Published Maybe?

I think I may be published at this point . . . sure, it's only the web, kinda like this thing . . . but the web address sounds impressive.

Dodgemotorsports.com

My pictures start here, I think. So I made page 8. Which is even less impressive, considering that my brother is part of the website.

Beware the Ides of March

Or, why I can no longer date.

I don't like psychics.

And this dislike goes back to when for fun, E1 and I went to a psychic fair . . .

Got my palm read . . . blah, blah, blah, . . . typical stuff. Except the ending. "Do you want me to tell you this?" the man said. "I don't usually tell people stuff like this that I see."

There is a man your life that is evil. Very dark. Avoid him. He will try to become close to you. Bring you down with him. Avoid him.

E1 was with me. You could ask her.

And I chalked it up to the recently broken-up with ex-boyfriend (who was really just annoying, maybe bad, but not evil . . . ) and called it good.

And then that thing went down . . . you know that thing . . . and I didn't trust anyone for years and my life was completely f**ked up . . . and I was spending every night watching, making sure nothing happened . . . and it took over my life. God love the friends who listened to my crap at that time. God love my family for putting up with me. And thank goodness I took that social workers advice.

So I don't take psychic stuff lightly. And I know that it will never happen in any way that you would think it would happen. I assumed it would be a romantic interest . . . instead it had to do with my career. I wasn't on guard. Had forgotten all about it.

And my mother called yesterday. Said her friend, who sees things, asked about me. Said I would meet someone who is a danger to me. On the internet. Said that I should be very careful about my personal information. This to a girl who blogs her life on the internet. Said some other things to . . . but I don't want to jinx the good things by writing them down.

So fun is over. Cause I can't tell who is a danger . . . and it could be the dating or it could be work or it could be the random guy on the street. Or the dvd I buy next week. And I wasn't there to ask questions. And what level of danger? Annoying? Kill me in my sleep? Destroy my psyche? It sounds like I'm being flip, but I'm not. I'm actually freaking.

E2 offered to give the kids my address and have them toilet paper my house, just so I wouldn't dwell.

And for the record . . . I wasn't trying too hard. I was having fun.

Vaginacide

Saturday Night.

We go to the Belmont to see an acquaintance's band. The drummer for The Cut Loose. And the Belmont is in Hamtramck. Somehow, E2 (whom I'm dragging with me, poor girl) has heard about Hamtramck, even though she is an extreme West Sider. And really, Hamtramck doesn't look all that different. And the Belmont looks like a bar that should be in Hamtramck. . . full of arty hipsters with bad haircuts (oh, Princess . . . the bad hair I didn't expose you to). Black floor, green walls, exceedingly hard to get a drink. Smokey. And very "art fag". (high school term for artist with nose up in the air, thinking that no one could possibly understand the deepness)

And E3 spots me right away. Is very nice, friendly. Chats with us over the noise.

But there is a "surprise" opening band. E3 thinks they may just do a couple of songs. It is the bar owner's birthday and the "surprise" opening band is part of the present. And they take forever to set up. There is taping up a bed sheet. Seems very Wayne's World.

And finally, they start. There seem to be strippers, in gold lame bikinis and thigh-high athletic socks. And they are hitting the bar owner with plungers and wrapping him in toilet paper, while the lead singer yells the most vile things he can think of into the microphone.

"Bloody, bloody tampon . . . I want to eat your bloody, bloody tampon . . . " And as you can see from the playlist . . . this goes on for hours. At least an hour and a half. It seemed like a lifetime. And it kept getting worse. The strippers did not strip (which would have at least been interesting), the lead singer did strip (and had horrible man boobs), and the loud vile yelling went on. It's as if a bunch of ninth grade boys had gotten together (or better yet, seventh grade boys) and thought up as much toilet humor as they could think of. "Vaginacide, vaginacide . . . I want to crawl up in your hole and die . . ." I kid you not.

