. . . 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.

Quote

Quote you are my soul unquote
Now does that sound familiar?
You kissed the girl and make her feel this way

Quote well this is me unquote
And You have been so ugly you're entire life
So why change now

Is this how you wanna go down,
right before my eyes
You're the saddest sight i know

You're quiet
you never make a sound
But here inside my mind
you are the loudest one I know

Quote Well is me unquote
How different I've become
And no one understands, my dear,
no one really cares

And you were right,
right from the start
It took everything you had,
but you finally broke my...

And know the old flames will pass away
I saw your life once
Did you see mine
But not all things will pass away

You turned your light off
So I turned mine,
away from your sadness,
away from the nothingness
you feel for me

Quote, hey listen cause ill only say this once
I finally found the words
That mean enough to me
Good bye my soul, unquote

--- Quote, Evan's Blue

It's always hard for me to accept. That I will never talk to a person again. I will call "friends" out of the blue, just to reinforce my belief that we had a connection . . . had a connection for a reason even. I'm sure the guy I used to work with eight years ago just rolls his eyes when I call. But I'm not good at Christmas cards. And so I call.

Or worse yet, we'll run into each other and do the "we should really get together" thing, when neither of us wants to do that. But I will.

So really what I'm struggling with, today while mowing my lawn and sucking up cobwebs with a shop vac? Rat Bastard contacted me. Unsolicited. And in a moment of growth on my part, I told him that I didn't want to be the girl that he crawls to whenever he is feeling bad about himself. That I didn't want to talk to him.

Oh, and don't get me wrong . . . I back peddled immediately as he was collecting his argument for treating me like shit. But I got it out there (I so don't like conflict). And now, he won't contact me again. Whipped him good with a couple of sentences. Perhaps why I back peddle so often. My words can be terribly cutting. Miserably so.

And therefore, it should be finally over. But like the song says . . . even though he is quiet, it is the loudest thing in my head. I don't want him back. But currently, I don't know what I want. And back then . . . I was so sure. To the point of breaking my heart.

So have to go find something to do and stop thinking so damn much.

Cheese on My Sweater

Today was the kind of day where there is no place to sit in the lunchroom, so you sit on the couch and dump macaroni and cheese all over your sweater. But hey, at least you remembered to bring lunch.

A parent told me today that I needed to learn when to "pick my battles". She had already played the "are you a parent" card and was feeling pretty confident . . . I'm not sure to what end: either to feel significantly superior (she has created life, you know) or to bait me, push my buttons (her student does this pretty well, why we were having an impromptu meeting). I didn't raise an eyebrow.

Didn't share any of the thoughts in my head. About how, although I have never contributed any genetic material, I have had thousands of children at this point. And since I'm still in this business after thirteen years (most wash out before year three), I think I know something about battles and their selection. But thank you for telling me how to do my job . . .

Nope. Didn't say any of it. Just smiled sweetly. And then explained the battle I had picked. And why. "Oh, I didn't know that what that meant . . . " is what she left saying, "I let them say that all the time at home." Again, why we're having a meeting.

I haven't been writing because I don't have much nice to say. Forgive me. It is an interesting double bind . . . being admonished for being too negative . . . yet, having comments when I don't write. I should just not pay any attention. But I do. I don't want to be a negative person, to be seen as such, but really . . . it may just be in my nature. Mr. Crabbypants isn't really a negative person. He is a great guy, who is really smart and often frustrated with the world. I am also. And am half his genetic material. And quite honestly, Mrs. Crabbypants . . . not exactly "shiny happy people" material either. I love them both to pieces.

One last thing. In Key West, I was bitten by these little minute bugs . . . "no-see-ums" I think they are called. I did see one. It was a teeny-tiny black fly, smaller than a gnat. And I paid no attention, assuming they were like mosquitoes or fly bites, like black flies. Otherwise, I would have bathed in DEET. So after a couple of days, with the itching getting actually worse instead of better and there seeming to be more bites, even though I'm back in Michigan (did I bring them home?), I looked no see ums up on google. Turns out that the bites last forever, blister and sometimes fester . . . which is the best case scenario.

