Yahweh is gonna be mad

So I made a run to the grocery store this evening. The very local grocery store. The store nearest my house . . . that I never go to because it's in Oak Park. I might be mugged or something, or not have to pay $4.00 for soup like I do in Royal Oak. I went to the low rent Farmer Jack because I am sick and I wanted popcicles and I wanted them NOW. Cool popsicles to soothe the awful throat sickness that is coming from the lurking sinus sickness. (Not cool when you have a cyst in there too and a deviated septum that won't let anything out)

Now I'm making Oak Park sound like a hole . . . and it's not really. The Farmer Jack is conveniently located, well lit and had everything I wanted (unlike the evil Meijer). While making my selections (yogurt, water, strawberries, cool whip, lean cuisine’s and soup that was on sale), several odd things happened in the Farmer Jack. First, a unsupervised small child stood next to me and danced at the yogurt fridge. I don't know if it was the music or that he could see his reflection but he was doing a damn good robot while I was deciding to go with plain vanilla or creamy French vanilla (got some of both, thank you). Just this six year old, doing the robot to some eighties song on the P.A.. Wonderful. If God appears to people in the grocery store, I think that's how he does it.

As I am walking to the soup aisle, there is an orthodox woman with her three girls next to me. The oldest has to be about twelve, the youngest four or so and the oldest is pushing the cart. Now living near the "Jewish Box Store" (Jewish Costco?) on Greenfield, I do not raise an eyebrow to wigs and skirts or all the walking on Saturday. I just drive more carefully on the Sabbath. However, the littlest girl points at me and says "Look at that lady's hair". I do raise an eyebrow at her but no one says anything. There is no mother grabbing the finger and saying in a hushed voice with clenched teeth, "Don't point, it's rude" (what my mother would do). There is no sister admonishing "I know it's weird but shhh . . . " (what I would have done to my sister). Just the pointing and the yelling about my hair.

Other than the look I give the kid (my students' call it the ______ stare of death'), I say nothing. I walk down the soup aisle. Suddenly, it's as if the orthodox foursome has to be where I am. The follow me into the soup aisle. They block the aisle at the pancake syrup. They block the aisle again at the bread. Each time, one or the other daughter stares at me, occasionally pointing. The mother doesn't notice since she is too busy blocking every aisle I'm in . . . and quavering about the cheapest pancake syrup. Funny, I never thought, at the time, why aren't they in the kosher aisle? (They have the most amazing kosher aisle in this Farmer Jack . . . every kind of matzo, every kind) Finally, I am at the checkout . . . and they stand behind me. The middle child, in addition to staring coldly, audits my cart items. Evidently, only sinners buy Lean Cuisine.

Now I know that this hair is a cry for attention. Heck, I've been pointed at before I even had muppet hair. But even the mothers at the Farmer Jack on Warren in Detroit would admonish their children for pointing at me because I was the only white person in the store. (No really, the child did say "Look mommy, a white girl" when I was living in Detroit and went to the store . . . humbling really, because how many times did that mother have to deal with "oh, a black girl" in her lifetime?) But really, repeated pointing? Repeated stare downs? What am I? A circus act for orthodox kids? . . . Don't answer that. All I know is the Methodist version of God is way against pointing and staring. I have to think the orthodox Jewish God feels the same way. At the very least, no one is for pointing and staring multiple times.

You'd Think They Could Just Do Inventory

The upside of having worked in the restaurant business is that you know to tip well, and when to do that. The downside is getting poor service when there was no need to . . . and knowing that there was no need. The ultra-downside is having a brother in the business also, and knowing the intricaties of having all your chicken stolen at 3 a.m. (stupid padlock) and actually having chicken for your customers by the lunch rush, cause the customers . . . they want chicken burritos and they don't care about your freezer burglar problems.

So everyday I go to the Starbucks in Roseville because 1. it has a drive through and 2. they are much like crack dealers. Realistically, I think a drug habit may be cheaper at this point but just so much more unseemly. Now everyday I order the same thing . . . a grande (though at times I rebel and call it large) soy latte. Everyday. Yummy soy goodness with caffiene mixed into it. They should just see my truck pull up and wave it out the window.

Now every Monday, they are out of soy milk. So we have to have this conversation with the talking box. "Hello, what do you want?" (that always annoys me because I was once a well trained McDonald's employee and you never, ever ask the customer what they WANT . . . that would be vulgar. It's always may I help you?) The Monday person always starts like this . . . the other days are better. "Yeah, I'd like a grande soy latte, please." Best not to confuse the obviously not very well trained employee with "large". "We don't have any soy today." Never soy milk, just soy. Like they have pods somewhere that they are squeezing or something. "Ummm, then give me a non-fat vanilla latte instead." They then repeat it to me but in Starbucks speak, because there is a certain order to things at the Starbucks. Funny, they can't say "can I take your order" but they make sure to repeat my order in Starbuckese. "Vanilla latte, non-fat . . . pull up for your total."

This is only on Monday . . . and I know I could go the the Starbucks near my house instead. Park my car, go inside, wait in line (Roseville hasn't discovered Starbucks addiction yet), get my own cardboard wrap, go outside, walk to my car, start my car and drive. But the drive through means I don't have to have too much human interaction. Those who have met me . . . we all know how we don't want Emily and too much human interaction.

Despite what the doctor's said when I was six, I can drink milk. I'm not allergic to it (just everything else minus cockroaches and chocolate). However, I do not like to drink milk. Even mixed with caffieney goodness. So during third hour something was wrong . . . and it was wrong with my mouth. Finally, I figured it out. I had dead animal taste in my mouth. Now I know that they don't kill the cows to milk them . . . but maybe it's the vegan in me (ignore all that steaking eating). It was definitely a "ehwweh, I have animal on my breath" feeling and I had to go chew some gum and you all know how teachers feel about gum chewing. It's a sign of the apocalypse, the gum chewing.

Now I know that the world does not cater to my weird food rules, like "family chicken" and "I don't want to know that it came from an animal" (again, ignore all the steak eating) or the whole "I could just eat soup" kick. But I used to help with inventory at the bar and I know that my brother keeps track of what he sells everyday. (Today he made some "killer" sangrita. Evidently, not necessarily good but really strong) One would think that someone would figure out that they run out of soy milk every Monday and order an extra case on Friday. In fact, I know that is someone's whole job . . . that and making sure that the drive through people don't say "whatdawant?". There is no need for it. If I wasn't addicted, they would definitely lose my business.

By the way, if someone steals all your chicken . . . you go to four Publix stores and buy them out of chicken breasts. I don't know what the Publix does after that, however . . . because they would be out of chicken.

What do you mean you don't know what Pottery Barn is . . .

For my mother's birthday I bought her Pottery Barn ledges. Actually, I bought her PB ledges and a squirrel with a spoon because I went in to buy the shelves and saw the squirrel and HAD TO HAVE IT . . . right now, right now. I believe it's a squirrel shaped salt cellar, which my mother doesn't need, but somehow a squirrel holding a tiny bowl with an accompanying spoon is something my mother definitely needs. He is now living on the kitchen window and taunting the real squirrels . . . "ha, ha, I have a spoon!"

Mom and I put up the shelves without Mr. Crabbypants, despite our mutual astigmatism. Our astigmatism is usually used to get out of doing such annoying things such as hanging Pottery Barn ledges, because we do not see straight. However, with Mr. Crabbypants, there is yelling. The shelves would be very straight and my nerves would be shot for being sworn at for not giving him the pencil at the right moment. Mr. Crabbypants yelled at the television in the basement instead. My sister somehow joined in this activity so they were both yelling at the television, while my mother and I rolled our eyes upstairs and tried to see straight with the help of those little level thingies incorporated in the shelves.

After the shelving, which you cannot screw in too tight or they won't hang (lesson learned), we brought out all the boxes of baby pictures. My mom had a whole wall of them two houses ago, which I remember vividly. My sister then did the "I'm the youngest and I didn't get enough pictures and Emily has all the pictures and it's just not fair" thing but I think we are even because she is way cuter and always was. My mom is going to need about seventy-five more Pottery Barn ledges to put all the pictures up on them. She will now spend the next several weeks arranging and rearranging the pictures . . . which keeps her from making me help her rearrange the furniture. Plus it's free fun. And the little wooden squirrel taunts the cat . . . "ha, ha, I have a SPOON!"

My Friends are Lunatics

My high school had open house tonight. I am not going to talk about open house because that would be talking about work however, I did miss my current school playing my former employer at junior varsity football and I'm alittle bummed.

After a school event with parents involved, the teachers usually go out to a book club to read some books and talk about our day (because being the moral, responsible, role models, that we are, we cannot go to bars and have drinks). Word at dinner was that we were going to a book club relatively near the school but in another municipality. I'd been there before . . . wasn't impressed, but hey, books are cheaper at a dive book club.