And we couldn't leave, having come all the way to the bowels of Metro Detroit to see E3 play. And the poor guy was so embarrassed. And just when we thought it would end, there would be another song. "Seething F**K Patties" The name of the band. No, really. I think they even have a myspace.

And when The Cut Loose could finally set up, E3 stole their playlist for me. It was just sitting up on the stage. So I thought I would share it with you. And warn the world.

The Cut Loose are pretty good, however. Kinda like Doors, plus Buddy Holly, with a little punk edge. At least live anyway.

Blame Bop-Bop

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? Yes, but ironically my parents didn't know it. I was named after my Great Aunt Ruth, whose name was Ruth Velma Emily M________. My parents didn't know about the second middle name.

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED? Last week.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? Hell yes.

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT? No lunch meat at all. But I worked in that meat packing plant and all. So I'd have to say . . . avocado.

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS? Nope. Would have liked, well, like eight . . . but a little late for that now. Unless I adopt.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? I don't know. Evidently, people find me intimidating the first time they meet me . . . and the second time, etc. But then again, I'm not easily intimidated and we all know how I love integrity. And punctuality. So I'm going with yes.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT? All the time. Really. I mean it.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? No, but would have liked them in a jar if I had had enough stones when I was six to ask for them.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? Yes, of course.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? Yogurt with granola. Vanilla and no raisins. Raisins are gross.

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF? Depends on the shoes. Converse?

12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? I'll kick your ass.

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM? Cinnamon. Makes me think of dinner at Bill Knapps with my grandmother. Sigh.

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE? Truthfully? Probably, attitude and shoes. Then, if they have good hair.

15. RED OR PINK? Red, unless it's a barrette.

16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? I talk too much. About everything.

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST? My maternal Grandmother (when she was well) and my paternal Grandfather (who truly knew how to show love and always made me feel loved)

18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU? I'm not sending it to anyone other than the one who sent it. If reading it on the blog, feel free to copy and place answers in comments (put your name on it, sillys)

19. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING? No shoes. Cut off jeans with paint. The usual. Sorry Mom.

20. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE? Glass of wine and a pretzel rod stuck in peanut butter.

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? a train in the distance.

22. IF YOU WHERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE? f*ck. I'd have to go check my box of 64. A different one every day, if I could be. Otherwise, I'm feeling "red violet" or "violet red". Two different colors according to Crayola. Yes, I have them sitting right here.

23. FAVORITE SMELLS? This box of crayons (yes, I did just go get it), lavender, pumpkin pie, fall, the ocean.

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? My Mom.

25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU? Yes. But I don't "like like" him. (smile)

26. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH? Live? Lacrosse.

27. WHAT IS YOUR HAIR COLOR? Today? Black. Evidently, with blue highlights.

28. EYE COLOR? Brown.

29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? Yes. Pretty much always.

30. FAVORITE Foods? Currently? Pretzel rod stuck in peanut butter. I like soup. (insert rest of Dead Kennedy's line here) Soy lattes. Gyros.

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS? Do I have a boy? Scary Movies. Because I need a shoulder. If not, Happy Endings, for sure. I'm a wimp about scary movies.

32. LAST BIG MOVIE YOU WATCHED? The Borne Supremacy, with my brother, Dad and Paul.

33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING? Green. Old MSU shirt. So old it has my name sewn in it by my mother.

34. SUMMER OR WINTER? winter, ironically.

35. HUGS OR KISSES? Kissing. I feel trapped by hugs. Don't know why.

36. FAVORITE DESSERTS? Any and all.

37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Don't care.

38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Still don't care.

39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW? Winkie . . . some story about a stuffed bear that gets arrested as a terrorist. Haven't read it for a while though. Pretty surreal.

40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? A friend's address. How much to add to my principal when paying my mortgage to make an even number. What my username is to pay my credit card online. (No, not the password, Mom.)

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T. V. LAST NIGHT? Last night? Howard Stern. I was over at Princess's house and she and her sister love him.

42. FAVORITE SOUND? Crickets.

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES? Rolling Stones.