Worse case, I have some horrible fatal disease that kills my liver and kidneys or some parasite that had a horrible name like nematode. Oh, and if you don't get that, too many bites . . . the venom only can cause kidney failure. Kidney failure from little flies that you can't see. I think there should have been signs or something.

Ah, all small stuff . . . and I'm letting the universe take over and not sweating the small stuff . . . or the itchiness . . . but the itchiness is, well, very itchy.

What I Learned Today

That I am a little leery of e-filing my taxes. I did it, but I'm not sure about it. Especially because you have to wait 24 to 48 hours to find out your "status". But I didn't want to find stamps. And I don't even know how much stamps are these days . . . I think I have 37 cent ones in my drawer, with some 3 cent ones or something. Note to self: look up first class stamp amount. (41 cents?)

If you ask enough people, enough times, you will eventually get the answers you need. Not necessarily the answers you want . . . but the information you need.

I am really good at asking questions. Some people are not as good at this. I am also good at asking the right questions. Some people are not.

I am not a blogger. Evidently, I am a diarist. Bloggers talk about the issues of the day . . . diarist talk about their issues of the day. I feel so downgraded.

Mr. Cat is pissed when people leave him home alone for extended periods of time. And loud about his emotional pain if you come to visit.

I am like my father . . . in more ways than I really care to admit. Including walking full speed at the airport, but in more ways also.

I'll Just Knit Instead

My headache is finally gone . . . after 48 hours of lingering. Needless to say, I did not go snowboarding, although today would have been an excellent day for it. But snowboarding with a migraine just didn't sound like fun.

And snowboarding alone just doesn't sound like fun, either. I want to learn to do it . . . and I can't seem to find someone to go with me . . . but there seem to be "hot chocolate kiosks" according to my mother, so that seems comforting. (I've never been skiing, so there is a black void in my brain as to what to expect. My mental image is a kinda surreal Sound of Music movie set kind of thing, which is wrong, I'm sure.) I do have wrist guards. And knee pads. I found some at Target for $3.74. Best bargin find all month.

The Lily Allen CD is good angry girl music. I suggest it. Kinda dirty and some f-bombs . . . but bouncy.

Let's see . . . I sliced my fingers three times in class tonight. Was introduced to the band-aid storage, as I was bleeding all over. There is a paramedic in the class, who offered to give me stitches. Invested (covered in plaster) a pretty cool skully ring and some hemlock pinecones (itty-bitty pinecones), so if everything works out Mere, Mom and I will have matching necklaces. The dragon ring is cleaning up nicely, but I need to make sure my wax models are cleaner. I get impatient and then have to file and sand the metal, which is harder to do. In metal the imperfections are easier to see however. (I'll end up using five different colors of wax and the prof doesn't like alcohol burners, so uses candles instead. This causes lots of burnt wax and ash in your wax.) I might want to cast the hemlock in white gold . . . the instructors eyes lit up when I asked about it. 90 grams though. Expensive.

Am toying with the idea of going to the D to take pictures tonight but again, with the alone. So will stay in the house. I guess I can go tomorrow in the daylight. If I was a really good student, I would get up at sunrise. (so not going to happen)

First Sighting

The ipod is on. It is cold, and I'm pissed about something else and I just want to get in and work out. There is someone behind me but I don't pay attention.

"Are you Emily?"

I turn. I don't recognize this person . . . this woman who knows my name. I look closer. I went to high school with a lot of people, college with even more. I meet people through the various things I'm doing with English curriculum. Buzz through the memory banks. Nope. Nada.

She introduces herself. It doesn't help. I don't know this person. And then . . .

"I'm H's friend . . . he's shown me your blog . . ."

I shake her hand. I think I verbally told her that this was odd. But I don't know what was coming out of my mouth. Did she recognize the back of my head? Do I have pictures of the back of my head on my blog? Wait, there was a mirror. She is talking about being H.'s girlfriend. Did H. ever talk about her? Hmmm . . . what to say. I haven't seen H. in ages. She informs me that she is going to be late for class. Well, okay then. The end of our acquaintance.

So a complete stranger walked up to me and announced that she had read my blog.

I feel so famous. Infamous? Anyhow, let's hope that doesn't happen again for a while. The complete strangers walking up and knowing my name. It makes me feel unsettled.

