right? . . . except for all the time that I have other stuff to do this weekend . . . like kidnapping my mother's embroidery machine . . . and I bought the Christmas CD sung by Kristen Chenoweth . . . thus being more like my father than I'd like to admit . . . and quite frankly . . .

if you won't tell anybody . . .

I would really, really like a snow day tomorrow . . .

List

My sister complained on Facebook that her siblings had not given a clue about their wish lists. I will point out that I have an Amazon wishlist, but I don't really keep it all that updated. And it's mostly for when I have disposable income and have to remember "oh yeah, I really wanted _______."

So for my sister:

a red cashmere sweater

home depot gift certificate

new duvet cover

that scent sampler from Sephora . . . has ten different perfumes and a gift certificate for a big one once you decide . . . really I just think it's cool

perfume from that place in Paris . . . they have a website

a good referral for someone to refinish my floors

something pursey . . . you know how I like handbags

a trendy cookbook . . . something like "Baked"

pajamas

a gift certificate for a massage

wine glasses

booze . . . you could get me booze

Cold War Kids . . . it's a band, Dad . . . not really kids

Truthfully, it's hard because I don't NEED anything. And I feel really ungrateful for making a list. And publishing it. If I were a better person, I would say make a donation to . . . well, someplace nice . . . the Michigan Humane Society.

Or snowboard lessons. No. Think of the kitties . . . the cute cute kitties.

There was Something Mentioned about a Colon

So I managed to do everything I wanted to do yesterday . . . hairs are a different color, cat was fed, Noel Night was attended, dinner was eaten, and shadow art fair was attended. Spider Monkey was called into work today, so I am grappling with a large block of unplanned time.

Should I go Christmas shopping? Take down the ceiling fan? Move a bunch of stuff (old Fisher Price toys . . . no, my mother lovingly saved them . . . I can't give them away) up to the attic storage space that I found one night while looking for vermin? (Who knew that my humidifier makes scritching noises if you set it on high?) Wash some walls? Go to IKEA to get some window treatments? Have a cocktail? Do some laundry? Go to Nepal? The possibilities are endless.

Right now, in my very warm Mom-ish looking sweater, I have to go fill up my tires. I hate paying for air. Or more correctly, I hate paying for someone to compress air so I can put it in my tires. For 50 cents, a little man should come out and fill my tires for me. And then I think I will go to Coney Island and then . . . ooooooh, Trader Joes. Haven't been there in months.

Yay! Sunday.

F-Book

I was an early adopter . . . I just didn't do anything with it.

But now, the Spider Monkey is addicted to Facebook. "Hmmm" I said. "I think I have a Facebook account." And now I am guilty of causing others to use their Facebook accounts. Other people who also had lives before I made them friends and wrote on their "walls". I'm so ashamed.

And I have to log in and check it everyday. And there is this feed of what everyone said . . . to anyone and everyone else. Like peeping into other computers, but it's okay because everyone is your friend, right? Maddening. And yet, so irresistible.

So I'm on Facebook. My picture isn't. My friends are very screened. And now I need to clean something . . . because the voyeurism is making me feel all dirty.

I will not tie you to the chair

"So we can just get up and LEAVE?"

I have all new students and I now have to do the "class expectations" speech all over again.

"Yes, you are all young adults. I will mark you absent, of course. But I certainly won't stand in your way, should you decide to leave."

He had never considered this option before. Just getting up and walking out. And now that I had listed the consequence, which seemed minor, well . . . ah, the joy of working with adolescents.

So my voice is tired. I'm exhausted from trying to entertain these rascals and it turns out the most interesting part to them is that they can exercise a tiny bit of free will. Now, mind you, if the office catches them skipping, there are consequences other than being marked absent. And there are cameras all over the building. But the thought was very exciting.

Heck, some days I daydream about walking out myself.

De-Clutter

"And . . . why do you need three coffee makers?"

I attempted to explain that they were all for a different purpose. One was for large pots of coffee, one was for espresso and one was for just one cup of coffee. And I hadn't paid a dime for any of them.

"And how often do you make coffee for large groups of people?" Well, there was that one time . . . in the five years that I have lived here.

"And how often do you make espresso?" I'd like to think all the time, thus not throwing my money at Starbucks. Or maybe just some of the time. But really, I like someone to hand me the latte. I don't want to make the latte. I certainly don't want to clean up the latte mess. So I use it next to never . . . but I could start using it. Really. I could. Anytime now.

We comprimised. I took the large coffee pot to school. And a flat surface was cleared, if only in a minor way.

My mother has no idea how much she should love the spider monkey. Except that he has eyes on my yarn piles.

You Give Me a Friday Off . . .

"The Limited" suddenly has sizes bigger than size 12. This was an unfortunate development as I was trying to Christmas shop yesterday. Quite the distraction.

And the "What Not to Wear" marathon has caused a change in my hair.

Quite the day off.

Where IS your sense of Adventure?

I have been invited to the Spider Monkey family Thanksgiving.

And while I am curious . . . and really trying to play it cool . . . my mind has gone into "meeting the boy's parents" overdrive. And I try to turn it off. Talk myself out of it. And it didn't work. At all.

So I called Princess for some "ohmygodwhatdoIwear?" advice. And she decided that I really needed supervision. So we planned to go shopping this afternoon.

And then she got a call for work . . . from my work, actually . . . and so we were late. And hungry. And Princess had an eye appointment. As we were driving to make the eye appointment, Princess turns into "Liz's Ham Cafe".

Liz's Ham Cafe looks as bad as it's unfortunate name. "Come on . . . it will be quick . . . where is your sense of adventure?" Princess asks. My sense of adventure is back about a block at the nice, sanitized, familiar Starbucks. But Princess is driving and we have half an hour to eat.

The smell upon opening the door is of old people. That's the only way I can explain it. Everything is decorated for the holidays and there is green vinyl covering most of the place. And evidently, in order to be a customer at the Ham Cafe, you have to be over ninety, or over 500 pounds, or looking suspiciously like a drug addict. Some customers look all three. Princess and I, however, are seriously overdressed. And I'm dressed like me.

So the restaurant stops as we walk in. And looks at the newcomers.

And the food is awful. Princess orders a bacon omelet (and was very excited about the prospect) but receives a ham omelet (go figure . . . at the Ham Cafe), so she just eats her hash browns. I order a patty melt and fries. The fries are mealy and the melt is gray. Everything is super-sized, however. We have enough food for five people. And we basically sit in front of it for five minutes and then rush to the eye doctor. I swear all the other customers looked relieved when we left.

So another culinary adventure with Princess. Ham Cafe. Who would think that would be bad?

Latest Injury

Yes, My Brother IS Giving Me "Rabbit Ears"

Geeks and Boobs

I went to the Renaissance Festival this weekend. For the first time in eighteen years.

And what I learned?

The Renaissance Festival is really about geeks congregating . . . and boobs. Lots and lots of boobs. Cleavage everywhere you turn. Sometimes with aureoles. And really, any kind of cleavage your might want if you were a geek . . . lots of variety.

Oh, and bad tattoos, but that is pretty much everywhere these days.

I didn't wear anything revealing. I don't have any tattoos, let alone bad ones. And I didn't where my Jedi cape . . . oh, that's right I don't own a Jedi cape. . . so I didn't really fit in. It was fun and I had my one bite of turkey leg (yuck) so I don't need to go back for another five years or so. Except that I didn't invite my brother and Z, and now I feel bad, so I might have to go back next year. At least I know what to wear.