44. WHAT IS THE FURTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME? Paris, France.

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT? I can draw realistic portraits if given the time. I can knit. I can pick good colors for things. I can make people do things . . . in a nice way. I can say "no", without ever really saying the word "no". I can speak in front of 500 people, without even really knowing what I'm speaking about.

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN? Ohio

47. What frustrates you most? People without integrity.

48. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK? Again. Don't expect answers from anyone. But this was kinda a cool thing to do. Don't send me any more though.

Did You Know?

I cannot be an employee at Starbucks.

According to their corporate policies, hair must be of a "natural color", visible tattoos must be covered, no facial piercings are allowed . . . (okay, I do fit all of that . . . as of today)

. . . and you are only allowed five TOTAL ear piercings.

I have six. It makes me feel more balanced. Had five for years, but now have two earrings in my right ear.

Although, the manager (who also told me about the great partner benefits and how the corporation could care less that she is gay) pointed out that I could just take one earring out for my shift.

Good to know.

The Act of Blogging

I write to be sane. I write to work things out in my head. I write so I do not need to spend the time going to a therapist every week. And I have to admit, the entries where I am working out things are the more interesting (I think), rather than the "what I did today" genre. I do not write to please anyone. I write with an audience in mind, somewhat, but I assume that audience is going to be five people -- Mom, Dad, Mere, Princess and E2 . . . maybe six including E1. And although it is flattering that other people would spend time, which they cannot get back, looking at what I write; I am still basically writing for myself.

I had an interesting comment interaction last night, which makes me what to set some things straight. The comment feature seems to be a blessing and a curse on most blogs . . . both dooce and Matthew Good write about it often (only blogs that I read with any regularity) and have turned off the comment feature on their blogs . . . and maybe we're just extremely soft-skinned. But people feel the need to offer advice. Fine. Great. I put this stuff out there. Go for it.

(More comment fodder: I, in no way, am comparing myself to Heather Armstrong or Matthew Good in any other capacity other than comment difficulties. They are both amazingly talented people, with fabulous websites, and they get 1000 comments a post . . . seems silly that I am complaining about my 3.)

But when the advice involves how I've somehow wronged you in some way . . . well, keep in mind that my mother and father read this. My email is at the top of the page. There's another one in the profile. You could spread the venom (or the advice) that way, I suppose.

Why don't I just delete the comments? Well, I have a problem with deleting things just because I don't agree with them . . . or just don't like them . . . or what have you. If I comment is published about an entry, I'll leave it. I may pull the post but for some reason it seems unethical to delete the comment.

As for saving me from being a whiny, judgemental bitch, please see the first paragraph of this entry. I am not writing to please you. You could just stop reading that entry if it displeases you. You could just not type the address into explorer's (or modzilla, or whatever's) address bar. You could stop looking at my site. You could pretend that you don't know me. You could shun me. There is an amazing amount of crap on the internet, my site included . . . you could look at that other crap instead. I hear there is free porn.

And I know that you're trying to be helpful (at least I prefer to think that you are trying to be helpful). But these entries are showing you the inside of my brain, at a single moment in time. And how would you like it if someone told you that what you were feeling at a given moment was wrong, whiny, moaning, bad, stupid, (fill in blank here)? And for those who think "Well, you are publishing for the general public. You could have a journal." Yes, you are right. I could.

Most of the time, the comments are from my mother. Which is fine. She'll voice her opinion no matter what, so I'll get that information whether or not she chooses to put it in writing. And she's my mother . . . the only one I have. So she gets to do what she wants . . . and say what she wants. As for everyone else, I don't want to say "don't write hurtful crap" because sometimes I need to be checked but if it's really intense . . . again, you have my email. You don't have to call me a bitch in public.

Thanks.

New-ish Template

Because the people were getting insistent about moving my blog, I'm taking some time to use their new features. One of them is labelling, which is cool because it organizes things . . . except when you are me and you just make a new category for every post. 535 posts and 500 categories. I love being primarily right-brained.