Famine

It really is feast or famine . . . and I can't figure out if I'm doing something wrong . . . though I rarely have the same behavior patterns . . . unless I can't see it and I do . . . have the same behavior pattern that is . . .

Another subject: Bought a humidifier, so hopefully my throat will stop being angry. Found some old pictures for class tomorrow, although not the pictures I wanted. I'm hoping I put those pictures back. Tomorrow is Thursday and then there is Friday . . . and then there is knitmichigan, which I am looking forward to . . . yay . . . yarn.

I Wanna Be Like You Hoo Hoo

"So tattoos of a spine on someone's neck screams 'Go sit next to this person' to you?"
"Cause it only screams painful to me."
"It screams that I'm going to have to tell Emily to stop talking to him in a couple of months to me."
"What we need to find is a guy that is totally mainstream . . . but thinks he isn't."
"So just like Emily?"
"Pretty much."
Emily, cutting in on conversation: "Yeah, but where do you find one of those?"
"You would think you could just go where you go . . . but that so isn't working is it?"

Shattering

"So are you okay with yourself? You know . . . not just comfortable in your own skin but do you really like who you are?"

"Yeah."

"No, I mean really."

"Yes. Really."

"Yeah, I don't think so."

Falling

You know that feeling you get when you are falling for someone? Maybe it's the feeling just I get . . .

Suddenly you care. You care what they think. You care about what you are going to wear. You care about the next time they call. And when that's going to be. You care about which girls they think are hot in your stupid knitting book.

And for someone like me, for a control freak like me, the sensation is literally like falling. And I have to pull the chute on this one. Serves me right. I may always be in love with a bad idea . . . but I'm working on the idea not being a reality.

Not the right one. Move on.

Be the superhero.

Thirtysomething

Friend on the phone last weekend: When I was in my twenties, I was networking . . . I was out, at the bar, part of the scene. And now, well . . . I'm lucky if I remember that it's Friday night. Remember last week? When I wondered why The Emory was so busy? What happened?

Tomorrow is Friday. And I am looking forward to the following:

A union Christmas party that I am required to attend. At Jack's. The fifty year old divorcee bar. And my buddy isn't even the D.J.. So I can't request ridiculous songs, like "Gold digger" or something from The Smiths.

From there, a visitation at a funeral home. An acquaintance's mother died yesterday and the viewing is tomorrow. It is near the party . . . and I can't imbibe at the party (lest, I tell people what I think . . . of them), so I will stop by and show my support. Her mother was ninety, so it was not a surprise, but still.

After that, maybe I'll vacuum. Definitely will do laundry. And I have to take apart my toilet, because it has gotten to the point that I cannot ignore the fact that it is running all the time.

So yeah, my Friday night plan is to disassemble my toilet. And hopefully, reassemble it to working condition. All before ten o'clock, because that is when the Depot closes, in case I have to buy a new one . . . in the worse case scenario.

So yeah. What happened?

In Reading Back

Ummm . . . yeah . . . it wasn't Friday the 13th . . . it was the Friday before that. So turns out that the panic attacks were for something.

Xs on the calendar? Huh. Gotta go get a calendar.

Well, in all the soul searching and reflection at least I know where I stand. Sorta. Kinda. Not really at all.

And I'm not tired at all. And kind of grinding my teeth. Damn Golden Monkey crack.

While Sitting in the "Cone of Silence"

I talk to a lot of divorced men. Something about being single and 35. And I always take their stories with a grain of salt . . . figuring that there are two sides to every story I hear (and sometimes three or four). I never get to hear the ex-wife, but know I would present my story in a way that is favorable to me. We all do it to some extent. It's psyche preservation.

And I don't really want to hear from the ex-wives anyhow. Not even curious. Well, maybe with that one . . . and the moving away to live in the single wide with the "platonic" friend and the goat . . . but just because it's such an interesting story.

And unfortunately, the stories are very similar . . . married in our twenties . . . thought I knew the girl . . . people change . . . she doesn't want to be married anymore . . . she left.

With a smattering of infidelity mixed in.

And as someone who really wants to be married, I never understand the motivation. As someone who really wants children, I can't understand why anyone would leave them. And so I listen to the stories and hope that there is another side. A rationable, reasonable side . . . though not too reasonable (like he beat me) because I'm probably about to go out with the storyteller.

