No Really, You Shouldn't Try it Unless You're SURE I Like You

I talked to a brand-new, shiny teacher today . . .

And after a couple of "well, no . . . that's never going to happen" and "well, they certainly aren't going to give you that!" I realized that I was being a buzzkill. And yes, I often am. But the likelihood of her doing what she wants, it was past "never". So I decided to turn it around.

"Well, no only means no if you let it . . . " and tried to muster up one of those "shiny happy people" smiles.

"But you know, Em . . . "

And that was it. I stopped listening. My father is allowed to call me Em. Certain people that I am very close to can call me Em. I allow certain others with special permission (in my head, silly, I don't tell you . . . ) because they are charming or funny or I like them, call me Em. But otherwise, I'm not really an "Em". There IS one person in the world, so far, that can get away with calling me "Emmy" but again, he is charming and it is his term of endearment . . . and he lives in Colorado so I don't have to hear it.

However, with this bright shiny new teacher . . . this is the first extended conversation that we have ever had. And I think she would have been appalled if I came up with a nickname for her or, and this is probably what actually happened, was just too lazy to say the rest of the syllables of her name.

Perhaps I made her feel so comfortable that she felt we could be on a nickname basis in ten minutes? Nah. At least I don't think so, considering what the students call me sometimes.

I did not correct her. Just started pointing out that changing culture and traditions was a bit like turning the titanic. And gave her a few suggestions to ask for things that would ultimately benefit me and my program.

But in a world where we mostly address each other by last name . . . Em. It was jarring.

She's lucky I didn't stab her in the eye.

Okay, Two Things

I was just carded for spray paint.

And I was so surprised by their asking, that I stuttered my birth date.

The kids. They huff it. So they have to ask you for your birth date . . . just like at Meijer's, but at Meijer's I'm buying liquor.

"Oh, I thought you were asking because you thought I was going to make some graffiti." Nope. Don't care if you tag the place. Just don't sniff it. And at 36, Home Depot thinks I'm old enough to decide.

Okay, next.

My "superior" . . . a.k.a. an assistant principal . . . asked me today, "if you were still teaching English, would you have applied for department head?"

They were surprised by my answer. "Hell no." Well more like, "Hell NO." I then went on to explain that I make a good minion. I like behind the scenes. "I like to do stuff, but as soon as you get a title . . . well, crap gravitates to you."

To a friend later, I explained that the A.P. seemed confused by my answer. "Hmmm, let's see . . . a natural leader, who is unwilling to take any official leadership role. Yeah, not confusing, at all." (I think I got that quote right. If not, please correct me in the comments.)

Awwww. Someone called me a "natural leader".

Not the Tomb Raider One

It was an interesting day.

Giving advice . . . when I don't take advice very well. Certainly don't do well with constructive criticism. Felt very much like the pot speaking firmly with the kettle about being black today.

Finished the baby hat that I'm not sure I'm going to send. QO doesn't have a last name . . . so I'm not sure how to address it. Okay, I'm sure he has a last name, I just don't know what it is. And why knit for people if you don't even know their last names? Very cute hat though. Just the right color blue . . . organic cotton yarn . . . very soft . . . almost wish it was big enough for me.

I just got off the phone. Talked Peter Pan down for a while, using tiny stitches on his shadow. Doesn't want to grow up . . . doesn't want to live like this though. Spinny, spinny, spinny. Conversation ended with how much he was attracted to Angelina Jolie . . . not the Tomb Raider one, when she was in Hackers was better, without the fake boobs. So much for the grounding conversation about being a grown up.

So now I'm tired. Kinda the theme for the summer. Just tired. Languishing. Perhaps the Fall will be better.

I did buy the cutest ballet flats though. Red. Shiny.

But They Have Access to Cable, Right?

So I am toying with the idea of going vegetarian . . . so much so, that I gave the PETA people my address. Which may have been a huge mistake. But they had this nifty "free starter kit". And I wanted to know what that would contain, other than a big sticker stating MEAT IS MURDER.