I was late since I was coaching yearbook again (they tried to sell yearbooks at the open house). I pull into the parking lot, which is packed, thinking this is odd . . . it wasn't EVER this packed when I was here before. I was on the phone though, so I just parked. Then I noticed that the only vehicles in the parking lot were pickup trucks and motorcycles. Oh, and an old school bus that had been spray painted blue. Obviously spray painted bus . . . not a good sign. Loud music blaring, biker dude walking towards me, and I notice the sign - "colors and patches are not allowed on the premises." Colors like what? I'm wearing a red dress (to match my hair . . . I was thinking that the parents wouldn't notice the muppet hair as much if I matched) so am I allowed to come in? Again, just not a good sign, especially when I don't know exactly what the sign means.

I go in. There is a guy that I'm sure is an alternate to the Hell's Angels sitting at a table with a wad of money in his hand. A blonde chick, and I do mean chick . . . as in that's what she likes to be called because that is nice . . . is standing next to him, talking closely because of the blaring music.

Now I would probably be okay if I had my regular, covered in paint, clothes. But I have my "open house I have strange hair but really I'm conservative" outfit on. Ponytail man looks me over. I'm thinking, "They have a cover? What the hell?" "Ummm, I'm supposed to meet a group of teachers here." He laughs, but it is a short kind of chuckle. "Yeah, one teacher came in and looked for people but left . . . You're welcome to go in if you like." It was like I was being invited to hell.

My teacher friends are lunatics and/or closet bikers and I feel sooo set up. So much for going to book club with them. Luckily, I was driving a pickup truck too or I would have been mugged by the people kicked out for having "colors" and "patches" who were waiting in the parking lot. I can't even imagine what came off the blue spray paint bus. Lunatics, I tell you.

Blood Red Does Not Equal Vampire Red

Who knew? Special Effects brand "Blood Red" does not look a thing like Manic Panic's "Vampire Red". My hair is now too dark for my liking.

I enjoyed the vibrant "Elmo-ness" of the vampire red . . . hence the muppet/fraggle hair discussions. Now it is just really blood red, which seems a little dingy in comparison. Don't get me wrong, my hair is definitely still "bottle head" but just not as shocking as last week (though there were those orange days last week, this is an improvement from the orange). Perhaps it will fade.

The other problem with Special effects versus Manic Panic is that it is (according to all the punk kids at school) supposed to last longer. This is great, if you get the right color, but not so great if you assumed that blood and vampire would be close to the same thing (we all know what assume means). So I'll have to deal for . . . it says on the bottle . . . three to six weeks. Taking into account the lack of truth in advertising, probably a week or two. The Special Effects stuff is more gooey, this being better in the not dripping and looking like you have a large head wound catagory. So I may try the "Devilish" color to see if that is more Elmo like. Considering my problems at Noir, this should be an interesting conversation (as if every conservation at Noir isn't interesting).

"So what color is Elmo colored? Excuse me, girl with blue hair and patent leather bra, which of these bottles will give me Elmo colored hair? You know, Elmo . . . the muppet? He's on Sesame Street, owns a goldfish name Dorothy? Elmo? At the Target, the Tickle Me Elmo? Yeah, I want that color . . ."

Can't wait. Could just order Vampire Red on the internet. But then I wouldn't be able to torment those Noir employees would I?

My Nephew is not a Cheap Date

I had the pleasure of babysitting Z this afternoon.

Since I live so close to Royal Oak and if Z had a choice he would just eat McDonald's, I have started the tradition of taking him out for "new food", meaning restaurants that his parents (bless their hearts and patience) would never take him to eat. I also allow him to order off the adult menu, which makes him feel very grown up and gives me the behavioral nagging of "if you order off the adult menu, you have to act like an adult." This cuts down on the wiggling and the dipping under the table (except to get our napkin 27 times).

Today was the Belgian restaurant on Main. Z considered the Fish and Chips, which would be new, as his mother does not eat fish ("NOTHING FROM THE SEA!" my brother will shout about her, "she touches nothing from the sea . . .") but settled on the steak sandwich. The steak sandwich turned out to be a bad idea . . . it had onions on it and evidently Z hates onions. He has the kind of loathing (already? The kid is seven) that if an onion touches something, well, it's just ruined. He choked down half the sandwich for me and politely asked for the rest to be wrapped. He liked dessert much more and we had a very good discussion about the word tart and it's two possible meanings.

We then went to the "skeleton store" again and watched a German couple buy matching red patent leather outfits. We walked up to see the real train on the tracks. We went to Old Navy and bought a skeleton shirt. We discussed the coming movie "The Corpse Bride" and how we both very much wanted to see it . . . his mom is going to let him go because it is PG. We did some homework: Reading about a funny octopus and answering many questions. We bought more scary stuff at Target . . . one dollar spooky fingers, one for each of his fingers with long black nails. They glow in the dark. We discussed Germany -- Mr. Crabbypants does not live there, as Z thought, but goes there often. All in all a great day. But not cheap at all.

Vague Desire

Lately, I've had a vague desire to go to church. Been rumbling around in the back of my brain for a couple of weeks now and I should just go . . . which would get it out of my system very quickly, I'm sure. Unfortunately, I've been programmed by Mr. Crabbypants (both in genetic material and 18+ years of intense behavioral training) that you cannot go to the late show. The First United Methodist's have an early "show" at 9 a.m.-ish and a late show at 11-ish. Through my behavioral training I have been taught that only the lazy, slouchy, disorganized, un-goal oriented, who may, in fact, be more evil, Methodists attended the late service. Again unfortunately, this behavioral training from Mr. Crabbypants did not break my liking of sleep -especially on Sunday morning. He tried, he really did . . . but I can only get up early on Sunday morning if he is here to yell at me AND there is large amounts of coffee.

Now the Royal Oak F.U. Methodist's (hee, hee, I had no idea that would work out that way if you shortened it) have a Friday service at 5:30 p.m. which is perfect for the "I want to be holy for a while before I go and change for the bar" but quite frankly, it is in conflict with my football/photography coaching sessions. So I guess next week I'll have to meet the lazy Methodists . . . how bad could that be? Before you go all questioning motives and intentions, I really don't know why. It's certainly not to meet any Methodist men . . . I'm way more into Catholics for that. My mom did this too. Every so often, our family would go on a "church kick" where we would go to church for several months. One time we kept it up for several years, during which I think I was president of the church youth group or something. I was quite the "God Squad-er" in ninth grade but I just couldn't keep up with the "testifying" . . . it seemed too much like forcing people.

Maybe I just miss the singing. So next week I'll try to get up early again. I am currently on the two alarm clock plan, as I can sleep soundly through my regular alarm clock (lack of sleep? or just used to it?). I might need three for a Sunday morning though.

So Darn Busy . . .

. . . considering I have nothing to do . . .

Funny how this whole "get a life" plan is being derailed by my actual life. Haven't signed up for classes . . . remember the art class and the yoga class? Yeah, just haven't gotten to it yet. Weekend is already booked, with nothingness . . . go to Noir and get more hair dye (shudder at the amount of hair dye to keep me happy and not orangey), spend the afternoon at the union office, wrangle the mother since Mr. Crabbypants is going to Germany, make it to the yarn store before closing . . . the yuppie yarn store not the craft store. I have no use for the Michaels or Jo Ann crafts, have to go to the Yarn store for the fancy-smancy natural yarn, or "fiber" as they call it. Oh, and the presentation on Greek history and Homer that I have to prepare . . . since I just found out that none of my students have had any world history (today was . . . you know, the fallow field from Medieval times? no? well, okay, once there were these people called serfs . . . no, not surfs . . . )

Sure, I'm home on a Friday night but I just got home from a football game . . . where I smiled and waved at what seemed like a thousand students and parents. I coached my first yearbook kid (an investment, he's a sophomore) through a football game (get closer, take more shots, try to focus the camera). Luckily, he has a very good eye. Informally coached some cheerleading (it's time for the defense cheer). Me coaching cheer, ridiculous.

I'm tired . . . beat even. Have to catch up on the sleep I have missed all week. Have to sleep.

So this whole "getting a life" plan . . . I may already have too much of a life . . .

What a Great Halloween hat

It is time to start making hats again . . .

Once upon a time, last year in fact, Princess and I were at a high school football game of some flavor or another. This was unusual because Princess loves the football and I have to take pictures of the football. It was finally cold enough to wear my favorite hat and Princess exclaims, "Oh, how nice! You're wearing your halloween hat. How festive!" I then had to inform Princess that the hat with skulls on it was my regular everyday hat . . . that I wore all winter . . . and not a hat for the holiday of Halloween.

What this leads to? It is my favorite shopping time of the year. The time of Halloween merchandise, which I then use as all year round clothing. Old Navy has wicked cool skull socks, I really should have bought two pair. I have yet to find the right bat T-shirt for the year but I know it's out there waiting for me. And one dollar bags of bats for my classroom. Always good to have things hanging off the ceiling.

Goin' to the yarn store this weekend for some red yarn. Gave away all the devil hats last year and didn't keep one for myself. Soon it will be cold enough to wear the skull sweater I made this summer. Yippee! And I should probably wash the fuzzy kitty hat. Ahh, Halloween . . . the most wonderful time of the year.