And then I went to Starbucks today and my fears were realized. (No, I didn't run into anyone's ex . . . but that would have been fun, wouldn't it?) People talk on their cell phones like they are in a magical "cone of silence" somehow and the woman next to me . . . she is leaving her husband. She knows that it is at least 50% her fault, but she can't be married anymore . . . just can't. And single people, they can do anything, you know . . . they can be authors and . . .

The whole time, her toddler is sleeping in his mega-mobile stroller.

And he wants to sell the house . . . and she could get a pretty good job . . . and yeah, I've thought about marriage counseling but really, what's the point?

I wanted to snatch her parenting license away . . . until I realized that there is no parenting license. A woman on her cell phone telling her friend that she was leaving her husband. Not because he was mean, or beating her, or for any other good reason that I can't think of right now, oh, like cheating on her . . . just because she didn't want to be married anymore. And those single people . . . yeah, well, they have it so good.

I really wanted to turn and tell her about being single, but I talk to strangers too much about things they don't want to hear. So I held my tongue. I didn't tell her that she could be whatever it was that she so wanted to be . . . and she could still be married doing it. I didn't talk to her about the stress and needless crap that her two-year old was going to go through because she just didn't feel like staying married anymore. Didn't talk to her about the dating pool for 35 year old women, like ourselves, who would all be men like her husband . . . except a little more angry because they had found someone that they wanted to commit to . . . and that other woman didn't feel like being married anymore either.

I really didn't want to think that the stories were true. And yet, here, in the seat next to me, was the confirmation . . . gabbing into her cell phone . . . surrounded by her imaginary cone of silence. And I felt horrible. And sad. For all the stories that I have heard.

And I think I should get props for slipping a "Get Smart" reference in . . . and not hitting anyone at the Starbucks.

Photoshopped In

Princess and I are on the queen size bed, drinking extremely good wine (Princess brought it) out of plastic cups that had been wrapped for our safety. In fact, everything had been wrapped for our safety and I was unsure how to get the toilet lid open . . . for at least a couple of minutes. Sex in the City is on the television. We are in our jammies. Princess has washed her face with all the things in her kit. I'm not sure this is what Marv had pictured when designing this room.

There are no window treatments . . . so getting into the jammies was an interesting show to the single wide trailers across the lake. I do not think of these things (being not shy . . . ) but Princess, she notices and is appalled. I set my stuff all over the edge of the forbidden hot tub and am sure that someone will know that I "used" it, in some capacity . . . to hold my makeup and toothpaste.

Princess has claimed the single bed in the corner to sleep in and falls asleep immediately. I am more awake, since I had coffee at dinner. I had turned on every light in the room at one point, to stave off the eerie red glow and now I cannot find the switch to one light in the middle of the room. It is not red, thank goodness, but I am a light sleeper and the light keeps me from sleeping soundly. Instead of my normal waking up at every hour, I wake every 15 minutes or so . . . to the point that I get up to search for the switch several times. Examining the lamp to see if the switch is contained on it. Switching on other lights to see if that switch might somehow magically control two. I get no sleep.

The shower is hard to find . . . behind the entry door with a large "SHOWER" sign, routered and varnished. I let Princess shower first (her hair takes longer). The shower is small . . . not as small as European showers . . . but small by American standards and the water smells awful. I know that it is because of the well water, but ugh. And this is what people fill the forbidden hot tub with? I leave the experience not really feeling clean and welcome the sounds of Princess complaining that her hair . . . it's going to be flat, because the water is all soft. I dress for the people with binoculars across the lake.

The sign on the inside of the door reads: "Be sure to take all your belongings. Items left will be disposed of in five days." Disposed and five are both underlined and unlike all the other signs in the place, this one is paper covered in plastic, letters green. "Boy, this place just has a plethora of rules." Princess muses.