And I like animals and all, but really, I find them yummy. Family chicken weirdness aside, there's nothing better than a rare steak. But I read this book. Hate it when that happens. Didn't even have to buy it because I read it in the store, in somewhat less than two hours because I didn't have to pay for parking. Anyhow, this book was talking about eating habits . . . and how when you are afraid all these bad hormones go through your body . . . and how even if the package says that the cow had a very soft bed and comfy pillows, they all go to the same slaughterhouse. And then the book pointed out that there are some people that aren't the nicest to the animals working at the slaughterhouse.

And my first reaction would be "that's crap", except that I worked at the step after the slaughterhouse, with the people who worked there. And I didn't eat bacon for fifteen years . . . and I still can't eat ham. So the part in the book describing how some of the workers might torture the animals for kicks, because they are going to die anyway. Yeah, well, they used to laugh at the flies sealed in the hot dog packages. And the whole thing with the USDA guy and the tagging meat thing was totally true, because 40 pallets I personally tagged as unsafe went out. So yeah, that makes the whole meat is yummy idea, not so yummy.

My brother was vegan for a while. Now I think he might use butter. He refuses to sit in my house however, as I have leather furniture . . . and he has awful shoes. So I thought I might ease into things. Maybe try some "meatless" sausage in my chili . . . oh, and give the PETA people my name so I can get on another FBI list. Because, really, I like yogurt and cheese. And I'm sure those cows have comfy pillows, right?

Hopefully, I'll get over it in a week or two. I mean I have eaten veal before and not even felt guilty. Hmmm.

Tired of Being the Project

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

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

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

Not talking to that guy anymore.

Check.

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

What He Heard

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

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

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

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

What he heard: I want to steal your soul.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yah Mean That Back?

Sadly, I have an affair of state to go to . . . which I will write about later when it is not so fresh. But Princess, you doubted that I would have one. Too bad this is a very sad occasion, but thank goodness I bought that wig and don't have to try to dye my hair to its normal color tonight.

However, my family had to move an apartment of furniture today. My brother kept saying that we could put the giant mirror that we had to move in "the back of the truck", which to me, meant the bed of the truck. And I kept arguing with him, because I didn't want to break the mirror and quite honestly, it wasn't going to make it in the bed of the truck with the two dressers and the bed we were moving. Finally, he gave me the tone of "just drop it" and I did. He was getting pissed at my big sisterly advice. Or so I thought.

We moved all the really heavy stuff first.

As we went in to get another load, I noticed that the giant truck of lease cheapness (my father's folly) (which to his credit was very useful today) had a full backseat . . . and that it was mostly empty. And I hatched this great idea.

"Hey, Dave . . . we can just put the mirror in the back of the truck."
"That's what I've been telling you for the last hour . . ."
"But the backseat of the truck. That way, it won't get broken."
"Um. Yeah. I know. That's what I've been sayin. Doofus."

"Oh, you meant that back of the truck?"

Correction

The cartoon is a creation of Disney . . . trying to benefit from the Anime trend. So I'm not even a live version of real anime, just Disneyifed anime. Like cooked sushi. (okay, in reading the wiki, maybe Cartoon Network . . . which may or may not be cooler)

According to D., the character is soooo me:

Yumi (pronounced /ˈumi/) is depicted as a cynical, sarcastic punk rocker with purple hair and eyes and is dressed in a heavy metal/grunge/goth style with studded necklaces and bracelets, a light purple T-shirt with a skull that make the same expressions as she does, a black miniskirt over purple bike shorts, and black army boots.

Now D., I don't wear black army boots anymore . . . closest I've come is green Doc Martens and that's only in the winter. I'll give you skully shirts, cynical and sarcastic though.

So really, I look like a cartoon Disney punk character (Disney and punk in the same sentence. Yay.) . . . which is really just Disney's attempt to cash-in on Japanese culture (and a weird thing that is . . . two words . . . Hello Kitty). Great. Again, exactly what I was going for . . .

Oh, and PuffyAmiYumi is a Japanese pop/rock group. One of their songs is titled "Destruction Pancake" . . . but there are also titles like "Go Baby Power Now".

Yeah, Hello Kitty.

Maybe Need to Run in Circles

I feel like a cranky child tonight . . . and was honest and told someone I was pissed, when I really didn't need to. I'll get over being pissed shortly. May be over it already.