Put the Dog in the Basket

As I scream at the television, hoping that the Air Force helicopter personnel will hear, "Put the dog in the basket put the dog in the basket please put the dog in the basket please god let the dog go in the basket", the dog finally goes into the basket with the person's arms wrapped around him and goes up.

My mother admitted to me that one of the first things she would pack, should she ever have to evacuate, would be Sammy's ashes. (Thinking about it . . . I probably would too) Mr. Crabbypants insists that he would put everything important in a plastic bag and bury it in the backyard. This is why we don't let them live in areas with hurricanes. The black outs and ice storms are enough . . . Mr. CP keeps breaking bones in the ice storms because he goes out to get the paper.

My brother however does live with the hurricanes . . . with his girlfriend, six cats, two dogs and evidently two tanks of fish. He is a small business owner and often stays in spite of evacuation orders. He stays partially to keep an eye on the store and potentially to make some money when everything else is closed but often he stays because of the pets (the kids, as we call them). You cannot take your pets with you to a shelter. Since every one of this animals is a rescue (except for the fish . . . I suppose he rescued them from the store), J would never leave them to fend for themselves in a hurricane. Often they go to his girlfriend M's parent's house, who are saints for taking in the zoo, but her parents also live in the Miami area so in a catagory 4 or 5 it is not far enough. My brother would be one of the people standing on his balcony with his cats, dogs and fish in little plastic bags. (though since he lives on Miami Beach, I suppose the surrounding water would be ocean . . . so he could let the fish go) But looking at the pictures of Gulfport, MS, there probably wouldn't be a balcony to stand on.

The news is now saying that the dog didn't even belong to the two men who were just rescued off the roof . . . I wondered why they weren't holding the dog . . .

Have to turn off the television. Have to get the NHS people to run a blood drive. Have to talk to the people at school about having kids donate. Have to get a group to donate their Christmas break to Habitat for Humanity.

I was so pissed at WJR on Monday morning for suggesting that other countries should come and help "us" with the situation. We are the richest country in the world, I thought, certainly we can handle this. I was wrong. Let's hope that our government comes to it's senses . . . take the aid, get more organized, communicate better. And put the dogs in the basket . . . and the cats too.

Snake and Jake's

Back in the days when I was fun . . . and I had a friend in law school at Tulane, I would go visit New Orleans. It is how I know that I love to vacation by myself. S would get up and go to school and I would wander the streets. Amble with no direction in mind, making no compromises for anyone else's agenda. Sometimes I would go to the French Quarter, to the East End, far past where the tourist shops were. Sometimes I would stay on Magazine Street. Sometimes I would walk the Garden District.

I flared my fake vampire teeth at Anne Rice's mansion. I talked to Voodoo and Hoodoo priestesses. I sat and watched the Mississippi. S didn't get home until at least 3 p.m. and we would sit under the hum of the air conditioner, nap by 6 and then go out into the night. And stay out all night. With "to go" cups.

His first year we went to some Irish place near the house. By his third year, we would go to Snake and Jake's, a very hip dive that was in someone's garage. It was painted red, I think, with random Christmas lights strewn about. S insisted that he saw the lead guy from "Thrill Kill Cult" there at the bar one night.

That trip, or the trip before, we went to see The Toasters and S ended up somehow finagling having a drink with Bucket, the lead singer. S was so good at meeting famous people, or maybe just people we thought were famous. S and I got in a fight that night, so angry that he intentionally spit on my boot. I was sure my world was going to end.

S is married now, with a wonderfully cute daughter. He no longer lives in NOLA, a place he told me that he would never leave, once . . . but things change and people grow up and nothing stays the same. I miss him terribly, the panicked late night phone calls and the long drawn out discussions of nothing and everything at the same time. The coffee and the scotch . . . or the smell of it, since I didn't like scotch. The hum of the air conditioner in the background while we talk of the possibility of the translucent lizards in his bathroom . . . are they real?

I never moved to New Orleans, though I could have I'm sure. I would have been welcomed at one time. I just couldn't leave my "career", my family (as much as they put the "fun" in dysfunctional), my life . . . Perhaps New Orleans was so romantic that I didn't want it to become everyday.

And now it is gone . . . covered in water. The neighborhoods I once walked with water up to your knees and helicopters. People dying in the streets, surrounded by filth. People looting and shooting and behaving badly.

S was always leery of the levees. "This place will fill up with water someday" he would say to me. Turns out he was right. And the genteel place where people would say "hello" to you was they passed you on the street has changed. Filled with water.

Not to be too preachy, but please consider donating to the Red Cross . . . or better yet consider becoming a volunteer, for the next time something happens. "Think globally, act locally"

Get Well Soon NOLA . . .

Ouch

Must buy a nail set.

I woke up, on time, for once. I then proceeded to gouge my foot on a nail that is every so slightly sticking up from the hardwood floor.

I then went back to bed (because that is no way to start a day) and woke up twenty minutes later than the emergency last second get up time.

Everyone has a emergency last second get up time right? The last moment giving you enough time to just get ready and sprint to the car? Where you can't think too long about your outfit?

And my foot still really hurts.

Raise High the Roofbeams . . . .

I found notebooks for 10 cents each and even though I wasn't supposed to be in that evil store, due to their horrible treatment of the people who work for them, I bought those notebooks . . . and liked it. In fact, I'm going back to Mr. Walton's store to buy some more for next semester.

I'm not supposed to go into Mr. Walton's store and buy supplies because my union wants teachers to boycott the store. However, if my union would fight a bit harder for my working conditions, so that I would not have to BUY 300 single subject notebooks in the first place, then I would follow their advice more closely.
(It is a capitalist society and if they feel they are being treated badly, they are welcome to find another job . . . Old Navy is hiring . . . )

I also bought some short sleeve shirts because my workplace is 106 degrees with no air conditioning (except in the office) and new underwear because everyone should have new underwear for the start of school. And dry erase markers because they didn't come with the order . . . so no one can write on their boards.
While I was at Mr. Walton's store, some middle school boys started to talk to me about my "cool hair". Being unsure if they were making fun of the hair or complimenting it (it's so hard to tell with middle school boys) I kept walking. I think they were trying to pick me up in the toy department. How unseemly. I hope they knew they were talking at someone in her thirties.

So three hundred dollars later, I'm all ready to start school tomorrow. Now I just have to do my nails and my hair.

The Empire Strikes Back

Ahh, back at the evil empire. So much to do, so little time. I set up one of my rooms today and now am all sweaty and gross. Read a few too many books at a "book club" last night and my friend kept ordering more and more copies for everyone.

I refuse to plug in my phone at the evil empire until Monday because I know that I have 47,542 messages (When do I pay? Do I have to get my picture taken there? Can I get another yearbook from 1904?) and I don't want the phone to blink at me. The angry blinking message light would burn holes into my brain at this point. So if anyone wants to get a hold of me, they page me on the P.A. system.

Somehow the intricate wiring of the P.A. system makes everyone's voice sound as if everything is extremely urgent. A tone like "I have a rabid squirrel chewing on the back on my neck and only you can get it off, due to your extensive knowledge of rabies and squirrels, so could you please come because this is very uncomfortable. OUCH . . . stop that . . ." click. (I've been told that I sound very nice on the P.A. system, but I had that one radio class in high school)

So between dealing with the diseased squirrel attacks and the amazing amounts of dead insects in my room (how do they get there and why do they have to die in my space?) I hot glued some posters on the wall, put some of my books on the shelf, wrestled with the "marker problem" (but I ordered three boxes of fine tip markers . . . I know you ordered eight and we only received seven but that doesn't mean I shouldn't get some), considered how feasible it would be to put a large curtain up along the tape line dividing my office (brought on by the marker problem), and laminated the world. I'm nowhere near ready but neither is the evil empire so I think it will be alright.

And I can put up a curtain . . . a pipe, some flat connectors on the wall and alot of fabric . . . maybe bed sheets . . . it would be so worth it.

Sometimes . . .

Sometimes you get reminded that you really are an a*%hole . . . sometimes.

Putting the strings back on

Ahhh, my first day back at the evil empire. So exciting, engaging, and full of lovelyness . . . well, maybe I'll choose to remember it that way anyway.

Came home and dropped on the couch. So much for getting off bat schedule.

One of our graduates is working at the high school . . . which made me cringe a little, since he wasn't the most stellar of human beings when he was a student and now has keys to all the rooms. L liked to flirt with everyone and hasn't changed all that much.

"Like your hair."
"Thanks."
"So the administration doesn't have a problem with that?"
"Not yet. We'll see."

I really hope, having seen the entire freshman and sophomore classes today at registration, that if they had a problem, they would have voiced it by now. The damage is already done.

Still everyone bringing it up . . . makes me feel like I'm not supposed to have muppet colored hair or that somehow I've become an impostor. I know I couldn't do this with my hair if I was a mortgage broker, but that's why I didn't become a mortgage broker in the first place (that and the math thing).

See what happens when you don't let me be the art teacher?

Only in my neighborhood

There was too much social interaction while I was mowing my lawn today. I hate mowing my lawn. I bribe myself to do it usually and have the headphones on so I will fall into a mowing trance where I mow pictures in the lawn for the planes and aliens overhead.