So I have categorized about 75 posts, so 400 or so to go. Figuring this might take a while. The categories are on the right and I will take suggestions. Please no whining about not having your own personal category (or in Princess' case, whining about having one), I may just have thought you didn't want one, or I haven't gotten to anything that I've written about you yet.

And now I have to decide on a category for this post. Crap. At least the beta thing has spell check.

Finally, Someone Loves Me!

Thanks to the tech guy at work, I have a gmail account!

iamthanu@gmail.com

I've been waiting forever for someone to invite me. Gmail is like a good street address . . . you'd must rather say that you live on say . . . Cranbrook Road, rather than 14 Mile. I feel so included in the cult of google. I feel so loved.

Have one bad day on the internet

". . . and then you didn't post the next day, so I called to make sure that you hadn't committed suicide or something . . . " says my sister on the phone this evening. "So you better post after saying something like that."

I'm still alive and kicking and occasionally screaming. Didn't mean to worry you. Had a bad day . . . and didn't post the full amount of rambling thoughts that I had written. Sometimes I do that, to protect the possibly innocent. Or to not let the guilty know that I'm on to them. Or to not hurt anyone . . .

But yeah, still here. Just busy.

Men and Comments

As a public service announcement: If you click on the "(random number) pieces of clothing on the floor," you will get a pop window with all the comments about the entry above it.

Mr. Crabbypants just thought that was a gauge of my anxiety level . . . or my chaos level. He thought when it said "0" I was having a good day and that my room was very clean. It in fact means that no one has made any comments about that particular writing. And while having a gauge of my level of chaos might be interesting, I would be embarassed by how high it was all the time, so I won't publish such things. I'm kind of afraid of what Mr. Crabbypants is now going to comment about, now that he has discovered this new function of blogging.

As an another aside, the "pieces of clothing on the floor" is a reference to my general disarray . . . not to any randiness. Get your minds out of the gutter.

It's Here

Despite the fact that I always tell the internet my birthday is on the 27th . . . it's here. I'm 35.

Of course, I'm going to tell everyone I'm 28. So this is "thirtysomething". It helps that I had a good time on my date yesterday . . . I haven't freaked out yet. Well, except for that projectile vomiting, being hung over for two days thing. And I guess I'm okay with being a whole Melissa-Ellen combo but I would really like Hope's house . . . and Michael Steadman.

Now that anyone under 35 has no idea what I'm talking about . . . I have the very big plans of going to the Secretary of State and the allergist. Maybe to Somerset for some shopping.

Dear Pam

First off . . . PAM, you need to stop hanging out in my backyard AND if you are going to leave a phone number repeatedly for "Kim", you should leave a number that is in working order. Otherwise, I'll call, your voicemail will hang up on me and then we'll be right back where we started. I'd make you a poster but I really don't want to advertise to the world about who does and doesn't live here. And my mother keeps suggesting that I call the police.

(but she suggests that I call the police for pretty much everything . . . I don't know if she's thinking she wants a son-in-law that's a cop? If she feels that Berkley's finest doesn't have enough to do?)

So Pam, either leave an area code, working phone number, or maybe . . . just maybe, you should try CALLING Kim with that sucky phone of yours. And no, I still haven't seen Angel. But then again, I don't know if Angel is a person or a cat or what . . . so maybe I have seen her, or it, or whatever. Just stop leaving notes Pam.

I did learn how to block my caller I.D. from other's phones, so random notes are helpful in that way I guess.

Letter

"Kim,
you nEEd to Call mE. Have things Set up for tomorrow Night. wed . . So call mE OK
Pam
Have you seen AngeL"

Found this tucked into my side door this morning. Handwritten in what seems to be crayon. Red crayon. Have no idea who any of the mentioned parties are . . . note has a phone number, which doesn't work.

So Kim, you need to call Pam. She wants to know if you have seen Angel. And she has things set up for tonight . . . or you need to have them set up . . . or something.

I hope people don't show up in my backyard tonight with the expectation that I have things set up, because they won't be.

There. I let the internet know.