After a Good Walk and 48 Hours

"'Will you ever learn? You're just an empty cage girl, if you kill the bird'" -- Crucify, Tori Amos

Yes, some posts have disappeared. You aren't imagining it.

So in my reflective state, I would like to point out that I do listen to you. QO and his philosophies on attraction and availability . . . that you won't look if you get hung up, won't see opportunity while you are busy treading water. Bop bop with his new agey stuff (see? I didn't say bullshit.) although I'm not going with the mantra he suggested. But comforting, his belief that there is someone for everyone. My mother, who did an excellent job of talking me down . . . with stories (all men are the same whether they are 14 or 45) and suggestions (all of her suggestions involved homework or working) E2 and M2, who haven't even said "We told you so . . . " Not once. Thank you.

I need some space and he now feels bad so is not giving any.

And perhaps I need to move. Get a new job. Or take a vacation.

I need to do something different.

Maybe I'll have my Drinks in Here

As my friends roll their eyes.

Sometimes I like to find new places. My current obsession is to find a "book club" that is just far enough away from work that none of my students is my bus boy, none of my former students are my wait person, or worse, none of my former students are drinking . . . ur, um, "reading books" . . . at the table next to me, but close enough that my friends will come out. Most of my female friends live on the East Side, so it's just easier for them rather than hauling everything for book club out here. And yeah, I do live in the land of cool book clubs. But whatever, expanding my horizons.

So last night, I went to a place with the BEST bathrooms I have ever seen . . . in a book club. The paint was the same color I have in my office . . . there were real pocket doors to make up the stalls . . . there was very nice beadboard . . . and very excellent fixtures, considering the small space . . . very nice lighting, bright enough to see, yet not jarring . . . and very clean. Oh, and nice tile.

Very different from the usual bathroom experience, with the not so nice graffiti and the goo . . . or like, at the Front, which has both goo and graffiti and the extra added bonus of no sink, except for the one that is IN A STALL basically, so you have to wait for the person to get done to wash your hands. One should never wait until they really have to pee at the Front. Always go before . . . like a long car trip.

The Hardluck Lounge, in Grosse Pointe Park. I found parking. They have great bathrooms. There was a place to sit. The drinks were good . . .

I could bring Princess. And she could sit without putting down a napkin. And go to the bathroom. If they had wine, we could possibly live there.

So a good discovery, in my adventuring.

OMFG

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

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

And then I see it.

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

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

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

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

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

Quote of Day, part deux

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

Excellent. And so true. No truth in fudge.

Top Ten English Teacher Pick up Lines

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

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

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

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.

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.

Love . . . and Spit

Really this is how I always pictured being in a relationship.

Should Have Known

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

And looking at this, everyone probably should have known.

Pretty Colors to Order Your Bug in

Went to my other class today and it turns out that I really needed to buy "George". Instructor is my age, Cranbrook grad, no ring. The crowd is older this night, with people who are all about sharing how much of a snotty, snotty know-it-all they are . . . which is usually my job. It was nice to have a night off in the know-it-all department (though I may have gotten there if the others weren't so vocal). And there is this guy in the class that has the most amazing tattoo . . . a realistic spine tattooed were his spine is. So I am going to try to sit next to him next time, if only to get a better view of the tatt. So Thursday night is looking like fun.

And I have to get a move on for class on Monday. Any requests? I want to cast in white gold . . . at least a couple of rings. And just to challenge myself, I would like to do stone setting (not required, but I have never done it before). If I go to CR Hill this weekend, I could have the molds done in time for him to do the demo (speaking of snotty, snotty k.i.a.) . . . I wonder if you can order diamonds over the web. They should be cheaper if they are not already in rings, right? Or rubies . . . rubies are good with white gold. So fun to think of the possibilities.

And ridiculous because I don't even wear much jewelry.

"It's a New Year, Trying to Be Nice."

Actual quote from my mother this afternoon.

This was after she told me that . . . well (lips smoosch to center) . . . the hair, it wasn't any better . . . well . . . the cut is better . . . but you looked younger with the black hair . . . maybe you should go back to that . . .

Okay, then.