Interruption one: Large group of boys in a truck speeding down the street, who screamed something at me, making me jump. I gave them the one finger universal greeting and then felt awful because my ninety year old neighbors were outside and I want them to think of me as wholesome and good.

Interruption two: Some blonde willowy girl stops my diagonal mowing to ask for a phonebook. I don't own a phonebook (that's what the internet is for). She is lost . . . looking for her friend's street, where she is staying, but doesn't know what street it is. Does not know her friend's address (not even city) and does not know her phone number. At this point, I'm wondering if she is a decoy and if someone is rifling through my house or something. I mean, she doesn't even know what CITY she is staying in? She remembers a restaurant . . . "the gay one with sandwiches" which is "near" her friend's house. I point her in that direction and tell her what street the restaurant is on. Good luck blonde girl. Next time bring your cell phone to go running in a strange neighborhood.

Interruption three: It is now getting dark when my neighbor calls me over. I'm hoping she won't mention the previous one finger salute. "I just wanted to tell you that we called Detroit Edison." Yeah . . . and . . . Sweetest lady in the world but spent 30 minutes on the tree branches around the electrical wires and how if I call it will cost me money but if she calls is won't and then there was another ten minutes on the "I think that weed is deadly nightshade but I'm not sure because the flowers are purple but otherwise it looks like deadly nightshade and I get it in my yard too . . . "

It's dark. The lawn is mowed. I have deadly nightshade. Not just nightshade, but deadly nightshade. So don't mess with me.

Secret Code

Evidently, "Well, I have your email" and a handshake translates to "Yeah, this didn't work for me . . . we won't be talking again."

I will admit "I have your email" IS much nicer. The rejection stings but it's just the first time. And I am scary in person . . .

Besides, he didn't know what Pottery Barn was . . .

Would be much easier if they had one of those U.N. translators though. In the little blue background box with an earpiece, (don't know how that would work in real space, a cardboard box with the inside painted light blue?) repeating the phrases in English that I could understand.

In That Hair

I begrudgingly went to the evil empire this morning. I had to make sure that I had ordered yearbook receipts for the masses and somehow every spring lumps together in my mind. So three Junes ago I ordered yearbook receipts and I keep thinking it was last June. Just a matter of searching the yearbook room (Ha! What a mess.) and then calling the supplier to have them overnight them. Do it every year (except that one time . . . was it last June?).

On my way out of the parking lot, I run into . . . let's call him Football Player D. I am glad to see him, one of the nicest people you could ever meet, and I stop my vehicle to talk to him.

FPD: Wow, what happened to your hair?
Me: (shrug) It changed.
FPD: Looks cool. (Pause) Are they going to let you work in that?
Me: (confused) In what?
FPD: In that hair?

I guess we will find out soon enough. Let's hope they'll let me work in it.

"Oh, no, you shouldn't do that."

Spend too much time in Borders today. Fruitin' around and looking at Husker Du CDs. Bought three books (3 for the price of 2 sale) and now have more Chuck Palahniuk than anyone really needs. Also bought a copy of the new Juxtapoz. Stood in the velveteen roped area waiting for the cashier to notice me, which he didn't until the other cashier nudged him.

Borders Guy: "Oh sorry, I was spaced"
Borders Guy: (looking at Juxtapoz) "Wow, I love this magazine."
Emily: "Yeah, I do too . . . I should probably just subscribe, but I never get around to it."
Borders Guy: "Oh. No . . . you shouldn't do that"

No explanation about why I shouldn't do that. Perhaps so I could keep paying a dollar more at the Borders? Because he wants me to come see him in a month?

In case any Borders executives ever read this . . . so you never hired me because I didn't "pass" the written test A.K.A I didn't have any facial piercings and therefore wasn't cool enough for the Novi store . . . but your cashier starts with "sorry, I was spaced"? Now that's good personnel practice, I tell you.

What the h. e. double hockey sticks was I thinking

Once upon a time, in the mid-ninties, I tried this new service on the internet called "internet dating". It was very cutting edge. There were no digital cameras then . . . so no pictures. Just a lot of words.

I did a lot of emailing after work. Didn't even have a computer at home, let alone an internet connection. Eventually went out on a few blind dates . . . they were all terrible. Then my world blew up and I made all my friends crazy with the phone calls. I stopped the internet dating and became focused on the world falling apart.

And this is bringing all that back . . . mostly memories of the bad dates, with a smidge of the other stuff.

As Dory says: "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming . . ." but as I recall Dory had a memory problem.

One Last Thing and I'll Stop. I Promise.

As I peruse the land of match dot com, I am noticing a trend in the 30-40 year old set. A large of amount of these men have "skinny dipping" listed as a turn-on. For the people out there who have never witnessed the over-stimulating world of match dot com, there is a place to check "turn ons" and "turn offs".

I don't know if I'm taking them too literally or what . . . I didn't check any turn ons or turn offs (maybe I don't know yet? It really depends) personally, but evidently there is a lot of skinny dipping out there. Where are all these people skinny dipping? It just sounds like something that would be best left to eighteen year olds. Maybe it's just the idea of skinny dipping that is appealing. Perhaps Maxim should get a skinny dipping section.

How do sick for real people do this?

I just spent the entire morning at doctors' offices . . . 8:45 a.m. appointment that had been rescheduled by the doctor (like I would schedule an appointment for anything in the morning) and I didn't even see the guy until 9:30. He then wants me to call my insurance company to see if these orthodics are covered . . . aren't there seven people in the office to do that? Go get the allergy shots (they admonish . . . has been 10 days) and spend an hour on hold with my insurance company. They tell me yes, the orthodics are covered, as long as they are attached to leg braces. I then call the doctor's office who tells me they won't order them with leg braces (can't we just rip those babies off?) and that will be $350 please and thank you. That's more than the bathroom sink I have my eye on . . . though I suppose I have to be able to walk.

So how do sick people do this? There's nothing really wrong with me. Well, really minor stuff like not being able to breathe out of the left side of my nose and the alien in my face. Oh, and I walk wrong . . . but I've always walked wrong. I can't imagine doing this while feeling like crap or while working. I'm sure there is much more screaming involved. Hell, I also screamed at the chicka on the phone at the doctor's office after the "can't you just send it in to Blue Cross and then if they don't cover it, I'll pay for it" circular conversation.

Really my own fault for not working for a district with MESSA.

Who Knew?

-- that it takes seven years to become a nun.
-- that cranberry juice "should be consumed within two weeks of opening for the most freshness and satisfaction. (I wonder if the addition of vodka negates that . . . ) (not that I would ever put vodka in my cranberry juice, kids)
-- V8, same thing, but one week.
-- that Meijer's will indeed never be stocked with yogurt, ever. See past entry.
-- the Royal Oak post office doesn't pick up the mail outside until 1 p.m. I guess I'm going to have to go inside.
-- You can make light switch covers with your face on them . . . or anything you want really . . . from cafe press.
-- The caller ID of work is the same number no matter who is calling . . . so don't answer it because it might not be who you think it is . . .

But I Thought I was in Generation X . . .

Remember when you first read Generation X by Douglas Coupland and laughed at the definitions in the margins? My friend Stuart had suggested the book to me . . . or it was lying around in his apartment. That was before "Generation X" as a social nametag started. There were just Baby Boomers all around.

Imagine my surprise when the headline in the Free Press today claimed "Gen X turns 40" with a little MTV logo next to it. It then listed Gen X's "defining moment" as Kurt Cobain dying. ACK! First off, I'm no where near 40 in my head . . . that's six years away. But then reading the article caused me to have this little tiny panic attack in my head -- oh my god, that's only six years away, actually five years and a half years away, what if I'm not married by then? My parents had already had all their kids by now. I'm going to be the old aunt that you have to come visit because she has no one that HAS to take care of her . . . Crap, I have to get my life together --

And then, there is no way that my defining moment is Kurt Cobain dying. Yes, I remember where I was . . . in the basement Montie House phone booth returning a page . . . but I also remember where I was when the Challenger blew up and when 9/11 happened and when the Berlin wall came down. I think the Berlin Wall is a much better defining moment . . . heroin addicted rock star (though very talented, don't get me wrong) dying seems so . . . slacker, to use their term.

And the Shopping Gods Smiled Upon Her

Setting: Marshall Field Warehouse Sale

Time: Due the vampire circadian rhythm problem and the stop at Starbucks, 8:15 a.m. (plus did not have to wait in the line)

Amid the young families, B-ham mother/daughter teams, and over-dressed 70 year olds, the Shopping Gods smiled and then presented an ottoman. It was exactly what I was looking for, same brand as my other furniture.

I had eyed it at the clearance center several times, coming back once every two months to watch the price fall. But the price never went below $150, which is what I paid for the chair, so I could never bring myself to buy it. Then I would go sit in my chair and really wish that I had bought the damn ottoman. So I was committed to spending the $150 this time, if I found one.