And I feel like I really shouldn't talk until school gets out . . . to anyone. I realize that it is not them, it's me and how I am approaching things. I'm just over-tired, and perhaps over-stressed (never had a good gauge about when I'm really stressed, except maybe when I'm so stressed that I get hives and my esophagus closes up involuntarily). Like to think that I roll with it well, when I so don't, as evidenced by my physical symptoms to stress taking over.

And tomorrow is a different day. And in less than eight days, it will just be me, in my house . . . going for days without talking to anyone except maybe the Starbucks barista. And despite my insistence that I was "ditched" tonight, I really just needed to go to bed anyway.

So sorry, Princess. I didn't mean it. And it's too late to call and apologize tonight. Hope your car is beautiful and I will see you at Graduation. Sorry I was crabbypants.

Have You Seen This Boy?

I get a phone call at 4:31 p.m.

I am still at work. It is M., my brother's girlfriend. I like my brother's girlfriend. I answer the phone.

"Hey, have you talked to John today?" John and I talk about once a month on the phone and I do not have a job that is conducive to phone calls. Cell phones are not allowed to be seen, nor heard in schools. "Um, no?" And mind jumps to things. Did they break up? Cause really my family doesn't want that to happen. My father loves M. Perhaps likes her more than his son.

"Oh, I thought you talked to him pretty frequently."

"No. Why?"

"He's missing."

Missing? What kind of missing? He was supposed to show up at work. His colleague, the other J. has called wondering where he is. M. has been in court all day but left him, perfectly intact, this morning.

Now the Crabbypants . . . we always show up at work. I've shown up at work even when I shouldn't have . . . one time when I was still bleeding profusely from my nose at random intervals. And should we not show up, we always call. We were taught to call even if we were going to be a minute late. For anything. And anything less is impolite. I'd call my friends if I'm was going to be late for meeting them at "book club". Until I figured out that was annoying and the whole world didn't think that was normal. I mean it's normal if you're going to be 20 minutes late . . . but not three minutes. And I have called and said, "I'm going to be about three minutes late." That has come out of my mouth. We are punctual, we Crabbypants.

So he didn't show up for work and he is not answering his phone. J. not answering his phone is not all that unusual. He often breaks it. He has lost two phones to cats flicking them into the toilet. At least one has gone into the ocean. And sometimes, often time, he simply does not answer when I call . . . because he is working. So not answering the phone and not at work is unusual.

So I have the "he has had a brain aneurysm and fallen but cannot get up" vision. Hit is head on the damn toilet and his seven damn cats do not have opposable thumbs and don't know what to do. He went kayaking and is now washed out to sea. He took the deposit from one store to the bank . . . and he is sooo not good with thieves. He will tell them "no". Very firmly, in fact. Has done it before. And I can't do anything . . . he is 24 hours away by car. I can't drive over and check.

M. has called all his friends. She has called all the hospitals. She has called him repeatedly. When I get home, I check my IM. He is on but idle . . . but it is always this way. I send a message. I do not get an answer. I call M. back at 6:15 to see if there is a blood trail across the living room. She is still driving home but is totally worked up. Again, it is very unusual for J. to miss work. If he is not home, I advise her to call the police. And then I stand around my house. Call E. to chat about my missing brother in Miami. Think about when I should call my parents.

Turns out he was home. In the living room. The small zoo of pets jumping from here to there. Didn't see the computer . . . as it is in a whole other room. His phone didn't ring. I ask to speak to him . . . to give him the big sister speech. "What? My phone didn't ring. And no one should worry if I haven't been gone for 24 hours." I let him go . . . I have had voice verification. And M. is furiously yelling in the background. "SIX HOURS!"

He calls back a little later and thanks me for worrying. I didn't tell him my thoughts about what a pain in the ass it would be if he were dead. He is my beneficiary on everything . . . and I'm just not organized enough to track everything down and change that. So he can't go missing anymore.

As Long As I Have an Ipod, it's Fine

Okay, I did go. And next time, let me suggest 6 a.m. or you won't find a parking spot. And there were people, people everywhere . . . and we all know how I like the general populace. Despite the headache (which has moved to the left side today . . . sneaky) I was not Miss Crabbypants. I was just there to see what I could see. Even bought some things. Strawberries and limes.