Concert was awesomely awesome. Bought t-shirts. Actually M1 and I bought matching t-shirts, but we don't live in the same state, so it's okay. Wearing my pink "Deal's Gone Bad" tee today, with just enough of the jolly roger sticking out of my sweater. Good pit. Good music. No one to pick up. Oh, well.

M1 kept looking out into the crowd (it was sold out) and saying . . . "This is the dating pool." with a circular hand gesture. I thought she was being sarcastic . . . like I should try the bar at the Townsend instead . . . but she was serious and commenting on the bleak state of affairs.

There seemed to be two demographic groups at the Magic Stick last night. "Old" people who actually remembered Gangster Fun and the Parka Kings when they were bands. And their children. There were groups who looked like they hadn't seen anywhere except the inside of a mini-van for a long, long time. And they kept walking past . . .

"M? Do we look like that? When the twenty-somethings see us . . . do they see that? Do they think what I'm thinking right now?"
"No. We aren't carrying Liz Claiborne purses."
"Cause those people are old . . . and they're our age."
"Yeah. We don't look like that."
"Are you sure? Cause they don't know they look like that."

Now the ska crowd is geeky in general . . . boys in skinny ties and white shirts, newsboy hats (fedoras, if they are really into it) and spectator shoes, who look like they know how to really work a computer. Boys in glasses, who look like they might actually enjoy doing your taxes after they were done bouncing up and down . . . (my idea of hot, by the way) Boys with a bit of an edge, but way too nerdy (or too smart?) to end up pulling off goth.

But mix that in with groups of nerdy soccer moms (that married the nerdy old guys?) and it gets kinda surreal.

M1 did talk to the lead singer of Deal's Gone Bad, who was just wandering around, looking like he needed a friend. He remembered us from last year. M1 wanted to see what R looked like . . . and his doppelganger was at the show . . . but skinnier with neck tattoos. He was part of "the Rovers" (a scooter club, very manly) so maybe I'll see him again at the Front (just what I need, someone with neck tatts). No students this year. Almost disappointing.

Can't wait until next year though.

Fashionista

Be still my heart. A boy that loves shoes.

My nephew and I went shopping for Christmas today. My vision was to get him and his mother done in one trip . . . buy him an outfit, which he would get to pick out (there seems to be control about his clothes, so the present was really "choice") and then to take pictures of him in the outfit for his mother. Quite the adventure.

I rarely get the chance to take boys shopping. Occasionally a brother . . . once for ring shopping, usually for "what would my wife like" shopping. Never the clothing shopping. So Z. and I went out to lunch, tried some new food, (When trying new food, he only takes the tiniest bit. Not enough to really taste it. Made him try a whole bite. He found out that he likes spinach pie. Add it to the list.) wandered around Gap kids. Clothing stores are "boring". Pants aren't cool. Only jeans are. And jean jackets. And shoes with ties are bad. But fancy leather loafers . . . good. Love the grown up shoes. And you can get to school faster if you don't have to tie your shoes. Oh, and the High School Musical CD and Pirates of the Caribbean II on DVD are on the wish list for Christmas. And D and his mom are painting his bedroom gray and he doesn't like it. And would like a white leather jacket for some reason. At the moment.

Turns out that if you get to pick out stuff, then clothing stores are not so boring. Dressing room was a challenge, if only because there were about 25 people waiting for dressing rooms and you could only bring in five items . . . and he would unbutton every button and then have to re-button after he put in on and then unbutton after he showed it to me. Soon Aunt Emily was standing in the doorway saying "Arms up" and throwing things over his head. He only likes medium wash jeans . . . and seems to understand the concept of labels. We had a chance to really think about our purchases, as the line for the register was to the middle of the store. We did all the math. I pointed out that we could buy three pairs of jeans at Old Navy for the same price as this pair of jeans. Nope. Really want these clothes. The selection? One pair of jeans, medium wash, with the least amount of holes that Abercromie jeans can have, one shirt that looks like what my brother would pick out . . . blue with stripes, and one polo shirt, which was against my better judgement because it is white with brown stripes . . . and little boys (and myself for that matter) . . . they aren't so good with white . . . it stains.