There it was . . . with the other orphaned ottomans, with no one else sitting on it or leaping toward it. I sat down, Starbucks in hand, and turned over the price tag. $97.50, first and only mark down, brand-spankin' new. I then physically picked up ottoman, which was awkward with the latte and the purse.

Now everyone has a part to play at the MF warehouse sale . . . they do not multi-task. The write-up people only do write-ups on little clipboards, the cashiers only do (as Z would say) cashierin' and the mover men only move things. You cannot pay for the ottoman perched on your knee as you struggle to hold on to it and your coffee unless you have a write-up. The cashiers are only cashierin', they will not put a sold sticker on the shiny ottoman. Okay, put the ottoman down near a write-up person. Wait as rabid shoppers eye your ottoman (and the couch that was convenient to sit on) and snarl. Get foot run over by three strollers. Tackle the write-up person before anyone else gets her, ottoman in tow. Physically carry ottoman to mover men, who then do not want to take the ottoman with the big pink "pickup today" sticker. Cajole mover men into taking ottoman to loading dock.

I then continue to shop. I now need nothing. My life is semi-complete. My feet will be up while watching T.V. I was below my budget. Life is good. And then . . . there was the chair. Lovely black leather cigar chair. Better leather than my other furniture (I have the "Simply Living" Leather set, this chair was not simply) and a recliner. Not my favorite of the genre . . . it has this headrest in the back that pops up, which is "just more to break" as my Grandpa B would say. But I look at the price. The tag says originally $499, which I know is wrong, it's a least a $1000 chair. The markdown is . . . get this . . . $179. I have clothing that cost more than that.

Now one should always bring a "sitter" to the warehouse sale, preferably one without any agenda of their own. That way they will not wander off when you find best deal in the house. I, however, had no sitter. So I had to sit in the chair and try to get the write-up person to come to me. I also had to beat off a man (with a life partner) with my purse. He came up, while I've got my big butt planted in the chair, and was fiddling with the price tag. "This is a really great deal", he said. "I know. That's why I'm buying it." I think he was seriously considering wrestling me for it but instead backed off two rows, still watching, waiting to pounce if I got up. After a lot of gesturing, I was finally written-up and was able to stand.

I looked for an orphan mattress for my trundle in the guestroom but there were only sets. I then waited in the cashier line for an hour and a half (evidently there is no fast cashierin'). The chair was originally $1750, the ottoman $460. The Shopping Gods are very benevolent today. I, somehow, am their favorite girl.

Mr. Crabbypants and my mother were nice enough to meet me at my house to help me get the chair inside. The back leg needs to be fixed (didn't notice that but . . . it was cheap) and Mr. Crabbypants told me what to do to fix it. I'm sure it was dropped when it was delivered the first time. I will now have to make an offering to the Shopping Gods . . . as I now have more places to sit.

Decisions, Decisions

The girls go out on Thursday nights. M2 is done babysitting (her summer job) and so we'll trade weeks . . . one week out by Princess and M2, the next near me. So yesterday I called M2 to see if we were going out "because I need to make a decision. I'm not going to put my makeup on if we are not going out." M2 was very amused. It was 5 p.m. and it was the big decision of the day.

So I admit it . . . I putter around. I don't get dressed until 4. I stay up until 4 a.m. Soon enough, I will have to join the real world again. I know it's awful.

Tonight, I'm going to Lord and Taylor to shop for school clothes (that whole English teacher wardrobe problem) and tomorrow is Marshall Field's warehouse sale, so I'll have to be up by 6:30 to get to Starbucks before. Ahhh . . . Starbucks . . . (Homer Simpson donut voice here)

The problem with the warehouse sale are there are two schools of thought: get there early and stand in line with all the B'ham daughters and mommies and deal with the riot, or come at 3 p.m. after everything has been picked over, with the shopping philosophy that if it was meant to be yours it will be there. This time is the line standing, cause I need an ottoman. Thank goodness I have a truck.

Oh, and match.com is way more fun than eharmony. Who knew.

Just wanted you all to know

I LOVE Johnny Cash (folsom prison on Quicktime)
among other things.

I know . . .

The self portait of the day is not as good as the last one (and yet better than the first one) but I'm working with a $37 digitial camera here. I'd have pictures of the zoo but I can't get them to work . . . darn camera phones.

E-Disharmony

The nerdy e-harmony demons sent me an "urgent" email this morning . . . they had been reading my profile again and, darn it, I was a bad, bad, girl. Very bad.

"During regular site maintenance, we noticed some content written by you that violates our terms and conditions. . . If you want us to reactivate your matching, please log into your accountand change the content sited above, if possible. Please email usexplaining why you wrote this content. Mistakes and misunderstandings will happen, so if you feel we are in error or do not understand your meaning, please let us know."

It wasn't a mistake or misunderstanding . . . I posted a hotmail address on my profile. I was reaping the wonderful benefits of eharmony "matching" me without paying them. I wonder if they search the profiles for "@" or if they have way too much time.

So I have been kicked off of eharmony . . . well, that's too harsh . . . I have to go stand in the corner and not see anyone until I email them and apologize. Who knew that they had a tiny button at the end of a page that says "close account".

4am -- Really can't sleep

So I've resorted to listening to Matthew Good on Quicktime evilness because I really can't sleep. Perhaps it is the awakening that Yes, I do in fact have to go back to work. Received the letter today . . . and then remembered that I have to go in two days earlier for yearbooks. Ahh, the pit in the stomach dread. The awful dance I do in my head -- not the art teacher, not the art teacher . . . think of yourself as an English teacher.

It's a whole different wardrobe really.

Oh, and I do evil things when left to my own devices and then rationalize it by saying I'm really "helping" them. On a certain online dating site, there was someone who had a spelling error in his first line and I advised him to correct it. Not because the spelling error bothered me . . . because it ruined the whole tone of his arguement. His first line was something like -- can you beleive that I have to resort to internet dating -- and while he was cute, the "beleive" really ruined it. Because the first thing I thought when I read it was "well, yes . . . ". It was evil. My karma is ruined for weeks. I'm sure I'll get hatemail and get kicked off. I'm sure he will come and find me with my inadequate windows and give me a piece of his mind. But really . . . if I had something on my face you would tell me, right?

Now the Matthew Good "Audio tunes" player has just crapped out . . . so I guess I will go watch some infomercials until they put me to sleep.

When I'm an adult

Direct quote from the nephew: "When I'm an adult, I'm goin' to do whatever I want." I tried to explain that it was much, much more complicated than that . . . that the world was full of compromises. Nope. In, let's see, eleven more years, Z is going to do whatever he wants. All this because Mean Aunt Emily wouldn't take him to McDonalds for lunch. (part of the conversation did degrade to "well, I have the car keys . . . ")

As it turns out, a Cuban sandwich is quite good and ordering off the ADULT menu is even cooler. The music is very good to bounce to at the Cuban restaurant, also. So we don't want to say that Mean Aunt Emily knows her business or anything but . . .

The newest linguistic phase in Z's life is making everything a gerund. A gerund is when you make a verb out of a noun by adding "ing", such as skiing from ski. (for all of you who aren't English teachers out there) Z is obsessed with "spooky" and cemetaries and scary stuff so driving by a funeral home will peak his interest. The people inside the funeral home? Well, they must be "funeralin' ". "Are they funeralin', Emily?" People visiting the cemetary are "cemetarin' ". No concept of going to visit anyone's grave . . . they must just be "cemetaring", which I think is the act of going into a cemetary to look around. "Funeralin' ", I'm afraid, is going to stick in my vocabulary.

After going to the "skeleton" store (Noir leather) and buying a skeleton button (though not the one we wanted because Mean Aunt Emily thought the ax and blood was too violent) , going to the zoo (that would being "zooin" ), NOT eating at McDonald's, and pointing out every train crossing in Royal Oak (will there be a train? How about now? When do the trains come? If a train comes can I go look at it? will there be a train now?) -- Mean Aunt Emily bought him a jean jacket, which he then would not take off, even though it was 90+ degrees. "Jean jackets are cool."

Yes. Yes they are.

It was all that Slam Dancing, wasn't it?

So I had the session to look at my CT scans today. Turns out I have a severely deviated septum with a maxillary cyst. Something about a bone spur too . . .

So I get everything fixed in three months, after my insurance checks out. I wonder if he can straighten it while he's there?

I did, at one time, slam my nose squarely into someone's shoulder when I was in high school. We were being goofy "squids" (or alternateens) at some band camp function on the tennis courts . . . a dance perhaps . . . and were slamming into each other, just to show that we were cooler than the other band geeks. The doctor assures me that it was not that incident . . . just a birth defect instead.

Evidently when it's done, I'll be able to breathe. Since it's evidently been this way forever I don't know what that will be like but it seems like a nice idea.

They won't let me have the CT scans until after the surgery. Look for the black eye at the beginning of November -- plus they shove "splints" up your nose. They told me that I could go to work the next day . . . hee, hee. I won't be doing that however.

Asking for it?

Yet another window guy story:

So I'm standing in my living room with "Mark", who is wearing a "dress" T-shirt (like the ones boys wear to the bar to go with their gold necklaces and hair product), very nice shoes and a tattoo with an anagram on it. I am making the assumption that he owns a motorcycle. I am also assuming that he has seen the inside of Gusoline Alley. He has no I.D. but he has a binder with him.