And what's with all the chicks in belly dance scarves? Did everyone female in the Renaissance have to jingle? Or is that just a geek mating thing?

Hold Your Breath

So I remember thinking in the shower yesterday, "Wow, I'm really surprised that the mammogram people haven't called . . . guess my gut feeling was wrong."

And yesterday afternoon, there was a call from a number that I didn't recognize and I answered it. I never answer those.

It was the mammogram people. "You need to come in again." They couldn't give a reason why and I was short with them . . . no, I can't come in tomorrow (duh, I have a life). I'll come in on Friday . . . and what is the reason for this repeat? I was told that I could call my doctor's office.

I find the phone number for the gynecologist. I hold. I am told that I have "a 7 mm mass on your right breast and asymmetrical tissue in your left breast". One should never have to hear mass in reference to their breasts. The nurse is explaining that it's my first film and that this happens all the time and that they have nothing to compare it to . . . but I'm wondering if I shouldn't have taken that offer for the next day appointment. Actually, my brain is melting in panic.

Of things about my body, my eyes and my boobs are at the top of the list. I like my boobs. I don't want new ones. And that was my panic thought for the next 24 hours until I could go to the rescheduled next day appointment, ditching work in the process. I like my boobs. I don't want new ones. There wasn't any panic about having cancer or it spreading throughout my body or dying . . . just I like my boobs . . . I don't want new ones . . .

I panicked at my mother, who was helpful until she said, "You don't really even have to worry until they send you for a digital one . . . they can't see anything on them until the digital one." Except that I HAD a digital mammogram from the get go. Oops. SM was very sympathetic and listened to all my whinyness . . . the first time I was kinda crazy in front of him.

I wore my lucky shoes and earrings in all my holes (six is luckier than five) and showed up when I was supposed to. Checking in was faster this time and the volunteer (I assume she was a volunteer, as she was way over eighty and could barely stand, let alone lead me) lead me to a different door in the Alice in Wonderland world of the Breast Care floor. I was handed a thin pale green bathrobe again and told that I already knew the drill. This time I used a locker . . . but had to pick a lucky number locker -- 264 was occupied, so I had to go with 262. Amazing how OCD I am in the middle of a losing your boobs panic.

A very smiley tech with a serious Latin accent calls me up. In the room I get to see my breasts backlighted on the wall, circles and arrows added showing concerns. Arrow to a round thing in my right breast. Circle around something that looks very much like a tail, a puppy's tail, in my left breast. Slightly different Princess Leia torture robot, same plate but instead of a clear plastic tray the size you would use for brownies, there is something the size of a petrie dish. The tech explains that this is going to be "more painful" and then there is a game sorta like Simon Says to line me up with the machine. "Put your right foot here . . . raise your arm up to the ceiling . . . now put it down on the machine . . . move your ribs to the left . . . " The whole idea is that they are getting closer and more detailed images. Once I was squished in there I was in so much pain that there was no way that I was breathing.

"Hold your breath" she says as she pushes the button, which I took as don't move, as I was already not breathing. We did this five more times and then I was walked back to the waiting room. There is relatively instant gratification, the radiologist looks at your new films right away. I nervously go back to reading "Vanity Fair" while listening to the woman across from me talk on the phone.

The same smiley tech comes to get me again and we go back to the same room and do the dance two more times. I would like to say that I was really freaked out at this point, but I was numb. I had done all I could have done, lucky locker number and all. The chips were going to fall where they may. Back in the waiting room, I continued glancing at the article on Paul Newman. The phone woman interrupted me, with the epiphany that we were ALL back for re-examination. It was an interesting descent . . . "wait, this is a different waiting room . . . are you here for a re-check? . . . are you? . . . hey, we're all here for the same thing? . . . how many times have you been back?" Finally, an older woman on oxygen took her under her wing, telling her stories of her many lumpectomies and biopsies. Not really comforting at all, but something to talk about.

They had taken the oxygen lady back and the panicky woman was back on the phone when they called me up again. Without much fanfare, I was given a piece of paper and told to come back in three years, when I'm 40. The checked box on the paper says pretty much the same thing. So I put on my clothes and went back to work. No tickertape. No balloons.

Since then I have had several "Life is too short for this crap cause I almost didn't have boobs" moments, which might be a good way to live, maybe. And quite frankly, I didn't really realize that I was that attached to them.

Joining the Information Age

As a teacher, I try to keep up with the trends of communication. This blog started because my students were blogging and I wanted to see what it was all about.

So at the start of this new school year, I took a look at how my students like to communicate. They do not email . . . email is soooo passe, so last week. They text. They text all the time. They would spend their whole time in school texting, if we didn't let them plug into the internet so they can illegally try and get past the firewall so they can . . . well, I don't know what the fad of the minute is. Guess I will find out next week. (I was going to say Twitter, but I think that is "soooo five minutes ago" by now)

So in my resolution to be more organized this year and therefore making my life easier, smoother and less stressed (HA!) (and yes, I make resolutions in late August . . . makes more sense than January), I sent the whole yearbook staff a letter about goals for the first weeks of school. One of those goals was to actually have yearbook students selling yearbooks at registration, instead of Emily selling all the yearbooks. In the letter, I gave them my email address . . . and my phone number so they could text me.

Adults reel at this idea. Give them my phone number? Give the enemy my phone number? What if they call you? For the most part they don't. If anything, by giving them my phone number, I get more parent calls . . . which if you think about it, the school will give them my number anyhow. I did, however, get a lot of texts. Many, many text messages. More text messages than I have received from any of my friends. And my friends are not particularly low tech.

And all of the text messages are long . . . paragraphs. Students would wouldn't write me three sentences in ninth grade are sending me books on my phone. Perhaps they all have qwerty keyboards? I do not. So I am seeing the light on "ttyl" speech. It's just less for me to figure out on the number board.

So my triumph today, besides getting a bunch of students to volunteer to sit around and sell yearbooks basically by tricking them by letting them text, was to group their numbers in my phone address book and be able to send them a mass text. It was so cool. Except that they all replied . . .

Keep in mind that when I text, I have to count . . . a "u" is 8 two times . . . one, two . . . so not only do I have to spell in my head, but then scan and count. Tedious. I have to get a new phone for this.

Worst Case Scenario

I went over my handlebars today.

Trail biking in Lake Shore Park . . . last mile and a half . . . a large rut downhill . . . I'm usually good on the downhill, but I fell last time and was perhaps too cautious this time. Felt myself being too cautious. Went down too slow and my wheel stuck.

Somehow ended up curled up in a ball. My knees hurt . . . badly . . . and I wasn't sure if I could get up. Before I got my wits about me a person further up the trail stopped to make sure I was okay. SM was ahead of me and hadn't heard me go down. I was lying there, considering the option of calling out "Christopher" loudly (my verbal sign that I am really hurt . . . I never call him that) as this woman, a stranger, questioned my status. This made me get up, as it is rather embarrassing to writhe in pain for a stranger. SM pulled up shortly, dusted me off, looked at my wounds (some abrasions on my right leg at that point . . . now a wicked bruise) and gave me a little hug . . . and then told me to get my ass back on the bike. Which is what I needed at the time. I hate the last mile of that trail.