But at one point, in the tree and shrubbery part, there was a blonde former sorority chick who was openly Crabbypants. I thought about adopting her . . . but she was too skinny. Just like my father, she had no internal monologue. "SHE"S GOT A STROLLer AND a WAGON? No WONder WE CAN'T MOVE. AND WHY DO THEY PUT THESE TRASH CANS IN THE MIDDLE?" So b.f.s.c. was in a hurry to go nowhere. Everybody had the same shrubs. It's not like the good stuff was at the end. I was then taken out by about three strollers and somehow have a cut on my leg.

The Royal Oak Farmers market was just as crazy. No place to park and S.U.V.s darting around the parking lots fighting for position. These people know that they still have grocery stores that carry produce, right? Probably the same produce? And they're air conditioned? Hmmm. Maybe I'm a spoil sport, but I'm not into fighting three ladies with strollers the size of S.U.V.s for asparagus. But then again, I'm not all that fond of asparagus. Silly.

At Lunch Today

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

Done -- No. 16

I am done poking RB with a stick. Him being annoyed doesn't make me feel any better. And as much as I would like to attribute mystery to him . . . there isn't one. He calls me when he is lonely and bored. I don't know why I can't figure that out.

I am done with bars. I had fun last night, but there is always this expectation that this will be the night . . . the night that we meet someone . . . and we never meet anyone. Actually, I should speak for myself. I never meet anyone that I am remotely interested in. I would rather just go and hang out.

I really just want to curl up on my couch and watch movies for a while.

I'm done with drinking for a while. No, I'm not sick. I drank Coke for most of last night . . . but I'm sick of the headaches. And I do have a "oh my god I can't stand any smells ehw I smell like bath and body works soap" kind of headache today. Which is inconvenient. I'm a girl. Every product I use has a smell. Usually recognized as a good smell. But with a migraine, anything with a smell makes me nauseous.

I'm going to try to be done with apologizing. I apologize entirely too much. For everything. Things that are not my fault. Things that I have nothing to do with. And I know it is from my childhood and an oldest child thing, blah, blah, blah . . . but really I have very little to apologize for, but I spend an enormous amount of time apologizing. So hit me if you hear me saying I'm sorry. I'm not sorry. I think I'm just trying to get the upper hand in the conversation.

I need to be done being snobby about meeting people. If I'm really serious about having a relationship, then I need to do what it takes and be over my thoughts about how I should meet someone. Someone just said, "Well, our choices make our lives. If you really wanted to be married, you would be married." So golf lessons it is . . . yuck. Cause I'm not going to meet my glasses-wearing, tech-loving, bad-fashion choices, geek boy hanging out at the Front. And if I did, he wouldn't talk to me because he's with his friends at the Front . . . or I'm with my friends. I hear there are tech conventions somewhere.

Watch Out

As I shirk my responsibilities at work (because it is Saturday, damnit. I want one day off.) . . . I have quite the adventurous morning.

First, the allergist. I got the nurse who hates life. Hates her job. Hates fat people. Hates me. Which was hilarious, now that I know that she is just like that. She likes her blood pressure cuffs to be very large, which leads to sighing on her part. (I don't know about you . . . but I think I have pretty regular sized arms . . . my butt is another story . . . ) She's a peach. Then the physician's assistant came in and admonished me not to "pick up rocks" in Arizona. Everything will be fine there, in terms of allergies, as long as I don't pick up any rocks. I had to ask for clarification. Are there allergens in the rocks? Is it like Hawaii and the goddess of fire will hunt you down and make your life miserable? What's with the tempting rocks?

"All the spiders stay under the rocks . . . well, spiders and bad things . . . like scorpions . . . all under the rocks. So if you pick them up, you might be in trouble."

Well . . . okay, then. No, touching the rocks.

The explanation came with a personal story, leading me to believe that the rock warning isn't all that creditable. Just because someone's mother stopped by the side of the road and picked up what she thought was a pretty rock and there happened to be a large spider on it . . . doesn't mean all rocks are dangerous. At least I don't think that logic works.