As we are starting on the "hello"s and the handshake and the "would you like some water? . . . diet Coke?", he asks if "my husband is around" . . .

Now I should have not skipped a beat and said, "Yeah, Buck's in the basement . . . sharpening the knives . . . " but the comment threw me. Here is a man I don't know, that I just let into my house, who is asking if I'm alone. I instead made some quip about window companies and single women. He apologized and stated that he was required to ask that "because home improvement is a big decision that should be made by both parties". What a load of crap. Like I wouldn't share with Buck that I was buying new windows . . . I'm sure he would notice when they came to install them. (Actually, since Buck is imaginary I don't have to share much with him . . . imaginary husbands are very agreeable)

So I can't figure out if they ask (and they all ask) so they can figure out how much money you have . . . thus how much they can jack up the price . . . or if they have a "man" speech and a "chick" speech and he just wants to know which to start with. Or maybe they are planning the rape scenario . . . I don't know. But it's scary to say to strange men . . . yeah, no husband . . . without a large dog around anyway.

To his credit, "Mark" was the nicest window man yet. Didn't do the hard sell. Admitted that there was flux to the final, best price. Trusted my measurements and didn't walk all over my house. So maybe he was just flirting. Still, my brother is coming for tomorrow's estimate. Enough of this bulls#*t.

Six Degrees: 3hive

So in the perpetual putting off of the lawn mowing, I was surfing and found this : 3hive

Turns out in reading the bio that two of the guys live in Plymouth/Northville and one teaches in Northville and therefore knows my friend Robby (the A.P.). So I guess that's only two degrees but I haven't seen Robby for a while so that counts for the other four. Another of the authors is Jon, the husband of Dooce, which I read frequently.

In puttering around on the site, cause I'm always for more music, I find a thing on the Weakerthans, one of the cooler bands in the world. Mp3s from obscure Canadian bands can never be a bad thing. So check it out.

Decorative lustreglass, oh my

So I have been MAC'ified for the year. I'm trying to think of something that men have to drop $150 bucks on for the year . . . their shoes are more expensive, I guess. Princess was very helpful, though she did lecture me about how I'm "not assertive enough" with the service personnel. Interesting . . . me, not assertive enough . . .

(I don't think Princess never really worked in the "service industry". There was that stint at the video store, but I just watched "Clerks" so I don't think it counts.)

So I now have colors named "Nocturnelle", "Anti-Establishment", and "Seedy Pearl" in my make-up basket. How do I get the MAC name job? I let the nice tattoo girl upsell me some lipliner and bought some awesome eyeliner. It's high maintance eyeliner with "rules" (gotta make sure you keep the lid really tight, have to wash out the extra and additional brush everyday, have to use make-up remover, not just soap) but it paints on nicely. So nicely, it's almost worth the extra trouble.

As an aside . . . I became addicted to department store make-up (which is much more expensive that drug store make-up . . . for the boys reading this) because of one of my best friends in college. She did the expensive make-up thing but got her haircut at Bo-Rics. I believed in expensive haircuts (still do) but was using "Wet n' Wild" (still have their black lipstick for special occasions). So I convinced her on the haircuts and in return she convinced me on the make-up. One of the best things ever done . . . though pricey, even still. One of the coolest girls I ever met at State, we were both in the art ed program together. She liked me because I made a comment about her shoes one day in class. Googled her yesterday because I was thinking about her . . . nothing. (Unlike when you google my name and get ten hits with the name of my employer, cause I need ex-boyfriends to call them for my email address, NOT) . She's moved, like, twenty times since we left school. So Heather, as I call out into the nothingness of the internet, thanks for the make-up addiction and I hope everything is going well.

Drunk Monkeys and Doorbells

After the Concourse d'Elegance, my family came over to visit. During this visit, my brother D. managed to get everything electrical checked and, more importantly, magically made the doorbell work. I have a doorbell. A doorbell that chimes (actually plays stupid songs like "Camptown Races" in a random order) when you push the button next to the door. No more signs for the windowmen, there is a doorbell. I am eternally grateful.

Because of the "my house was wired by drunk monkeys" problem, the doorbell doesn't work exactly like is supposed to . . . separate doors were supposed to have different chimes, a front door chime (stupid song) and a back door chime (ding-dong) . . . we can only get both buttons to do one thing (so either stupid song or ding-dong) so I don't know if the caller is at the front or the back door. My brother and I rationalized the one chime dilemma by figuring that my house is the size of a postage stamp so it really doesn't take that long to walk to the back door after you have figured out that there is no one at the front door. Besides . . . who goes to the back door and rings a door bell?

Of course the whole thing is set to random stupid song because that's why I bought this doorbell. I love the fact that it plays stuff like "Mary had a Little Lamb", it's seems so 1950's "look at my modern nifty doorbell" cheese. Love it. I paid extra for that cheese. When you are at the Home Depot doorbell display and you accidently push the "plays 50 different cheesy tunes" button, and the two minute "Battle Hymn of the Republic" plays, you think to yourself, "Who would buy that?" The answer is me.

So this "home improvement" project only took six months . . . and my brother still isn't sure that it won't burn down my house because "It isn't supposed to work that way". Be sure to try it out when you visit . . . I probably won't answer, much like my phone, but you can hear it through the door.

I Love the Internet

There is a whole website devoted to the abandoned buildings that we used to run around in while we were in high school (and by "we", I mean other people, because that would have been trespassing and therefore illegal). A whole "Northville Tunnels" website, complete with "busted" stories and tons of photographs. And you guys thought I had too much time on my hands . . .

They built a subdivision over the Northville tunnels and I suppose that they filled the tunnels in . . . can't really see them leaving large holes in the ground for people to fall into. Rumor always was that they were haunted, that satanists lived there, all sorts of fun. So fascinating to teenagers in the Northville/Novi/Plymouth-Canton area. Back when I lived in Northville, we called the new condos the "haunted ones", because, really, who would buy a condo there?

For the benefit of those who did not grown up Northville or in the 80's, Wayne County Children's Home was a facility for developmentally disabled children. However, we called it "The insane asylum" which was much more dark and tortured than what it really was. There were a lot of buildings and tunnels to connect them so that people could travel more easily in the winter months (or maybe it was just for the utilities). It was all abandoned by the time I was a teen and it was very cool to go there and run around in the dark. It was also very arty to go take pictures there for photography class. They bulldozed it for some condos, so I don't know what teens have to do in Northville now. Hopefully, they built them a skatepark or something. I also don't know what the Northville police department has to occupy their time either . . . I think the $50 trespassing tickets were a huge source of revenue.

Goin' to the MAC Store

So I'm going to Somerset for the big make-up buying trip and decided to invite Princess . . . since she is so very fond of make-up. She is going to be crabby because I'm going to the MAC store (she likes Estee Lauder?) but she will probably keep me from going too crazy (black lipstick is good for everyday now? Sign me up!) or looking too much like the undead. Princess is good for keeping me in the "normal" range . . . and "normal" is good when one wants to keep their current paycheck.

Hee, Hee . . .

Hate Window Estimates

Being the genius girl that I am . . . I measured all the windows in my house and created an Excel spreadsheet, with pictures, so I could just go to places and GET estimates for new windows.

I don't want anyone to come to my house . . . I don't want to get asked about my husband . . . (my imaginary husband for the window people is now named BUCK by the way, though I may go with Horatio) . . . I don't want to spend "just an hour" looking at the cut up window . . . I don't want to feel the "heat through the e2 glass" . . .

I just want someone to tell me how much a window that will fit a 36 1/4 x 54 inch hole will be and how much they want to install it. No one will give me a window by window price . . . no one will tell me how much of the price is window and how much is installation. I know how much windows are at the Home Depot . . . and I figure it's about that price again for installation but I just had a guy quote me 12,000 dollars for 15 windows. 12 THOUSAND dollars . . . that's as expensive as Pella wood windows. These were vinyl . . . nice vinyl but still vinyl. AND he wanted me to sign on the line, right then. "Why do you need to get all those estimates?" "But the 10% discount won't be good after today."

Is it just because I don't have someone named Horatio sitting next to me? Is it the muppet hair? I really can't do math in my head but COME ON, I do have access to a calculator and I can read the price tags at the home improvement store. I just want an itemized estimate for windows and I don't want to sit through an hour long sales pitch IN MY LIVING ROOM. Why can't I just go to the window store and get that?

My imaginary husband Horatio is going to come home and kick your ass, window man . . . and then you might have to deal with Buck.

Bought Batteries

Finally bought batteries for the camera . . .

Bought the batteries so I could collect ideas for the window replacement plan. Then drove around the neighborhood to take pics of the several thousand different versions of my house (though only the ones I like). Didn't think about how creepy it is to take pictures of other people's houses -- felt very much like a burglar and kept expecting someone to write my license plate down. The police haven't shown up yet, so I think it might be okay.