Really, going over my handlebars WAS my worst case scenario . . . and now it's been done. I need to shop for that new helmet though.

So my right leg is rapidly becoming one large bruise . . . two large on my shin from earlier in the week from a pedal and when I fell and my leg hit a stump (from a rut going uphill that time) and my current injuries. I'm off the trail for at least a week.

I like the riding . . . it's peaceful, the woods are nice . . . but I find myself trying to keep up with SM, which keeps me from enjoying the peaceful . . . and keeping me from seeing things that I want to see. Like frogs. Or deer. Or just trees and dirt.

Trail riding takes a lot of concentration as it is, to stay on the darn trail and not run into trees or fall off your bike. And I am less concentrated when I am tired or pushing to keep up. So I have to work on not being so competitive. It's a single-track trail, so the boy will be at the end. And a relatively little park, so he'll hear me if I yell.

I do need to get a little backpack or hydration pack to keep my cell in . . . right now I keep it in his backpack, along with my ID. Which does me no good if he is ahead. Or any goodin the scenarios my mother comes up with concerning me and being in the woods.

Oh, and my neck hurts. And my left thumb.

No biking for a week.

Vidalia and the Mammogram

I went to the huge complex of hospital for a mammogram yesterday.

One of my cute young friends . . . who has just turned thirty . . . asked why in the world I would get a mammogram. No lumps or concerns. No. I'm just almost forty. And that's when you get mammograms.

So I arrive at the huge complex o'hospital and find the building I'm suppose to check into, a whole floor assigned to "breast care". I turn in my forms. I try to knit but before I can get a row in they have called me for the questions. Why the person who took my form can't ask me the questions (what is your name? what is your address? what is your birth date? what is the top velocity of an African swallow?) I don't know. So back to knitting and again before I can finish the row they call me and send me to the original person who took my form.

"So you're Vidalia?" "No. I'm Emily." And then the first form woman starts chatting about how she should know that I'm Emily because I'm not ninety. We stand. They call Vidalia again. And again. And Vidalia comes rolling up.

Vidalia is wearing a windbreaker (it was 92 degrees outside at the time), an orange t-shirt, a big brimmed cotton hat, pull on pants and tennis shoes. And she is doing a monologue about how crappy it is that she has to have a mammogram. "I'm too small" she says, head motioning toward her chest. She talks down the short hallway and during the first form woman's speech about what we are supposed to do in the dressing rooms. And this would be okay, except that I need to know what to do . . . this may be Vidalia's last mammogram, but it's my first. Vidalia, busy with her complaints, tries to join me in the dressing room, knocking the door in with her walker but the first form woman redirects her. I am now wondering if Vidalia should be alone. Maybe she should be in the dressing room with me.

I "disrobe to the waist", fold up my t-shirt and bra and stuff them into my knitting bag rather than using the lockers. When I am done, I am supposed to take a clipboard and fill out another form. I don't dally and just as I put pen to paper in the interior waiting room, they call my name. There are seven other ladies, all "disrobed" in green, waiting I assume. How can I be first. "Shouldn't I fill out this form first?" "Oh. Yeah. (sigh) We'll come back."

The form takes me ten seconds. I only have to check four boxes. No problems, nothing to check for, no discharge, no history. I try to find the person who came for me ten seconds ago and am shooed back into the interior waiting room by that same person. "We'll come and get you." Whatever. Vidalia is done now, but can't carry the form with her walker. The closest of the seven women gets up to help her and Vidalia immediately takes her seat. So I move so the displaced woman can have my seat. "Emily?"

We go into a room with two computers and something that looks like the robot from the torture scene in Star Wars. I am told to sit and that she is going to find another room for me. Evidently my boobs are too big for this torture robot and we would want to do several "takes" and there is a torture robot with a bigger "plate" somewhere. Five minutes staring at the hospital "Service, Attitude, Ownership, Excellence" screen saver and I'm being taken to another room. With a bigger plate.

Basically, for those who have never had a mammogram, you get topless and lay your boob on a plate. They then squish said boob to their liking with a clear plastic lid. Like fitting one boob into one of those ziploc disposable containers (that we don't really throw away, but wash out and reuse for chili over and over, killing tupperwear) . . . but a container just a bit too small, so the word ziploc gets dented into, well, in this simile, your boob. Oh, and they had me hold the other one "out of the way". So me, topless, one breast mooshed into a torture robot from the Princess Leia scene in Star Wars, the other breast being held out of the way. Oh, and I'm bending my knees slightly. Which is all well and good. Not embarrassing or uncomfortable at all.

"Okay. Stop breathing." Stop breathing? Stop breathing? The position is so uncomfortable that holding my breath does seem pretty simple, if not natural. And there is a "rrrrrr-ing" sound. It seems endless. And then she lets my boob out of the robot.

We do this three more times . . . the last two times with me hugging the robot in addition to holding my other breast "out of the way". The last two times are much more painful, plate digging into my armpit so the not breathing thing is even easier. I have to concentrate to start breathing at one point. And then I have to wait to make sure that everything "goes through" but I get to but my green robe back on and stare at the inside of my breast on a computer screen. After a confirming "beep", I am asked if I have any questions . . . and all of my questions are answered with "they'll call you" . . . so I am left wondering why they asked if I had any questions. "We don't do any diagnosing here . . . we don't even look at the films." Great. So what else would I have questions about? Where's Vidalia? When will they call me? Where did you get these fetching green robes? Did you mean for that to look just like the torture robot in Star Wars?

After determining that I only had questions that they couldn't answer, I was told to follow the signs back to the dressing room, which then had signs about the hamper, and the hamper had signs about the exit. I don't have to go back for another three years . . . unless they call me, which I'm trying not to think about.

I have no idea how it went with Vidalia.

Absinthe

I'm going out with the girls tonight for absinthe.

As I explained this to my mother . . . "Absinthe . . . you know absinthe? Green fairies? Van Gogh went insane? Absinthe? Just recently became legal again?" To which my mother replied, "Why would you want to drink that? Probably tastes awful."

And yes, it probably does taste awful. But I haven't met a bad idea that I didn't like. So absinthe drinking it is . . .

Today I melted my brain on MTV. And yesterday they finally voted off one of those two girls on Project Runway. The ones that I could not tell apart. LeAnn stayed. Jennifer was judged off. I no longer have to think, which long haired dowdy girl with glasses is that? And now, in addition to watching "Arrested Development", my television education is being expanded with "Venture Brothers". I can't wait to get "Pushing Daisies" and make SM watch them "only when I'm there". I could have been through all three seasons of "Arrested Development" by now. I have nothing to do. Excuse me, I have lots to do . . . I have very unstructured time.

I am waining toward vampire time. Again. So finally it is summer like it should be. No doctors appointments. My fill of MTV and it's "Sweet 16 Bling Countdown" to remind me how stupid the world is . . . bike rides to Royal Oak for coffee.

Just have to paint my dining room before the Woodward Cruise.

The Costs of a Staph Infection

I just received the insurance statement . . . although I may still owe some more . . .

For just the 11 visits to the infectious disease center? 10,000 dollars.



That's not with the dermatologist visits.

Ten thousand dollars. To see a doctor twice and for a nurse to spend five minutes poking me every day (only because it usually took them more than once to find a vein). Ten thousand dollars.

I think most of the costs were for the actual IVs, or the liquid contained in them (500 hundred dollars) . . .