Then went to Macy's to look at shoes. Not seriously look at shoes, because he wears a size 7 men's shoe and I just can't get next to paying $100 to put shoes on a 9 year old. I can pay that for an outfit, just not shoes. But then a light from the heavens appeared in the clearance section. Steve Madden black leather loafers, size 8 (close enough, his feet are still growing) for $25. Down from $100. The shoes completed the look and when I looked doubtful, Z. would list all the places he would wear them . . . church . . . Christmas . . . Easter . . . affairs of state . . . dinner with the President . . .

So new shoes were purchased. It kinda looks like he's wearing his dad's shoes, but it works for him. So we went home and tried to "re-gel" his hair but his parents weren't home. So he worked on his hair in the Starbucks bathroom and we took lots of pictures. Black and white. Very Abercromie. Lots of attitude, due to the cool new shoes. The best are in front of this rusted iron gate. He was very afraid that I was going to run out of film. "It's digital. I won't run out of film." So out of the 75 or so shots that I took throughout the day, I should have 5 really good ones to print up and frame for his mother. I kept having to tell him to close his mouth . . . and every time I gave that direction, he would close his eyes first. Made me really glad that I didn't go into professional photography.

I took all the clothes and sadly, the shoes, so I could wrap them. Otherwise, he would have very little to open. When I pointed this out, he made me promise that he could open them a day early (we do all our gifts on Christmas Eve . . . and then just lie about on Christmas day . . . ) so that he could wear the clothes for the Christmas Eve festivities. Fair enough. Have to get those shoes on for the affairs of state before he grows out of them.

And the pics turned out cute.

So . . . who wants you killed?

We did my brakes yesterday and, of course, test drove the skunk. And the skunk made noise but not any more or less noise than a economy car that has 146,000 miles on it.

Drove home from State Wayne Manor, stopped at the Southfield Target (which currently has better clearance than the Wixom Target) . . . hmmm, is that a clutch noise? I've never changed the clutch. Nope, gone.

This morning, am ten minutes early because of the snow. Glance at the tires because I was warned that one might be losing air. Thank my lucky stars that I have free snow tires for a Neon. Off to work.

The noise starts on Woodward. A vibration. Maybe the snow tires. Maybe we didn't rotate them after all (we were unsure if the marking meant where they took them off, or where they were supposed to go). Get onto 696. Noise worse. I stay in the right lane. Am not driving all that fast because of the traffic and the light snow. By Dequindre, it sounds like my driver's side wheel is going to fall off. Well, I can pull over . . . but it's a yearbook deadline . . . and I don't want to hang out on the side of the freeway this morning when it's 23 degrees . . . and there is no one to come and get me (well, AAA. But that's a pain in the ass.) . . .

So I keep driving. Figure I'll either make it to work and deal with it. Or not make it to work when my wheel falls off. I make it to work.

At work, I have access to approximately 500 hundred boys, who would love to look at my car rather than be in class. Have boy look at the wheel. Ask him if I threw a bearing. He doesn't think so . . .

Call my brother. It's like being at the doctor, the diagnostic questions. Finally, "did you check the lug nuts?" Nope. That could really be the problem. Okay, easy enough. I can tighten lug nuts. (Can't fix bearings though) But you have to jack up the car. "I have to jack up the car?" Like, with a real jack? Not a hydraulic one? Walk into a classroom, borrow two boys with coats. They check the tire first. It can wiggle. They check the lug nuts next. One falls off in the boy's hand. "Where did you get this done?" I didn't get it done. "If you got it done at Tuffy, or Midas, you need to go and yell." "And get your money back," the other chimes in. I didn't get it done. "So . . . who wants you killed?" "No one, I don't think . . . maybe my brother . . . " The boys jack up the car, tighten the lug nuts, tell me that you don't want them too tight. But that was the problem from before, wasn't it? The not too tight?

Second phone call to my brother (keep in mind that cell phones are not allowed in school). "Yeah, musta been when Dad told me to turn the torque down." "Better check all of them." Great. It is now after school. No boys. Well, freshmen in my room for homework help . . . but they do not have cars because they are freshmen. Therefore, they do not know how to fix cars like the others with the teenage wrecks. I do not jack up the car. Someone helps me with the lug nuts on the other wheels (all loose). There is no noise when I drive home.

So Mr. Crabbypants is trying to kill me. Just for that . . . he's getting new clothes for Christmas.