After the rock conversation, I decided to go get some french toast. Had the Saturday ad section of the paper, so coffee and some toast seemed the way to go. Found a small booth, even though it was Saturday morning. Cool. Except that I was next to two couples. I was unable to determine their age . . . couldn't tell if it was an "early bloom, early rot" situation, if if they were in their thirties . . . well, anyhow one of them had a "Holly wrestling" skull cap on and talked about wrestling. So maybe they were in high school? The wrestling guy proclaimed that he was still drunk. The two women hated everyone . . . "Why was he dancing with that skag? What happened to Eric, he was so cute. Now he's fat. See here on my phone? He was cute then. God, I hate that girl in the green sweater . . . " The other boy just talked about his food. He didn't understand what was taking so long (at this point, I didn't either . . . because I had no french toast) and he didn't even know what sunny-side up was, but he had ordered over easy. And what was the deal with his toast? He questioned his toast (as he was eating it) about six times.

They were gems. All four of them. And they have a better chance of reproducing than I have . . . leading me to the conclusion that the world may be doomed. Between that and the rocks.

Spew

For about two years, I have been very good at work. I try to be even keeled about my opinions. I try to see the other person's point of view. I try to walk around in the other person skin. And if I can't do that, I ignore them . . . in the case of my next door neighbor, specifically.

Today, I spewed. A lot. I told a large-ish group of people exactly what I thought. With detailed examples. If I had charts and graphs, I would have shown those too. And I had a evil glint in my eyes, because it felt soooo good. So enormously, fabulously wonderful to say what I actually had in my head.

I now realize that I participated in exactly what drove me over the edge . . . the no filter edge . . . in the first place. And I feel just a bit of guilt now. A smidge. A "I might not have done that" smidge. And I will try to be better tomorrow. Because you never know who is listening. And you never know truly where people's allegiances lie. In a group, anyhow.

And people should be glad that I have the filter on most of the time.

Not So Fabulous Anymore

Whenever my father gets bad service, or is unsatisfied with something, he will proclaim that the establishment is "off the list".

(I don't know where the list is . . . in his head? written on some piece of paper on his desk? which looks exactly like mine, by the way. I come by my organizational patterns honestly and directly through genetics)

Well, the city of Ferndale . . . it is off the list.

It seems when I was in attendance at bad blind date no. 423 (the "oh no, you're skinny enough to date" guy) I received a parking ticket for having an expired meter. I did not have enough quarters on the night in question and figured I would "chance" the last half hour before 9 p.m. When I arrived at my car at the end of the awkwardness, I found a parking ticket which informed me that I had a week to pay $6.00. Seems reasonable to me. I did play parking roulette.

As an aside, or perhaps more accurately, another aside, I have never, ever paid a parking ticket on time in my life. Maybe it's my desk organization style . . . or my life organization style. But I always pay those suckers late, and happily pay the extra money . . . because I was late.

But this time, for the first time in my life, maybe because I'm getting things more under control, maybe because I'm more grown up, maybe because I didn't want to pay the outrageous late fee; I paid this ticket ON TIME. Quite the turning point. I dropped my six dollar check in the drop box. I even made sure that the check cashed. A new high point. And all was forgotten.

Yesterday, I received a letter from the "City of Ferndale Bureau of Parking Enforcement". Hmm . . . did I forget about a ticket? No. The nasty letter and bill contained in the envelope says that I now owe $42.00 for a ticket received in November and then proceeds to tell me all the awful things they are going to do if I do not pay $42.00 right now, right now, RIGHT NOW. But I paid the ticket. So I call the number on the nasty letter, which leads me through a maze of automated voices, none of which will help me or direct me to a human. Then I call the City of Ferndale police department . . . because they are the people who wrote the ticket, right? Nope, I have to call the court but the court is not open. Says I should call during "normal business hours" . . . and I don't know about them, but I work during "normal business hours" and I work far away from the City of Ferndale and their money-hungry parking violation department. So now, I have to go to the court building, in the currently non-fabulous city of Ferndale, during "normal" business hours to contest an obvious clerical error, because I have a printout of the cancelled check. And frankly, paying $42.00 would be easier, and cheaper in the long run, than doing the badgering that I'm going to have to do to get this fixed.

But I won't. I paid the damn ticket. On time, no less. So I will go. I will get a sub. I will drive to Ferndale during "normal" business hours. And I will be polite as possible. And I will stare lovingly into their eyes, as I slide the copy of the cancelled check through the slot in the safety glass. And I will smile at my reflection, as I muse about how this may be why municipalities need safety glass . . . to keep me from throttling someone. I will nod with mock concern and sympathy as they tell me there is nothing they can do and I must fill out form 5623A in triplicate and turn it in with copies of my license plate, driver license and a pint of blood gathered during the new moon on a Tuesday.