But if I did not have medical insurance, or just "catasophic" insurance, I would never recover. My union is talking about going to "health insurance accounts" . . . ten thousand dollars is like, five years of that account.



So thank goodness that I have health insurance (a lot of people don't).

Sunday Dinner

I made dinner last night. And it was complimented.

Went bike riding at Stoney Creek Metro Park, which kicked my a$$. The trails are well marked -- green for "beginner", blue for "more difficult" and black for "OMG I'm going to die". It is not single track (trails that go in a big circle and end where they begin, which is handy if you don't know the trails) and SM has been a couple of times but not enough to know the trails well. So there was some Emily walking up steep hills . . . I get to the point that I cannot climb anymore. I'm good with downhill (I know, who isn't? But it's sometimes hard to stay on your bike) but I am still working on the uphill climbs. Part of it is getting enough momentum and know how and when to shift gears. But most of it is having the strength and endurance. SM is very patient, even though I tell him that he can go ride ahead to his heart's content.

Made it home without needing to be airlifted . . . SM dug out one of the ugly laundry line holders in my backyard and started trimming. He's really skillful. He knows how to trim without killing the plants and seems to really like grooming my backyard thicket.

So I had a little steak that I picked up from Holiday Market, a sirloin medallion that I figured would be perfect for me with a bit left over . . . but with enough vegetables really it would work with two people. Made grilled red onion and some asparagus. Boiled some new potatoes and had to break out the cookbook for those (how long do you boil potatoes?) . . . tossed them with a little butter and some fresh rosemary. Oh, and sauteed some mushrooms. So it was really simple, other than knowing how to oil the vegetables before I put them on the grill. Am getting better at poking at the steak to see how done it is . . . oh, and had brownies with fresh raspberries for dessert.

So had the ingredients for a whole dinner, in my house, and was able to combine them AND time them to make a full dinner. Was told that everything was good! "Well, I'm kinda a picky eater and I liked everything" Not that I want my status of worst cook in the family to change . . . I don't want to take on Thanksgiving dinner or anything.

Please Sir

Will you sign your book?

Going to a Derek Hess book signing tonight . . . and am fighting the urge to get there when it opens. The book is about how he hates the right-wing, so I might not be all into that . . . but it's Derek Hess! I'm all gooey about the possibility of being in his presence.

They Do Look More "Model-y"

Seven more doses of my antibiotic.

My lips have been burning . . . like they are really, really chapped and I have been out in the winter wind sans chapstick. I assume that it could be an allergic reaction of some sort, but have been assured that allergic reactions don't happen six days in. Or a fungal infection caused by my current lack of "good" bacteria. Yuck. Let's not think about that.

So lots of lip gloss and allegra have been getting me through. Actually, does feel like when you use that "lip plumper" stuff, which I don't . . . ever.

So a day and a half . . . and a month of "special" soap. Let's hope my lips don't fall off. This has been the best medical odyssey ever!

Nice Italian Boys Hiding in Their Houses Playing X-Box

When we get there, it is packed. A line out the door. On a Tuesday. What the hell? Are they giving out free food? And the people at the host stand don't seem to know what to do. Frozen like scared deer. "Oh MY GOD, what are we going to DO with all these PEOPLE??"

I am in line long enough for Princess to go to the restroom and for me to chat up the neighboring "mature" ladies. They liked my shoes. And as it turns out, they were giving out free food. It was a "buy an entree, get an entree free" night.

It was a wine tasting showcasing Michigan wines. I know, I know . . . but I've had some drinkable Michigan wines, I swear. None of those wines were showcased, however. And it was totally disorganized. And the people surrounding us seemed to be more about the food, which wasn't all that great. I poured out four of the six wines I sampled . . . poured out, didn't drink them. And the bartenders were light pourers. Oh, and the place smelled like sewage. Evidently, from the Rouge River flowing next to the patio. And as much as I was trying to placate Princess with "it's all about attitude" . . . well, she was right, it was terrible. I was just thinking that it was funny, because it was so awful. Oh, and single men don't go to wine tastings. Duh. Because they are all at home, playing with their Playstations. But we were really wasting the pretty . . . because the poor dudes on their second dates weren't even cute or interesting enough to steal.

Afterward there was a lovely dinner. An excellent wine. Princess treated. She is too good to me.

And Princess has rallied me throughout this "hey, I might want to have an significant other" process. She has always been supportive. Always there to point out that it took her friend four years (which doesn't work anymore . . . it's been more than four years). So now, it's time for her to get out there. But as I am a matchdotcom disaster, I can only give advice about the Internet. . . not finding a "nice Italian boy" real time. I really am convinced they are at home playing X-box. According to SM, the barista was checking out my chest the other day (which is a whole other blog . . . which won't be written). So where do all the nice Italian boys work? I do need cement.

We had planned for "Table for Eight" but they won't let you bring friends or do anything in tandem. So perhaps we will pretend to be divorced Catholics . . . which wouldn't be too scandalous, as I am not really looking and Princess is Catholic. The divorced Catholic group has lots of mixers.

But please, offer suggestions.

Oh, and as an aside . . . or just a random thought . . . it is amazing me the lengths people will go to to make themselves unhappy, or quite miserable depending on the person. Why is it that people do that?

Not My Fault, But I Do Need a Drink

I am now on my third dose, out of forty, of dicloxacillin.

And as with all of this adventure, the freedom from IV antibiotics comes with a few . . . let us say . . . speedbumps? Challenges? Dumb shit I have to deal with?

I'm supposed to take dicloxacillin for times a day. Every six hours. Okay, so 7 am, 1 pm, 7 pm and 1 am. Reasonable enough. Would like to probably do a 6 am start, but didn't get there this morning and probably won't for the duration, so 7 am it is.

Now I'm either supposed to take it an hour before eating . . . or two to three hours after eating. And this is what is tricky to me. This is what just caused me to take a spoon out of my mouth and spit yogurt back into a cup. Because it was 6:53 . . . so I can't eat. I can't eat until 8 pm.

So the arbitrary eating rules are going to get to me. The thinking . . . wait . . . can I eat this bite of cantaloupe now? Or do I have to wait an hour? And yes, I could shift everything over to say 10 am . . . which, let's see, math . . . 4 pm, 10 pm and 4 am. But I don't want to set my alarm for 4 am and heaven forbid if I miss a dose. Because I will not go back to that doctor unless I can say with a straight face that I followed ALL the instructions.

Infectious disease doctor is pretty sure that I do not want to get well . . . in fact, I think that he thinks, that I'm actually seeking out staph germs and putting them all over my body. That I want to be "colonized". That I go, late at night and frolic in unknown McDonalds ball pits . . . and eat candy off the sidewalk. I sneak out and rub my legs on bums. And then go to public restrooms and just lounge around. And I'm not even polite enough to get interesting staph germs, like MRSA. I'm just out collecting regular, old, simple staph. How impolite.

When my fifth abscess did not get better as fast as he would like, it was my fault. I must had not followed the Epsom salt instructions. That was the problem.

So I have to jump through all the hoops, just in case I have to go back. Recurrence is high for staph. Just naturally high. There are support groups . . . some people have it for years. And I want to be able to look him in the eye and say "Nope. Not my fault." (You asshole.) I followed all the instructions.

So in another 45 minutes I can eat the damn yogurt and what ever else I would like for three hours. Dicloxacillin smells funny, which can only mean that I will smell like dicloxacillin in a matter of moments.