Eharmony Demons

Eharmony conspiracy demons have been working overtime . . . and have gotten smarter. Damn them. I got the marketing email promising three months for the price of one . . . three whole months of multiple choice -- Whee! But I passed on this "opportunity".

I then got a flurry of matches . . . which is so, so very sad since they don't know that I don't subscribe to eharmony and therefore if they pick me, and my 29 compatible characteristics, their questions just go into the air . . . into the void of the internet.

THEN I got a bunch of "requests for communication" . . . something that didn't really happen when I subscribed. I'm not saying that they are false requests. That would just be way too eharmony demon conspiracy theory. I'm just wondering why this is happening after I got my "opportunity" email. You can't answer these requests -- five multiple choice questions -- unless you subscribe for $49.95.

Now I admit I was trying to work the system. When I was a paying customer, I would often be crestfallen when I got up the nerve to send questions and then never got any response. Turns out that they still send out your profile after your gone . . . so new people who sign up will get lots of matches. That just doesn't seem fair . . . matching up people who are seriously looking with people not using your service . . . so I worked the system a little. I figured out that you can only have ten matches if you are not a subscriber . . . so once a month you close all your matches. Eharmony then matches you with ten more people, the demons perhaps thinking that you will give in if you get new shiny matches. Or maybe they just want to keep the others by giving them me as a shiny new match.

I was totally upfront in my profile, stating "I do not pay eharmony anymore" and then including an email address for people who were still "interested". With this stated in my profile, I wondered why I was getting so many "requests for communication" . . . so I checked my profile. Turns out the eharmony demons had erased that part of my profile. They left the rest and continue to send it out to people. So eharmony demons, JUST DELETE MY FILE. I beseech you. Stop sending it out to men who think I'm also a paying customer. And stop sending me email.

By the way, I put my email back on eharmony . . . probably violating several things I agreed to in signing up for the thing in the first place. So there demons . . . naah!

Chipmunks Everywhere Felt a Disturbance in the Force

For information about Mr. Cat's killer adventure, see Mom's blog (link in sidebar) . . . he's very proud of himself.

Just a little clue

I am slowing realizing that anonymous posts kinda suck . . . don't get me wrong, I love that people are commenting. For gosh sake, don't stop commenting . . . in fact, comment more because it makes me think that someone might be reading this and that is so much more comforting than talking to air. (I will talk to air though . . . those of you who know me realize this)

But the last two comments posted have been from people I know (or that I assume I know) (who else knows about the lobsters in the yearbook room?) . . . but they don't have blogger accounts. So give me a hint or something. You could always sign it. Princess just gives me a call after she comments (except now . . . she won't be speaking to me now because I mentioned her). So yeah, just a little clue . . . unless, of course, you prefer to remain anonymous.

And it ONLY took five years

Princess was telling this story the other day about her friend who found a boyfriend on match.com . . . and it ONLY took her five years. This story was told as we were sitting in an empty "restaurant" (okay, it was a bar . . . you're all old enough to know . . . occasionally, I'll go to a bar) with no one even there to be interested in us. I used to work at the particular establishment, which usually means a free drink or two, but it was a week day so the bartender was new.

Yes, I do occasionally "milk" my former employer for attention and free drinks but only once every six months or so. The chef did come up and say "hello" but I think he may have already been in the bag because he assured me that he would come back and "chat" with me and he doesn't really want to talk to me . . . this would be okay (he's an okay guy) except he is the person who insisted on firing me. So I don't really like chatting with him because something bitchy might slip and ruin my karma for the night. Chef guy scurried to the other side of the restaurant and disappeared, thankfully.

Back to the original point . . . five years on match.com to get matched seems a bit excessive. It might be my ADD but I only lasted a month on eharmony . . . and only a couple of emails with eharmony guy (do I want to deal with other people's kids? especially three of them?). I guess if you are willing to put up with five years of pseudo-rejection over the computer, you really want to be matched. Let Morrisey get his head around that . . . instead of "it's a club and you've got to go" it's now checking your profile so that the computer matching service will put you at the head of the list (online in the last five minutes) so that you have a better marketing prospect.

For you young ones . . . Morrisey was the lead singer in a band called The Smiths. They have a classic song "How Soon is Now" which is all about longing and not being loved. I've always latched onto the line "it's a club and you've got to go . . . you could meet somebody who really loves you . . ." not really for the longing aspect but for the obligation. My mother always taught me that if you were invited . . . if someone was nice enough to invite you to something . . . that you should go. So it's the "got to go" idea that I connected with . . .
Evidently, the song was a huge anthem for the gay community in the 80's also. Who knew. By the way, the rest of the line is "so you go and you stand on your own . . . and you leave on your own and you go home and you cry and you want to die". (There really are all those "and"s too)

And with that randomness, I'm off to take pictures of houses in the neighborhood that look like mine so I can find windows that I like. Hopefully, I will not get arrested for doing this.

My house was wired by drunk monkeys

My mother and I finally guilted my father into coming over to my house and fixing things. It took several weeks of "But Princess' father painted her whole house . . . " whining but he was here yesterday("I don't paint." -- Mr. Crabbypants) . My mother sent him to do something that I had already done, but no matter, I had a pile for him.

After taking him out to lunch, going to the NEW Sam's club for some recreational shopping, and driving out to the "E lot" to look at cars, we arrived at my house and changed some outlets. I can do electrical, sorta, but I don't understand the subtle nuances, like, say, when someone makes an outlet a junction box and what to do if someone does. I tried to rewire a light in the basement and determined that my house had be wired by some drunk monkeys, so I put everything back because I am not a drunk monkey and wasn't seeing the logic. I then called my brother . . . because he does understand drunk monkey wiring and how to fix it, but he was still dealing with Mr. Pukey* and couldn't come to my aid. So really my father needed to come because he taught my brother how to understand wiring, home improvement, and drunken monkeys.

My father thought he was going to "help me with the shelf" which I had already put up two days before. Evidently my mother forgot that they forced me to do all the closets in their house, for two houses. "Well, aren't you glad we did that . . . you now have a life skill . . . " Putting up closet shelves is not a life skill, in my opinion. Anyway, my father came expecting to sit on the couch, with a diet Pepsi in his hand, and yell his own made-up directions to Closetmaid shelving. I made him rewire outlets instead. My father IS very knowlegable, don't think that I doubt that, and at the age of . . . well, his age . . . I suppose he can sit on the couch and tell me how to do things, he's earned it.

When he actually gets hands-on, he talks to the job using his own made-up swear words. He used to use everyday, normally-recognized swear words but switched since his association with Mr. Pukey. Mr. Pukey was not at my house but I guess he just uses the made-up ones all the time now. So he is on the floor yelling at the outlet, about how it is a cockroach because someone made it a junction box. (Come to think of it . . . he had made-up swear words when we were kids. Which is why I didn't recognize REAL swear words when I went to school. Think of the torturing possibilies of finding someone who doesn't know that f#%K is a bad word.)

I was trying to be helpful, so I started on the light. I know how to change light fixtures because I once waited six months for my father (and brother) to come and help and got sick of waiting. ". . . You now have a life skill . . ." comes to mind. The light changing exercise quickly became ME changing the light and my father standing there saying "Do you have it up yet? What about now? How about now?" which was really annoying. I pointed out that I was helping when he was changing outlet, being the good "go-for" that I am and that he could do more of that . . . and he laughed. I longed for the couch/yelling behavior. Well, everyone survived and I have a stair tred. (My father comes over and points out projects that should be finished and then leaves . . . and I do them out of guilt) Oh, and the outlets are good too.


* My nephew somehow caught something awful and couldn't keep food down for two weeks. There were a lot of trips to the doctor and hospital and it was very frustrating. He would look like he was getting better and want food, so they would feed him and then he would vomit again. Z and his mom didn't know the bucket trick (carrying around a bucket or wastepaper basket, evidently his mom was a better person than I was in college) and so for the first day or so there was throwing up on himself, throwing up on the floor, throwing up on the couch. I was there for one epidsode, there was no warning. So my brother had his hands full with Z, who is now nicknamed, unmercifully, Mr. Pukey. (He is better now. Had pizza and everything. No puking, knock wood, for three days)

I'm gonna be late but . . .

I have to post so it can become ritual. Really, yeah, that's the idea . . .

That, I want to impress people with my ability to punctuate. I bring this up because someone complimented that "ability" recently. She didn't even know how much that would mean to me. Or maybe she did . . . anyhow, I'm going out to get my hair done . . . a very fifties sounding thing. I'm being a "Wembler" about if I want to keep it red or just to dye it all dark (espresso I think would be the color). I'm going to be late, as usual, since my hair isn't dry yet, make up not on and I have to drive to Milford.