Diggers in my Front Yard and the Golden Monkey

As a disclaimer, I'm am very caffeinated at this moment. So I may not take responsibility for any posts later this evening . . . because evidently, I'm not sleeping tonight. Damn Golden Monkey.

But first the diggers. I arrived home to diggers in my driveway, complete with piles of dirt and digger men. To be more specific, the diggers were blocking my driveway and the piles of dirt were what was part of my front yard. I know that I don't pay attention, but should the city have sent me a memo or something about this? I've gotten a couple of memos inviting me to talking about it, which I skipped granted, but for this I think they should have given me a sticky on my front door or something. "We are destroying your yard tomorrow" it could read in Sharpie. There was no sticky. I looked.

So I could not park in my driveway. And then there was the walking through all the dirt, wincing about my brick edging (now under dirt). I'm sure they'll put it back . . . better than it was. Right? Upon leaving, I had to quiz the digger men. How long are you going to be here? (Mostly because earlier this evening I had sleeping on the agenda . . . and the beeping of the diggers was not going to facilitate that. Now it doesn't matter as much.) What time are you coming in the morning? Digger man and I established that I would be able to sleep without beeping and get out of my driveway in the morning. Excellent. I was late, so I didn't chat about the dirt piles. Again, I'm sure they'll put everything back. Right?

Still managed to get to Ferndale (fashionable? really . . . still?) slightly early and not having any idea where I was going, decided to not be early and go shop quickly. Because early would have been bad . . . or not as good as on time. See kick ass knitting bag. Decide that I do not need knitting bag . . . and want it in another color. Find that it is the only bag of it's type in the store. Decide to leave it up to the fates. If it was there when I got back, I could buy it. Shopping Russian roulette. Always dangerous, because if someone else decides it's cool, well, then you'll never get over the longing. You could have bought it. You had it in your hand. Go to find the place I'm supposed to be.

Ferndale now plays eighties alternative, over loud speakers, downtown. I wonder who in the DDA thought up that plan, because I find it disconcerting to have Sixousie and the Banshees in the background as I'm walking, looking for place I'm supposed to be in two minutes. A bit too John Hughes movie for me. That kind of stuff is only supposed to go on in your head. A common personal soundtrack . . . well, it's not personal.

I think the place only served tea. They had a menu . . . which I read a little. But went with the "Golden Monkey" . . . because if you have a chance to order something called "Golden Monkey", wouldn't you? Hell, I want a shirt that says that. I hope it wasn't $85 dollar tea or something . . . I probably should have been paying more attention (boy, isn't that the theme of the week?). Talked for a hour with another human being that I found interesting (sometimes hard for me . . . ). More aptly, was questioned for an hour by another human . . . plus drank really caffeinated tea. But didn't figure that out until about another hour later, when I found myself on the ceiling of a Barnes and Noble.

There was a window of time. So after went to the "record" store, which is now full of CDs and bought the Shiny Toy Guns CD. Only currently like one song, thank you very much, but it might grow on me. And the kick ass knitting bag was still there, with 40% off socks and 50% off tank tops, plus a camouflage shirt that I will wear on Friday (and try to be convincing about it being a school color). I then went to Barnes and Noble and bought poetry books and wondered why I was bouncing off the walls. Hmm . . . what was it that I drank at that place with the tea? Liquid crank? And if it wasn't a Tuesday . . . well, that would be great.

So I guess I'll be figuring out three weeks worth of poetry lesson plans tonight . . . I'll be up and all. Maybe I'll crash. Let's hope for that. Because I can't knit in meetings anymore and there's one tomorrow . . . and I can't tell anyone what I think. Because no one likes that.

Again, I will be in denial about anything I write later . . . at 3 a.m. . . . after I have graded all the papers I have (yeah, right) and cleaned the grout in my bathroom. Riding the Golden Monkey.

Every day is Halloween

"I wonder if anyone else knows that Emily just dressed as herself today?"

Cuteness Causing Pain

I just talked to S for the first time in ages . . . well, it was instant messaging, so I just typed to S for the first time in ages. He's so into being a dad. Just got a puppy, something that he would have NEVER imagined doing before becoming a father. A testament to how much being a parent changes you.