Oh, and one can drink alcohol and take antibiotics . . . it just isn't the most stellar of ideas, as your liver is working overtime with processing the antibiotics. Urban myth.

Okay. Just nine and a half more days of this.

What? I Always Make Him Buy His Own Stuff

It was past 11 p.m. and we had reached the checkout . . . after going through produce, grocery, toys, h.b.a. and then grocery again (I didn't want my milk to get warm). And honestly, despite my three hour nap, I was waining. I hate being sick.

I placed all my items on the belt, quickly . . . without thinking. He placed all his items carefully, in groupings, how I usually do it when I do not know the person behind me . . . when I am not in a rush. I usually place things in the order that I want them to be bagged.

Our cashier was confused by the "place between orders" bar . . . we had used one cart. "So this is yours too?" she asked about the neatly rowed low sodium V-8. "No, that's his . . . "

The cashier thought this was hilarious. Funniest thing she had heard all night. His stuff. That was a good one. And how was I to explain? "We carpooled." Even more funny. And I guess one would assume that a couple sharing a cart, I don't know, would not being going to different places at the end of the evening. Here I was making him buy his own stuff.

He tried explaining, "It's just more fun to go shopping with someone else . . . more entertaining . . . I mostly entertain her, I guess . . . " And this statement is true. We did have a sword fight in the toy aisle.

The cashier is not convinced and we have amused her tremendously. I think we made her night.

Relatively Good News

Two more days on IV antibiotics . . . and then ten more days on orals . . . and hopefully, knock wood, I'm done.

Doctor seems to think that it will come back and that I will have to go on a series of monthly antibiotics. Seems that he thinks that I am "colonized". But only two more days of being coughed on by the woman with bad feet, who really needs to go get her lungs checked. I worry.

So now I only have one painless ugly thing on my leg and some really ugly scars. And maybe in after two days, I won't want to sleep all day (like I did today . . . ). I have a migraine and I'm afraid to take anything much (although it did get so bad that I took two Excedrin Migraine) lest a liver blow out. My liver is finicky enough as it is . . .

So in twelve days, I'm so having a glass of wine. Or maybe two.

A Newly Formed Germ Phobe

I once took pride in the fact that I was not a germ-phobe. I didn't carry hand sanitizer. I wasn't constantly spraying my classroom down with bleach. I touched shopping carts. I picked up things off the ground. I had long nails. I went and got pedicures.

I would step foot in a public bathroom.

I was careless and fancy free . . . What? My immune system would handle it. In fact, my immune system would be better for it. Right?

And then I got a spot on my hip . . . which at first I thought was a zit . . . and then thought it was a spider bite . . . right on my hip bone . . .

And after a month of seemingly rotting and a week of people poking me with needles and missing veins (not like "my shots", as I call them, for the allergies . . . they can't miss with those) I think I am reconsidering my position.

I may want a bubble. And everything wiped down with antiseptic. And a world without public restrooms, or people if I cannot verify their level of cleanliness. After two weeks of being judged for a pile of germs that I cannot control . . .

I am afraid to go anywhere. I don't want to infect my friends, or family, or perfectly innocent strangers for that matter. And as careful as I am . . . gloves, disinfectant, following the instructions to the letter . . . I am still not better. Still oozing and contagious. (Although, knock wood, no new spots) And if you read the evil, evil internet I may be doing this whole routine (showering three times a day, using everything only once, hibicleanse every other day, sticking shit up my nose twice a day, cutting my fingernails super short, AND IV antibiotics . . . or oral antibiotics four times a day) for a very long time. Perhaps 12 weeks. And it could still come back.

And there is the faint praise, at least it's not MRSA. But my full test results STILL haven't come in.

Today, the nurse's glove somehow got stuck and she accidentally ripped out my IV needle. I know she didn't mean to do it and felt terrible . . . and it pales in comparison to the time that they stuck me four times in one day . . . but no one really should have to go through this at thirty seven. Eighty? I don't know. I suppose if it were the Middle Ages, I would be dead by now. How's that for a positive spin?

And honestly, I don't know how I'm going to leave the house . . . I have to go to the bathroom every five minutes.

Yet Another Rabbit Hole

My street is under construction and I am not sure that I can get out of my driveway.

The DPW told me to park on a side street, but they ticket on side streets after 2 a.m. . . . and it's a giant pain in the ass.

I'm going to the infectious disease center to hopefully find out what I have and to see a real live doctor . . . I have a migraine and I'm afraid to take anything, lest thinning my blood more. They poked me three times yesterday, four times the day before. Let's see if we can go for five today.

So I'm cranky. Very, very cranky. I want off the drugs. They aren't making me better. And due to the nature of antibiotics, I'm not sure that I can safely stop the drugs. Also, if I get something else . . . say, a sinus infection . . . now that I have the strongest antibiotics in my system, what do I do next? And I'm still in pain and I'm realizing that no one cares about that. They just see pain as part of the business. And if I catch something else from all these old people coughing and oozing and bleeding . . .

I should have just taken the oral antibiotic from the crazy lady that wouldn't spend more than five seconds with me. Because much like an Alice in Wonderland adventure, the deeper I get into this the weirder and worse it gets. The last doctor basically took a long time to tell me that I was dirty and fat. That I should put my clothing in a hamper and exercise (nevermind that I biked 18 miles the weekend before) and that I was sure to get diabetes. Just a matter of time. If I didn't have it already. (I don't. Already went through that rabbit hole in January.) And I just want to yell "F**K OFF" to these people.

So hopefully the report will come back clean . . . and it's just a allergic reaction to a bug bite . . . and I will stop all the drugs and stop feeling like I drank paint thinner and be able to take a normal poop. I miss pooping. Never thought I would. And don't think too hard about what I do instead of pooping.

Okay, I have to go eat. Just in case they keep me for another five hours. I'm bringing a sweatshirt (sooo cold when they shoot saline through your veins), knitting (although I can't move one of my arms, but I figured I'd try), water (so thirsty all the time), a book and a bad attitude. Wish me luck . . .

But it Doesn't Feel Like MRSA

I am now on IV antibiotics . . . and they are awaiting another culture and pathology report. Today I was at the infectious disease center for four and a half hours while they pumped me full of a new antibiotic. The strongest they had.

And I keep saying . . . "but this feels different." I think it may a be a reaction to the drugs, as the new lesions on my legs started as bug bites and are completely different from what I went in for originally. And only started when I was on the Cipro. They are red and painful but there is no drainage.

But what the hell do I know? I can move my left leg without pain for the first time since Sunday . . . and I don't know if it's from the antihistamine they gave me to be able to take the antibiotic (pretty bad when they have to dose you with antihistamine, just to put something in your body) or from the antibiotic itself. It's still giant and red.

I feel like the antibiotics are stripping me. I have no energy. I get up, go get the IV, come home, and sleep. Getting up off the couch is a challenge. And then the 4.5 hours in a chair today, next to the bleeding, coughing and oozing. I keep feeling like if I didn't have MRSA to begin with, I may have it before I'm through.

So let's hope the pathology report says I'm clean . . . and I can stop all these drugs . . . and get off the couch to do some fun things this summer.

The Diagnosis is in!