Marv had talked up the complimentary breakfast, so we expected great things as we hauled our things through the kitchen again. Scrambled eggs, toast, and jiffy mix muffins. That was breakfast. The toast was being made two pieces at a time in an ancient toaster, with some of that Hillbilly bread that my grandmother used to like. I don't eat eggs, but I heard they were nothing to be excited about. The muffin . . . which was a Jiffy mix muffin (I've toured the factory. I know.) was underfilled and was dwarfed by it's pastel blue cupcake cup. We both took some coffee and both regretted the decision. Princess decided that the best way to deal with the brown water-like substance was to throw it down her throat. I was a bit more cautious, as it smelled much like the shower. In the end, Princess was nauseous . . . I was just cranky.

As I sat there, beautiful lake on one side . . . Princess openly wondering why anyone would paint on a saw on the other . . . I thought about the surrealness of the moment. Princess, with her perfect hair (despite, or perhaps in spite, of the soft water) and her general perfectness, sitting with a buffalo head over her head. It was if someone had taken a photo and then photoshopped her in . . . with the Mennonites and all the signs in the background. Couples, smiling from what I suppose was the hot tub experience, were filing in for their complimentary eggs and Jiffy mix muffins, and not a one was a day under 80. I suppose I looked Photoshopped too.

We made our escape but not before raiding the gift shop, full of more signs that Marv had evidently made for sale. Princess purchased three signs with giant dollar store pencils attached to them. "Word Processor" was wood-burned underneath each, in slanted handwriting, with "The Shack" sort of melted into the paint of each pencil. I bought some mugs, mainly for the "Jugsville" reference (Princess and I . . . the Jugs in Jugsville) and a small box that had "Three piece chicken dinner 99 cents" written in the same handwriting. If you slide open the box, there is a hole with three pieces of corn. My grandmother would have thought that was hilarious.

I was hoping that there would be a McDonalds . . . for some coffee . . . but no luck. Just corn and barns and single wide trailers and churches and more churches.

The Shack Inn

I don't suppose that I mentioned that they have a website.

So Princess and I get all our stuff. Marv leads us through the kitchen to our rooms (that can't be sanitary). There are people sitting at the kitchen island eating ice cream and they nod at us in acknowledgement. Are they guests? Relatives? Disciples? I'm not sure.

There is no elevator, just a run of steep stairs with a 90 degree turn in the middle. Everything is knotty pine. Well, not the industrial grade carpet that makes everything look like a 70's basement . . . but everything else is covered with a protective layer of knotty pine . . . and varnish . . . and signs . . . with Bible verses . . .

We get to our room (room 106, I believe). There is a giant NO SMOKING routered sign on the door, bigger than the room number. Okay, we won't smoke. We open the door to find . . .

The first thing that hits you is the hanging red light. Red glass, hanging off a chain from the ceiling. Underneath the red light is an enormous tub, in the middle of the room. Across from the tub is a queen size bed, framed with red lights. The wallpaper is red velvet. It is dark, from all the red lighting. There is a single bed to the back of the room, made of knotty pine. And there is rope . . . stapled to the wall with giant staples. A design rising up the wall, ending in two hearts. Princess and I have been assigned the honeymoon, plus one? suite. And we stand in awe.

Every Inch

So I'm at this compound . . . and we park the mega-mobile near the door. Every inch of the front porch is covered with signage. All signs are wood. Hand carved. Router crazy craftsmanship. With shiny varnish. Lots of shiny varnish. It was word overload. "Welcome" "No Smoking" "Smoke Free Building" "Fabulous Brunch" And then there were little signs between the big signs. Woodburned. Too much to read.

The front desk is empty, but there are little angel statues with flowers and an open Bible. Not a good sign. There are inspirational quotes on the walls. Also not a good sign. Handwritten sign: "Sorry, having banana splits. Be back soon." I'm going to sleep in the mega-mobile.

"Marv" comes from the dining room. He had waved to us as we had come in but just sat at the table, next to "Janette" I later found out. Didn't get up right away, had to finish his ice cream. I thought he was a guest at "The Shack". Marv looks like he is a reanimated corpse. With perma-smile. Finds our reservation. In slow motion. "You have a hot tub room but you can't use the hot tub. Costs extra. It was the only room with two beds." Princess starts riffin' on the hot tub, trying to warm Marv up. It doesn't work. He is very serious about the non-use of the hot tub . . . a hot tub that Princess and I would never use in the first place. And when he says hot tub, I'm picturing a whirlpool tub, like in my parent's bathroom. We finally get the keys, after swearing that we will never even think about using the hot tub. I stare at the truck hat display. They all say "The Shack" on them. I find Shack postcards. They have Bible sayings on them. I buy all five of the series.