Because it's the principal of the thing, damn it.

And Ferndale. The whole city of Ferndale. They are sooooo off the list. At least before 9 p.m..

The Ramp of Possibility

Okay, here's the deal.

Once upon a time, I decided to not date. I made the determination that I picked, or liked, or was attracted to, the wrong type of person and so I stopped picking, and liking and being attracted to. I ignored, well, basically my sexuality, (sorry Dad) . . . and it was easy to delve into work and not worry about other people. It was way easier than being disappointed or hurt. Plus, you could eat anything you wanted. I mentally shut myself off to that aspect of life, didn't even entertain possibility.

And I was very good at being alone. (still am, really) I do what I want to do . . . whether I have friends that want to go or not.

And despite the comments from Q.O. about being more positive . . . with the thought that things will work themselves out, that the universe will fall into place, I'm tired. I'm tired of the ramp of possibility and the fall. It doesn't matter if the fall is when I meet them and they have three kids and they aren't really divorced and their life is a mess . . . and then they look at me and say, "So . . . why is it you are 35 and haven't been married?" judgementally, like there was something wrong with me. (and yes, I realize that it is all in how you internalize the comment . . . he could have meant nothing by it . . . just making small talk . . . so we could instead go to the example of "Oh, you're skinny enough to date.") So the fall at the beginning, I'm tired of sitting in front of a person in the middle of an interaction, knowing I will never speak to them again. And I like to give everyone a chance, but frankly, there is a turning point. So should I just end things at that turning point? Should I just get up and walk out? Hmmmm.

I know that dating is a process. That you may, in fact, have to go out with a lot of people to find the right one. But the stories aren't enough anymore . . . and I'm not asking for marriage (God, they so freak out about that) but I would like to get to the fifth date . . . or maybe sixth months . . . because I'm really beginning to believe it's me that's the problem.

But let's talk about the other fall. When the ramp of possibility is higher . . . let's just say we get along. It's fun. Maybe it's that I think he is cute and therefore don't hear the annoying question or statement (I wonder what mine is . . . it's a two way street, I have to have one . . . and no, don't tell me). I had a great date last week. And it wasn't the date (although the Berkley Front is always exciting) it was the person I was with. The right combination of geeky and cool . . . glasses, I do love a boy in glasses . . . nice solid Midwestern values . . . liked to argue . . . called himself a liberal . . . had an interesting job we could talk about . . . never married, no kids and didn't live with his mom . . . oh, and wasn't gay. He was nice. Really, I'm just looking for that. That is so hard to find. Well, it's easy to find. I've met quite a few men that I find attractive and intelligent . . . but they all have girlfriends. So no possibility. But this one, there was no mention of a girlfriend. And I thought he was with me, in the "this is fun" thought. Up the ramp I go.

And I'm tired of this ramp metaphor. He didn't call. It's been a week. And despite what women think . . . and what other men have told me this week, he knows how to use a phone and no one is that busy. I will assume that he was kidnapped by pirates. Because that is so much cooler that not realizing that he was just a jerk, or even harder, that he is just not into me. But while he is out getting his peg leg fitted, I'm sitting here thinking, "Shit, I'm going to have to do this all over again." And I know it was only one date. But I thought there was a possibility and evidently, I'm a really sucky judge of possibility.

And I'm sure I'll get comments . . . and I'm not giving up. I may even email him and ask if he was kidnapped by pirates, if only to get the comforting line about being busy . . . or no response, but I can say I did the extra thing. But it is so much easier for me to suck into myself. Not as fun, but easier. I'm tired of the car crash. Maybe I should stop getting into cars. (See? Brand new metaphor.)

Or maybe I should get kidnapped by pirates.

Entering Phase One

I am now solidly in phase one . . . am disappointed that I have to take it off to shower. Took forever (for me) to transfer everything but my computer seems to have recovered. Can type again.

And it's soooooo pretty and shiny. And the headphones feel like they have become part of my body. So yeah, except at work, I may never take this off. Cuts down on the social interaction . . . but hey, who wanted me to do that anyway? I talk too much, most of the time.