My diagnosis is in . . . and the whole office goes out to lunch so I have to kill time until 1:15. Seems they want me to come in TODAY, so it can't be good news. And they called promptly . . . I just missed the call because my phone fell, battery sliding underneath the couch, and in my coma-like lethargy I forgot that you can't just put the battery back in . . . you have to then turn on the phone. So until 1:15 . . . I wait. And clean. I'm constantly wiping with Clorox wipes.

I finally got around to reading the pamphlets that accompanies the drugs I am taking. The oral antibiotic I'm taking (and have been taking for a week now) clears up anthrax. It also eats your tendons? Great. But the plague I have is not clearing up.

So . . . no going outside, to avoid bug bites (I think the two current are former mosquito bites) . . . no touching anyone (which has been a bummer) . . . no eating yogurt (messes with the Cipro I'm taking) . . . no scratching or picking at anything (which means zits . . . I don't want this on my face . . . it's bad enough on my legs) . . . and I need new band-aids (I'm fresh out and actually all the ripping three times a day and sometimes more is causing me to bleed)

Okay, it's 1:14. Time to call. Wish me luck!

Broken . . . with Gaping Wounds

"You're going to be fine!" the doctor kept exclaiming, which is leading me to believe that she was totally freaked. The abscess had already burst, just due to its placement on my hip, right where my leg bends. So every time I move, especially to lift myself into the jeep, pressure is applied. Wearing underwear is an unique accomplishment at this point.

So now I have this gaping pus filled hole. And this is somehow much more comfortable than the oozing sore of yesterday. I'm on antibiotics, have special compresses and some sort of cream. The biggest difficulty is getting the bandages on and off, which is supposed to happen three to four times a day. Except for the doctor muttering "looks like MRSA", it was a good outcome.

"Looks like MRSA" . . . freaks everyone out. "So are you quarantined?" SM asked. Princess has decided that we may just go to different movie theaters and call each other to talk about the movie. My father so lovingly pointed out that it is again a holiday weekend, as did the doctor. Evidently, once I get the diagnosis on Thursday, I will have to go to the emergency room if it is MRSA. I don't know why . . . perhaps for IV antibiotics?

I call the doctor today. Go back next week.

And I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that I may have also broken my foot. Not that I can do anything about it now . . . as it happened on Friday. But it feels like I'm walking on a ball. A ball of soreness, below my fourth toe. So maybe I'll mention that when I go to the emergency room. Maybe get a set of x-rays with my IV.

Not that I'm going to the emergency room . . . cause I'm going to be fine . . . the doctor said so.

I'm Just a Little Black Rain Cloud . . . Edit

Freaking out about things I cannot control:

I think I have MRSA . . . I thought originally that it was a spider bite but am now coming to the realization that something is terribly wrong. And getting an appointment with a dermatologist during the summer? Well, I'm finding it a lot like dating in your late thirties. I probably should just go to the emergency room, but I finally have an appointment at 1:30 tomorrow with a doctor that is farther away than I'd like.

My brain is on "what-if" overload . . . plus "you should've" looping . . . and there is no point. What will happen, will happen. So no use in "going to happen". And certainly no use in the Crabbypants pessimism that my brain seems to enjoy. This happens once a month. Go clean your dining room. If he likes some other woman . . . well . . . you found this one, you will find another . . . get over your trust issues . . .

Interesting that I can get this worked up in less that 48 hours. It is getting my dining room cleaned however.Oh, and the MRSA thing? It really hurts.

No Really, It was Tasty

Last night (and yesterday, I guess, there was some prep) I made flank steak with chimichurri sauce, roasted sweet potatoes and green beans with blue cheese. Served with a rather good bottle of wine, considering what I paid for it.

AND I didn't follow the recipe for the chimichurri sauce . . . I kind of combined three, as all the recipes I looked at were completely different so I figured that it didn't really matter.

I ended up with . . .

one cup cilantro (packed) from my front porch . . . I mostly took out the stems, which I didn't really have to do
2 cloves of garlic, minced . . . the least amount in any of the recipes I looked at . . . one had 8 to 10 heads . . . not cloves, heads
6 tablespoons and a splash balsamic vinegar
1/2 cup olive oil
1/4 teaspoon salt
some pepper . . . looked like a half teaspoon
some red pepper flakes . . . was shooting for 3/4 of a teaspoon
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin

It was enough to marinate the steak and still have some left over in a custard cup. Very tangy. The sweet potato I "brushed" with olive oil (dumped in a bowl and tossed) and then sprinkled with salt and pepper. I think one of the vegetables I bought, thinking it was a sweet potato was actually jicama, as it looked exactly like a yam until I cut it . . . and then it was white. I cooked it anyway, thinking that I had green beans as a backup. And we threw away most of the white stuff (SM doesn't like sweet potatoes anyhow, so it was just enough). The green beans I steamed and then mixed with butter and lime juice, with blue cheese crumbles on the side. The wine was Columbia Crest, Two Vines, Vineyard 10 from Washington State, which I believe I paid under $10.00 for at the Holiday Markup.

And it was a very "homemaker"y day . . . got up early, made the sauce . . . did laundry, made an apron, watched Martha Stewart while sewing, vacuumed, cleaned the tub, made some more food and had to time everything to 7 pm.

And after dinner . . . SM was bemused by the fact that I was excited that I had made a whole dinner that was somewhat edible, if not tasty.

I so want a dishwasher and a dining room now.

Oh, and a moth flew out of my closet and now I'm panicking about all things yarn related. May have to freeze everything . . . which will mean that I have to go out and buy a freezer.

Summer Day Eight

I was going to ride my bike to lunch . . . earlier but I got distracted by the new David Sedaris book that threw me down on the couch and made me read it. And now it is "scattered thunderstorm"ing, which doesn't look all that scattered on the radar map.

And this whole everybody is working, or on their honeymoon, or in G.R. thing is kinda sucky. I haven't talked to SM in two whole days and there is so much to tell . . . going to Sonic and the inside of my jeep getting all wet, the Capital Grille, the family pictures (which did turn out swell . . . been thinking of posting one or two . . . have a whole CD . . . and it seems so naughty and illegal and all) and I have to remind myself that just recently I did not talk to SM for a whole ten days and I did not turn to dust. Or lose my mind. Or anything of that sort.

So I have to go eat something . . . and then I have to go to the store and get things, so that I do not have to leave the house to eat when it is raining. Such burdens I have.

Happy Anniversary!

It's my parents' fortieth wedding anniversary today . . .

And I personally think that ANYONE who can make it work with another person for forty years deserves our respect and admiration.

Heck, I was with all of my family for 16 hours and granted, on a full night of sleep I would probably been fine, but there was a point that I was going to kill my sister . . . and other points where I wanted to kill my youngest brother. So for forty years my parents have been together AND dealt with the four of us knuckleheads.

And there has been no killing.

So congratulations to my parents. Let's hope for forty more.

Summer Day Four

Am up again at 6:30 . . . and will try to stay up.

Must:
Find wedding gift for Mary. Get wrapped if possible.
Find Damn family shirt. Perhaps mother has it. I couldn't have throw it out.
Go get manicure and pedicure at new place. Douglas J Aveda institute. Liked the fact that it's a snazzy cosmetology school . . . don't like the fact that their menu is confusing. Am I getting the "focus" pedicure or the "elemental"? Why is the combo deal more than the items individually?
Pick up prodigal son from airport. Give him Neon. Plan lunch for tomorrow.
Find time to pick up prodigal son.
Find YMCA card.
Pick an outfit for family picture. (every time I say that I think of the twiddlebugs and "THE FAMILY CAR!)
Find shoes, purse and underthings to go with dress for wedding.
Redo hair.