You Just Like to Say Newaygo

I packed early in the morning and only forgot two things . . . important things as it turned out . . .

We left right after work and took Princess' mega-mobile. It was her gig. I was the navigator. But all I had really to navigate was "drive to Grand Rapids . . . turn right . . . drive until there is nothing . . . "

We stopped in Okemos and had a lovely dinner. Princess had a filet . . . because she is named Princess for a reason . . . I had a nice sirloin and dessert . . . although I am just as princess-y. I think I left my hat at the restaurant. If anyone goes to Stillwater in Okemos, it is burgandy and hand-knit. Please pick it up for me. It was a nice hat.

Then the serious driving began. It was 7:30 and dark. We stopped twice to go to the bathroom because we could never do that as children. Our fathers always made us hold it. For too long a time.

Grand Rapids is part of my mental map system. I feel secure in G-Rap. Even when we turned off on Leonard St. to go to the bathroom. But then we got on M-37. It was dark. And there was nothing . . . well, single wides and propane stores . . . and nothing. We were looking for 8th street and when a street came, which was a long time, and it had numbers, which was a longer time . . . it was 146th street. This was not encouraging.

The hotel we were going to stay in was called "The Shack" according to the itinerary that I had on my lap. Who books at a hotel named "The Shack"? The name was not promising. The lack of familarity was not promising. The amount of propane being sold was enormous and I did not find it promising. Princess found it puzzling. Why did everyone need so much propane? And how did you buy it? There didn't seem to be any stands next to the propane signs. Just big tanks.

There is a McDonalds AND a Taco Bell AND and KFC in outer Newaygo. And that was the last hint of connection or familiarity to our very suburban lives. Plus, at this point, I was pretty sure that "The Shack" may well be an actual shack. Or a Bates motel. And we were no where near it according to the directions and I thought we might be lost, in the dark, with insanely numbered street signs.

As I was wondering where people bought fancy underwear, Princess was wondering why everyone needed so much propane. What were they grilling? Did just everyone grill? How could they support all these propane stores? And where were the little canisters?

To calm our nerves, Princess was playing "Roll Out" by Ludacris and some "Ass like that" song by Eminem that has the word "pee-pee" in it repeatedly. This was making the lost hopelessly in the woods, broken up by single wide trailers thrown about, all the more surreal.

After about eight left turns, on roads that kept changing names . . . we saw lights and thought it was White Cloud. However, there was a giant sign that read "The Shack Inn Bed and Breakfast" with an arrow. The Shack turned out to be a compound, with four large buildings, on a lake. We had arrived. " . . . makes my pee-pee go duh-doing-doing-doing . . ." was playing in the background. I am leery of compounds. They are usually bought and built by people who eventually will (or should) be surrounded by the FBI. But we could stop driving in the dark. And we probably should cut the pee-pee music.

Sometimes 2+2

really does just equal 4.

Had a "Hey . . . wait a minute . . . " moment this morning. And now I'm kind of frustrated and tired.

Sometimes a cigar . . . it really is just a cigar. No matter what Freud might say.

Hey! Are you calling me crude?

"Do you mind if I say something crass? Since you're all about the crude?"

"I'm not all about the crude . . . it just comes up. But sure, go ahead."

Just So My Friends Can SLAM Their Heads Into the Wall

Hmmm . . . 7 p.m. on a Sunday? With nothing to do and a jammed packed week ahead of me?

So what should I do?

Of course. Go to Trader Joes. Cause I need wine and trail mix . . . and attention. There were hugs . . . and some coming out of the "box" (freezer?) to talk again . . . oh, and there was the drying off of my cart, cause it was all rainy. There was some inviting ourselves over for tonight, but at midnight, so no . . . I'll be sleeping. And just to make everyone's head explode . . . there is coming to visit on Tuesday.

Got some coffee and yogurt too. See what happens when I'm left unsupervised?


p.s. I think that when as well as could be expected. Don't you?