Why is it that we don't let the kids use these at school? Would cut my discipline time way down . . . but then again no one would interact. But sometimes that would be a really good thing. I could just podcast everything. Killer for my kids who can't read.

itunes doesn't have anything I want . . . which in thinking about it . . . is probably a good thing.

Got One in the Closet Already

Sister on phone: "So you look like a skunk?"
"Well . . ."
"Cruella DeVille?"
"I'd prefer to think of it as kinda like a calico cat . . . but I'll let you decide."
"I'm going to get you a Dalmatian coat for Christmas."
"I already have one."

*** No actual dalmatians were harmed in the making of said coat . . . nor by this blog entry . . . nor by the writer herself. However, every dalamatian the writer has ever met has been extremely stupid . . . but maybe she is just not meeting the "right" dalamatians.

With Membership Comes No Privilege

I said I would do it months ago. But it's hard to get down there when it's still open and let's face it, nothing moves there, so it's hard to focus my attention. I finally went to the D.I.A. and bought my membership. Now instead of paying my normal $2-pretending-to-be-a-student-by-handing-you-a-high-school-ID, I paid $45 to just walk in and out at will. Actually, I was upsold (just like I always am at the zoo, damnit) and so now a guest and I can walk in and out at will.

So I have to go to the D.I.A., like, twenty-some times in the next year for this to pay off because yes, I still have a current high school ID with my picture on it (and it's kinda cute this year . . . except that I am wearing a sweatshirt from my old employing school in the picture. Just a little ironic. But my former employing school . . . they were all about the sweatshirt) and yes, somehow the D.I.A. people accept this and give me the student rate, even though I look at least 27 and certainly am 35. So you are all going to the D.I.A.. And I don't care if you don't like art.

So it was one of those "Friday at the D.I.A." thingies, which I go to for the drawing in the galleries (good pencils, get to draw for an hour, all good). Read the web blurb. Today the live music was going to be Dan Zanes. His CD is at Starbucks. How bad could it be?

Well, I get there and there are all these couples, with little children . . . and the dreaded thing that comes with arty, yuppie couples and children . . . SUV strollers. I ignore them. Must be a popular family event. I immediately run into someone I know (with little children) and don't want to talk to . . . plus is, she doesn't really want to talk to me, so it works out well. Go down to the cafe to have dinner . . . and still the children everywhere. Like locusts. Running and leaping and shrieking and crying when they bump their heads on the table because their parents are not telling them NOT to run and leap and shriek. (really sounds like I want kids, doesn't it?) Put the Mp3 player on, to drown out the din (which I have to hit to get to work . . . Apple store, here I come). Wonder what the hell is going on? Did everyone want to culture their children tonight?

Turns out that Dan Zanes is somehow a "children's artist". He sings "family oriented" songs. And is on Sesame Street, according to the woman that I knew but we mutually did not want to talk to each other. We ran into each other again, as she was feeding her girls animal crackers, fruit wax and juice and it seemed wrong not to chat. So the fifteen million children were brought for Dan Zanes. I watched him sing for about three minutes. He was wearing an orange shirt with a purple suit and had hair that looked like a cat had died on his head. The song had a lot of quacking. I went to look at the Native American art instead.

As I escaped (I did not draw because the gallery with the adult drawing was lame and the children . . . they were everywhere . . . I was afraid I might step on one) I stopped by the membership desk and talked to the same person. She first tried to sell me another membership. "You already sold me one. When is the rest of the museum going to open?"

There are times when I think I'm just unfocused . . . a little ADD. And there are times when I think I'm just dumb. This is a time for "just dumb". She informs me that the rest of the museum will open after renovation NEXT FALL. I wanted to yell at her that the membership that she just sold me runs out next fall, but it's not her fault that I'm an idiot. I just purchased a membership for a museum that is only a third open . . . if that. (so when you all come with me, we won't be seeing much art) Yeah, their classics are up, but I can only look at the skull painting by Cezanne so many times. And the Gentileschi is displayed too high, so I cannot see it.

(There are certain touchstones at museums . . . the Seurat in Chicago, the Calder in D.C., Warhols in NYC, DaVinci in Paris and Gentileschi in Detroit. I have to go see it if I walk in the place.)

Between the children's music group and the "we're building a museum, but you can't see it", I'm such a space case. Damnit. I have to pay more attention.