Now must shower and find coffee.

On the Third Day of Summer . . .

Pilates in the morning. I showed up for the wrong class. My class is at 9:15 a.m. and I barely made the 10 a.m. class. Wednesday mornings are not going to be fun.

Came up and got my bike. Biked to the Starbucks next to the allergist's office and then went and got my shots. Rode to downtown Birmingham and realized several things. 1. There are NO bike racks in B'ham. Even at the bike shop, which of course, I pointed out to them.

"You have no bike rack."
"What? No. We don't have a bike rack. Not outside. No."
"But you are a bike store."
"Yeah."
"I rode my bike here. Don't you see the irony?"

I don't think he got it, or appreciated the line of questioning.

2. Everything has either closed or moved to not Birmingham. Perhaps it's the economy. Perhaps people drove the rents up too high. Don't know. But there is no place to shop.
3. No one looks for bikes. My mother was right. I do need to wear a helmet. At one point I screamed in sheer terror as a Ford truck decided to back into me. I need to buy a cooler helmet. With stickers or something.

Now I am very hungry.

And I have no idea where that damn family shirt is . . .

Second Day of Summer

Cleaned the gutters and mowed the lawn.

Shared some nachos with QO and pawned off some herbs on him. Now someone else must find things to do with basil. Mu hahahaha. (it's supposed to be an evil laugh, mom)

SM doesn't own a drill?

First Day of Summer

First day of summer . . .

I awoke at 6:47 am to the sound of diggers. They were moving rocks today so the soft sounds of a granite avalanche was my morning greeting. Luckily, I managed to go back to sleep.

Got up around 9:30 after watching some morning news . . . an interview with Tim Russert's son. Perused the internet and marthastewart.com for some cilantro recipes. Salad Dressing and fajita marinade . . . that's all cilantro makes. And I have bunches of it. So if anyone wants/needs/desires cilantro OR basil (I have a lot of basil) come get some from my porch. I'll just assume the rabbits ate it. Little patience problem with the growing things from seeds . . . I planted a bunch . . . and waited . . . and assumed they were dead. So then I bought a bunch of herbs when I went to flower day. Now . . . too many herbs. Herbs all over the place.

Biked to Royal Oak, had coffee, read the paper and then went shopping for hair dye. There were an amazing amount of people in Noir Leather for a Monday morning(ish) . . . an older man that kept coming in and out . . . a hetero couple looking at boots . . . a male couple trying on skirts . . . more people than I've seen in Noir in twenty years. AND the salesperson was helpful, friendly, and even smiled. It was like I was in a time warp. Went with Special Effects "devilish" for the "patch" as Princess has named it.

Then did general shopping . . . Lotus, American Apparel (do I really want to pay $40 for this cotton skirt?), the shoe stores, Poppy beauty bar (going out of business . . . everything 40% off). I made an appointment at Douglas J, just to try it out. Really wondered why they were having a gay pride festival on a Monday. Turns out they were filming a movie. And I missed it.

Biked to Habermans and picked out all the patterns I want to make. Then went to Holiday. Shopping on a bike is hard because you have to select things carefully. Holiday Mark-up does have a bike rack, however. And turns out they still have me on record, so I don't need a holiday card . . . thank goodness for phone numbers that you can keep forever.

Went to SM's to make dinner and watch Antiques Roadshow. Dinner seemed to take a long time . . . and I made mojitos while realizing that everything I really needed to make mojitos (muddler, lime squeezer) was in the pile of "Emily droppings" that had to go with me the last time I was over at SM's.

All in all, a great day.

So Much to Not Talk About

Before I get to the theme . . . I will be in a dunk tank tomorrow. No one is sure what time this will happen (otherwise, I would invite all of you) and things are so seemingly disorganized that I'm not sure there will actually be a dunk tank (so . . . do the kids just attack me with squirt guns?) but yes, I volunteered for something. And now, unfortunately, have to do it.

Okay. Now to the "meat" of this blog . . .

I haven't been writing of late. It's not that I don't have things to say. I have plenty o' that. But when splashing your life up on the Internet, you tend to take some people with you. And those people? Most of them don't want their lives splashed on the Internet . . . or they would have blogs themselves. And most people don't really want their lives interpreted by a slightly crazy woman ("You're more kooky? But really, kooky isn't the right word . . .") and then laid out for the world to see.

And the people that I KNOW love me? Well, those are the stories I write about . . . because, while my mother might get a bit miffed, she still has to keep me. And Princess? Perhaps she takes the any publicity is good publicity approach.

But right now, well . . . I'm superstitious about this thing . . . but not everyone appreciates pieces of their lives available to every cpu with a modem in the world. And so things like "great mozzarella debate" go untold . . . because it's too important to me right now.

Okay, I've already said too much.

And so rather than my blogs saying "Ummmmm . . . I made some spicy shrimp today." I've been silent. Although, I was left alone and did make the shrimp too spicy. And I didn't skewer them right. According to my mother, I am the only person in the world who doesn't know that you have to stick TWO skewers through the shrimp. So I reminded her that I was raised by someone with a Master's degree in Food Science, which is why I don't know anything about food. Because she was so sick of food by the time she was done that we only ate cereal . . . and rice. So I only know how to make cereal. Open box. Eat. Close box if you don't want Dad to yell about staleness. Unless it's a cereal that Dad doesn't eat.

Mr. Crabbypants also has this thing about the freshness of saltines . . . but perhaps I will leave that so I will have something to write about tomorrow.

Anyhow. Summer is coming. I don't know how many adventures I can write about. I'll try to come up with something. Maybe I'll turn this into a photo blog or something.

First up . . . pictures of dunk tank.

Six Days

Graduation is over . . . without incident. The crazy parent calls about the yearbook have longer spans between. Summer is almost here.

I'm going to "Senior Party" in an hour. Leave my air conditioned house to go to a large industrial brick heat sink? Of course. I'll take twenty pictures and leave. Shame that I can't ride my bike there.

I have a lot to do in the next six days . . . so much so, that my stomach tightens if I think about it. The clean up has already started at school, but things have gotten out of hand so it may take longer this year. And my house needs work. Weeding and gutter cleaning mostly. But then there are the big projects. Oh, and I broke a window the other day (and my mother is going to read this . . . and is freaking out . . . right about . . . now) so now I need to fix that or get new windows. Or some tape.

I'll probably go with the tape option really.

Because I'm a Teacher

Because I'm a teacher . . . and we are not really human . . . I "held" a fart for all of third hour. Because teachers don't fart. Ever. Too hilarious if we did.

Skully

Skully has a "tattoo" of a plaid skull and crossbones on his tail, which you can almost see . . . and the picture really doesn't do him justice. Sorry, used the cheap camera instead of George. Quicker. And I feel guilty for not posting in a while.

Buzz and Seth

Marcus and Rocky

Actually, it's Rocky and Marcus . . . Rocky has the tie.

Construction

"Do ALL the trucks have to be at the end of your driveway?"

"Yes. I call them and have them gather before you come over."