Sent me pictures. Always does . . . and she is now so cute and looks so much like her father, it makes me want to cry. I miss him. I miss him being my best friend and calling him up at 3 a.m. and him calling me with all his drama. But there is no drama anymore, other than puppies piddling on the floor. And his wife gets to be his best friend . . . and really that's the way it should be. But what I wouldn't give to sit around with him, endless coffee, shooting the shit, like we used to . . . when we were young.

At Dinner

"So if you or Dave have any kids, I'm buying the Dingo Snack shirt for you to dress them in . . ."
"Dave already has a kid" says Z.
"Yes, he does . . . but you're too big to be a dingo snack."
"Maybe you could be a tiger snack."
"Or a lion snack."
"Or hey, I heard of this nine year old that was found inside an anaconda in the Amazon."
"Was he dead?" asks Z. (who is almost nine)
"No . . . he was just hanging out there, listenin' to his ipod."
"Kinda like being inside a whale. But a snake."

And my water then came out of my nose.

Hit 30

Today I ran for thirty minutes straight. I'm still old and slow . . . but I ran 2.36 miles and burned 357.01772471968155 calories. No, I don't know why the calorie count goes out 14 decimal points . . . but it amuses me greatly. And it didn't hurt and I wasn't all that winded. Hot and sweaty but not winded. I don't know what I'm going to do when there is snow and I'll have to wear clothes . . . or more clothes than what I wore today in the cold and rain.

So maybe I will make 3 miles by October . . . very slow miles, but miles nonetheless. I wonder how many decimal points it goes out for 3 miles.

You're Emily

While I was out on my "I'm not sure if this is a date" outing . . . which is why I wore converse (because if you have to ask . . . then it's not a date . . . ) (I had fun, by the way) I saw someone in a "Weakerthans" T-shirt.

I have never seen anyone in a Weakerthans t-shirt. I have never known anyone who has ever heard of the Weakerthans, other than my brother. So D. suggested that I go talk to the gentleman in the Weakerthans t-shirt, as to not miss this opportunity.

I could only see his back. So I walked up to join their table. "Hi, ummm, I had to ask because of your . . . "

"You're Emily ___" said the man in the Weakerthans t-shirt. I'm sure there was this look of either horror or shock and awe. How did this man know my name? How did he know me? I looked at him carefully . . . still looking . . . sorta familiar . . .

"Kevin?" Turns out he is one of my brother J.'s friends from high school. He now lives in Berkley and therefore hangs out at the Berkley Front (because we are required to . . . living in Berkley and all). My brother is coming home next week, so I will probably see him then but how funny, that the guy I had to talk to because he was so cool (no one knows the Weakerthans) turns out to be someone I already know. Someone I've known since he was fourteen.

So much for me being anonymous or hard to recognize. Creepy.

Dingo Snack

My best friend, from sixth grade on, E1 just sent me pictures of her son Finnegan. She sends groups of pictures to an email list about every three months because she is a good mom and Finnegan, he's a cutey.

His name is not really Finnegan . . . and I'm the only person in the world who refers to him as Finnegan, which I'm sure will cause some sort of psychological damage. But really, what doesn't? His parents went on and on at their wedding about how they met in the Finnegan's Wake class in grad school and so I decided on his name before he was even conceived. He should just thank his lucky stars that he isn't a girl (pseudo-named Finnegan) and that he lives in a completely different state so he doesn't have to put up with me often. He doesn't look a thing like the sock puppet. And he can't tell the difference between me and his aunt . . . so she may get all the blame.

But speaking of psychological damage, in this last round of pictures, Finnegan is dressed in a bright red shirt proclaiming him as a "Dingo Snack". As in "The Dingo . . . it ate my baby" with Meryl Streep sobbing. Dingo Snack. Labelling your child as a wild dog treat. That's just asking for trouble.

So of course, I had to give E1 (who is a good mother and does try to do everything right) shit about dressing her son as a foodstuff. She got really serious . . . "yeah, we have to be really careful about where we wear that shirt. We don't wear it to the playground. We can only wear it if we're sure people will get the joke." I love that her two year old already has outfits that he can only wear in certain places . . . to certain parties or occasions. I bet it's going to be more old when he's thirteen and wearing fishnet shirts and black lipstick.

Turns out the aunt that I'm interchangable with . . . she gave him the shirt.

Here's the link in case you need one for the little Finnegans in your life.