The closet is painted. Two coats even. It would be done tonight but I have to pick up my brother, "the chosen one", at the airport. He comes once a year and everything has to stop . . . which is the major benefit of moving away, all the fawning when you come back. Let the overscheduling begin. The chosen always forgets that it takes twenty minutes to get anywhere in Detroit, even if you are just going to the 7-Eleven. So he overschedules himself and plans to be downtown and then our parents five minutes later, which makes him at least 2 hours late for everything. His girlfriend is a saint and really tries to keep him focused, so maybe this trip will be better. The family Christmas picture is Sunday and my sister refused to color coordinate outfits (for the record). I will be really amused if the chosen brings one of his extra cats (he already has five or six -- Monkey, Gimpy, Elliot, Six, Tux and one that I forget -- and he threatened to bring a kitten. How could he have a kitten?) since my brother seems to be running a "no kill" animal shelter that never places any animals.

So internet -- should you want any kittens, please just comment. I know the chosen has kittens to spare.

Alice Must Have Stood in the Closet and Smoked

Promised myself that I could not go shopping until I washed the front hall closet. (The cleaning of the whole house will be put off until Thursday at midnight) So as I am washing the nicotine off the walls of the closet, I think to myself . . . no wonder my house smells. I was awful, as usual. I don't know why I continue to be surprised . . . it was like this on all the other walls of the house (the kitchen I washed twice) but whenever I get to the next project I seem to forget how bad the last was . . .

So from my point of view, from washing the inside of a closet, the former owners must have just stood in there and smoked. I mean brown goo dripped down as I washed. Was Alice hiding from Harold? How did she not set the coats on fire? "Honey, I'm just going to have a smoke in the coat closet and then I'll get dinner on." I just don't understand.

Now I get to have a Kilz high. Maybe that will enlighten me about the smoking in the closet. Kids never smoke in the house . . . someone eventually will have to wash the walls.

Get off the couch campaign

So yesterday started okay . . . until the hatemail, so then I just sat in the comfy chair and knit. The only thing I managed to accomplish was hanging the stemware hanger that I bought last year at IKEA. Oh, and dyeing my hair, but that's an every fourth day thing. So my stemware is hung . . . and you wouldn't think I have alot but I do. The only place in the kitchen to hang this thing was next to the stove and above the toaster and, yes . . . I have thought to myself that I shouldn't be storing glass above the toaster but . . . I can't hang it on the ceiling (can't reach glasses) and I don't usually use the toaster for anything. It's not like the glasses are two inches from the toaster.

I'm going to the foot doctor today. I hope he doesn't find anything shocking . . . like the foreign body in my sinus (I wonder how much I'm will have to pay to get the picture of that). And I don't really like the idea of shots to my feet (my mom: oh yeah, they could just give you a cortizone shot for that).

So I must accomplish more things today. One of my former students JUST called for a letter of recommendation, so there's that to do. I don't know why I'm shying away from the painting of walls . . . I love to paint. But I sit and think . . . oh, shit, I would have to get out all the stuff and find the goggles so I can wash the walls . . . and oh, The Daily Show is on and that leads into that Southern Lady who cooks and I really want to finish this sweater. So I must think about the question for the first day of school: What'd you do all summer? Cause "I sat around and watched John Stewart" (though he is dreamy) will not cut it.

I have what in my sinus?

Turns out that they don't even send the x-rays to the doctor . . . they just send a report. While I don't have horribly deformed sinuses, I do have a cyst in my left nasal sinus cavity. That would explain the pint of water that came out of my nose one day . . . a burst cyst. I also explains why my nose always feels stuffed up and why blowing my nose doesn't help. The allergist went into the "we'll just watch it" routine . . . "no problem, you don't have a sinus infection right now" but I insisted on the referral to the ENT. I don't think you can diagnose "benign" on an x-ray. Besides, I've occasionally thought about just taking a power drill and drilling a hole to release the pressure . . . now a professional can do it.

When I asked for a copy of the x-ray, they laughed . . .

"Again . . . I cannot . . .

comment on a continuing investigation." Or did he say "will not"? The hilarious television I get to watch with summers off. I got to watch that press conference LIVE. Hoo doggie. And after that I picked up some prescriptions and bought some yarn. Lots of excitement.

The prescriptions I filled out of guilt. I'm going to the allergist tomorrow for an appointment (not just the lovely shots) and hadn't filled the prescriptions from the last visit . . . in March. So I have not had any allergy meds in my system since March. The doctors may be a little irked with this type of behavior. They really like it when you follow their advice. So it won't be lying if I've taken the Nasonex for one day. Sure I'm taking my allergy meds. Oh, and I get to see my skull x-ray tomorrow. Nifty! I'm assuming I have a regular skull because the x-ray was also taken in March and they haven't called me . . . and they would call me if I had hideously deformed sinuses, right? Maybe I can bring the x-ray home . . . you know that would go in my living room.

In other exciting news . . . NPR had a whole show on adult ADD and it turns out . . . SURPRISE . . . that I have, like, every one of the "collection" of symptoms. Well, I didn't get in trouble in school. I mean, I was a huge pain in the ass but I don't think anyone called home about it. So from now on EVERYTHING that is remotely wrong in my life can be chalked up to the ADD. (at least that's what the callers on NPR were doing) Messy house = ADD, Any bad relationships = ADD, Crashing the car = ADD . . . I can even use it for an excuse for my muppet hair! Yeah, I wanted to beat my head against the steering wheel as this woman cried to the doctor that she just couldn't hold down a job and her unemployment was running out and her shrink just wouldn't recognize that she had ADD. I know she didn't mean to sound like that on National Public Radio -- in case anyone IS really reading this, but she did.

Also the guest on "The Daily Show" tonight rocked. Very cute and can't wait to go to Barnes and Noble and stand around to read his book . . . er, buy his book . . . called "Spanking the Donkey".

Oh, and my mom . . . in her ultimate hipness . . . now has a blog, cuz all the kids are doin' it these days. But I'm not supposed to mention it or her for that matter, because she IS the director of homeland security (suburban division) and she wants to remain anonymous. So we didn't have this conversation . . . did we internet? So my friend (wink, wink) just started with blogger and wants to learn the joys of ". . . putting pictures and links and all of that stuff . . . I want sounds too. You can put sounds on it right?" Awesome.

Coolness with Flickr

Whatever you type in, this site will search flickr for the letters and create it. Mesmerizing.

Spell with flickr site

So that kept me amused for, like, fifteen minutes.

So I'm a media whore . . .

. . . and I watch entirely too much CNN. Today I learned about:
-- the guitarist from Korn's (Bryan Welsh?) decision to quit the band and become a Christian. I gotta say good for him. Though the word devil was mentioned too many times, it was kinda nice for someone to be on T.V. saying "hey, I don't think five year olds should sing about sex". He IS going against the establishment.

-- Project Alabama, which has the coolest $300 T-shirts I have ever seen. Evidently, you can not buy them on the web . . . and my checking account thanks the world wide web for that because it is 4:30 in the morning and I would have bought one of those suckers.

I am up this early because I cannot close my front door and don't really want to sleep with the door open (little security psychosis thanks to my mother - the director of homeland security herself). I managed to get a third coat of paint on the door by 2 am and it's not quite dry enough. I'm afraid it will stick to the frame and I'll have to sand and start all over again. Backstory is: I painted the brand new expensive door when it was too hot or something and it got all drippy so I brushed over it and then it got all blotchy and drippy. It was a mess. So I had to sand and repaint. Now I'll only paint it when the sun is down and it's under 70 degrees. I'm on vampire time anyway.

I got up at noon and then took a nap from 2 pm to 4 pm because I wasn't really ready to get up. Mr. Crabbypants would be appalled with my complete "wasting of the day". At this rate, I'm wasting tomorrow too. CNN is such a good friend at 4 am though . . . I had forgotten about that.

Down at Fraggle Rock

My hair is now what has been described as "Fraggle colored" (but only after I described it as Muppet hair . . . then the arguement about if a Fraggle was a Muppet) and the color has lasted a whole 48 hours. I'll have to redye it tomorrow but I'm thinking maybe it will hold a little longer (maybe four whole days) after a couple of redye sessions. The Manic Panic website suggests that you put it on, wrap your head in plastic and then sleep on it but I'm not THAT committed. My bathroom already went through Amityville Horror . . . don't want to deal with that in two rooms of the house. And Manic Panic dyes skin really well . . . how many people end up dying their face while their sleeping when the plastic comes off?

Then I guess they would then really look like a Muppet . . .

(Fraggle=Muppet Really it's true.)

Vampire Red

Re-dying the hair this minute. Very tricky, the dying of one's own hair. I'll have to stop by the beauty supply store and pick up a brush. The "I'll just squeeze it on my fingers and work it in plan" worked but didn't work as well as I'd hoped. I'll now have a very red scalp. Better than the Bozo orange-brown my hair was turning. I don't think it will be interview hair though. We'll see in two more minutes.

So I have to type about something for two (now one) more minute . . . have to clean the bathroom again. Red dye is not really coming out of the sink, so I will have to bleach again. I really do love bleach, though only the gel stuff. I can't use the regular stuff, because I always splash it on something . . . okay, it's been a minute. Hold on, I'll let you know how the hair turns out.

My shower now looks like the Amityville Horror or Psycho, but in color. The hair does look redder, however, so mission accomplished. Next time, I'll rinse in the sink. Okay, off to go dry my hair and bleach the whole bathroom . . . again.