They are reconstructing my street. And my street needs it . . . if only for the revenue the police department will pick up from the speeding tickets. Now you cannot speed (except for the guy who hit me coming out of my driveway) for fear of losing a wheel in the sinkholes and divets. And they have decided that since they were tearing up the cement anyhow, might as well replace all the other stuff, so now there is sand, giant holes that you can fit a car in and large construction equipment that is turned on at 7 am weekdays and 9 am weekends. Giant diesel engine alarm clocks, mixed in with some guys yelling.

They are working on the other side of the street so I can still get in and out of my driveway . . . sorta . . . when there is not a truck sitting across it. My favorite part so far? Racing home because my father was coming over for some reason and finding some man standing in the middle of the road with a flag about two blocks from my house. I roll down the window and point to my house. Nope can't go there. Have to turn. But the road is one way, so how am I supposed to get to my house? The man with the flag just shrugs. He doesn't know. Just can't go that way. You can get out at S_____, he thinks, but he is not from around here. S_____ is past my house . . . thus I drove the wrong way down my street for a block and three houses. My father was luckier. He just had to sit and wait for the dump truck to pass.

There is a tremendous amount of dirt and sand . . . a large pile last weekend that I thought about stealing. No, I don't know what I would do with the sand, but I wanted it. And my jeep looks really hardcore because I always look like I have been off-roading. Can't wait until they start on my side of the street. Which is why I'm buying a bike. (and telling myself why I bought a jeep)

Can't wait until summer.

Hold Please.

I know . . . I know . . .

I haven't been keeping up. And Mr. Crabbypants is dying for intel.

The pretty pretty princess jeep is awesome. I went to a wedding. I went trail riding for the first time and only managed to hit a tree once . . . and I only fell once. Oh, and I walked up most of the hills, but hey, it was my first time.

I think I'm buying a new bike. An Electra cruiser. For nice summer casual riding.

School has hit the end of the year upswing. Went to an awards dinner this evening. Prom is tomorrow. I don't have an outfit yet. Or shoes.

Watched "The Black Adder" and now realize that Mr. Bean and the guy from House did other things. Funny things.

And my baby brother's birthday is tomorrow. I don't think I've sent his Christmas stuff yet. Should probably get on that.

So yeah, still alive . . . have had interesting stuff happen but haven't sat down . . . let alone sat down long enough to think and write. Summer is coming. And then I will only have time to think and write. So I will be babbling soon enough. Just wait. Hold please . . . your party is having too much of a life.

My New "Nephew" Thinks He is a Cat

His name is Jenks and yes, that IS a cat hammock . . .

I didn't know there were such things, cat hammocks, but I see years of doggie therapy in his future.

. . . but I could be your type . . .

I could make a dress . . . a robe fit for a prince. . . I could clothe a continent but I can't sew a stitch
I can paint my face. . . and stand very very still. . . it's not very practical . . .but it still pays the bills
I can't change my name . . . but I could be your type . . . I can dance and win at games . . . like backgammon and life
I used to be the smart one . . . sharp as a tack . . . funny how that skipping years ahead . . . has held me back
I used to be the bright one . . . top in my class . . . funny what they give you . . . when you just learn how to ask
I can write a song . . . but I can't sing in key . . . I can play piano but . . . I never learned to read
I can't trap a mouse . . . but I can pet a cat . . . no I'm really serious! I'm really very good at that
I can't fix a car . . . but I can fix a flat . . . I could fix alot of things but I'd rather not get into that
I used to be the bright one . . . smart as a whip . . . funny how you slip so far when teachers don't keep track of it
I used to be the tight one . . . the perfect fit . . . funny how those compliments can . . . make you feel so full of it
I can shuffle cut and deal . . . but I can't draw a hand . . . I can't draw a lot of things . . . I hope you understand
I'm not exceptionally shy. . . but I've never had a man . . . that I could look straight in the eye and tell my secret plans
I can take a vow . . . and i can wear a ring . . . and I can make you promises but they won't mean a thing
can't you do it for me, I'll pay you well . . . f**k I'll pay you anything if you could end this
can't you just fix it for me, it's gone berserk . . . f**k I'll give you anything if you can make the damn thing work
can't you just fix it for me? I'll pay you well . . . f**k I'll pay you anything if you can end this
hello, I love you will you tell me your name?
hello, I'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same?

-- "The Perfect Fit" The Dresden Dolls

I know . . . depressing, but I'm seeming to connect with it this evening. Weird mood. A lot to think about. And all stuff that I should NOT get thinky about. I just have to keep looking right in front of me. Only two sidewalk squares. Because if you look ahead for your house, the walk takes forever. If you just keep your focus right in front of you . . . well, then you are just right there.

My Brother WAS always a Challenge

If you click here and then find the feature on the right called "DD: Lime - Lynn vs. Louie" you will find a feature with my brother and his restaurant . . . doing a "burrito challenge". My brother is the guy talking about the burritos. His dimples are very cute in the picture and he seems to be wearing his natural hair color these days.

The lizard at the end is hilarious.

The whole thing is delightfully cheesy . . . including my brother's little speech. But it does show both (?) restaurants . . . and my brother's handwriting on some white board. Almost makes me want to forgive him for the Nickleback song on his website. Almost.

But seriously, go check it out . . . he is the most charming of the Crabbypants.

Just Kinda Tired

I know, I know . . . it's been a week. But a busy week.

Birthday weekend was awesome. I have such great friends. And there was cake . . . with my name on it and everything. Ate some for dinner this evening in fact. And going to Streetlight Manifesto tomorrow.

And now starts the season of weddings . . . shower next weekend, wedding weekend after that . . . and the long slow side into summer. Am finding it hard to find time to fit in all I want to do. And the lure of summer and unstructured time is frustrating, quite frankly. Better for me to be too busy.

I am going to the concert alone tomorrow and that always makes some great stories. So maybe I will have lots to talk about tomorrow.

April Showers Bring . . .

SHIT. I just killed my first ant.

Possibly Riddled

I gave blood today, for the first time since college.

And perhaps I will again wait fifteen years before I do it again.

The blood drive at my school . . . I always avoid the thing. I don't want to answer the questions, don't want to give my address, don't want to feel exposed.

But one of my best friends is in charge of it now. So I thought, what the hell? And showed up early for my "appointment". Answered all the questions. They had a problem with me going to Europe in the last three years, by the way. Amazing that these vampires can find any available donors. Perhaps that is why they are at a high school, with people who aren't old enough to have lives yet . . . or immature enough to lie if they do.

And there is this strange reverence about the bloodletting. "You SAVED three lives today . . . " Well, no. I did nothing of the sort. True, there is my O negative goodness, "the universal donor". But I certainly did not cleanse any sin by having a pint drained out of me. But the kids see it as all saving. And a wicked cool excuse not to go to class.

The people running and procuring the blood did not seem to notice that I could not spend all day on the little cot that was provided for me. There was a lot of chatting and for ten minutes, when I thought I was draining, the person had just stuck me so hard with a marker that I thought she had injected me with a needle. Once I finally did get a needle stuck in my arm, things weren't "screwed on right" and my blood ended up on the floor. Nice.

And for something that the kids saw as next to Godliness, the staff was cranky and unfazed. I almost didn't make it to class and had to take my cookie on the run. And then felt like shit for the rest of the day.

So much for selflessness. And can't wait to get that "you're a universal donor so come anytime" card. Either that or the "Oh my God, you are riddled with hepatitis" card. Either way, done for a while.