This summer I made a sweater . . . simple enough, yarn from the Superbowl Sale at the yarn store in Howell (only go there for that sale, much too crowded otherwise), pattern from Stitch and Bitch, lots of days with little to nothing to do . . . Voila! sweater.
It's still a little rough around the edges. I wanted the sleeves to be long, so they would go over my hands, but now they are a bit too long so some unwraveling is in order. I still have to weave in some ends (I hate that . . . I need some man to live at my house and do dishes AND weave in ends). But it's COLD here and for some reason I hate wearing coats so I just layer well. Yesterday, I wore the sweater to school. (hee, hee, this is a line from one of my favorite songs)
Now the sweater has a skull and crossbones on each arm . . . too cool for school but I was just wearing it into the building and then taking it off. As I was coming in, several teachers commented on it and I would say "Thanks, I made it." Every response was . . . "Really?!?"
How do you answer that? "No, actually I just wanted to tell you a made it to impress you . . . I actually have this man I paid ten dollars an hour to do dishes and make me sweaters . . ." Fast forward to the end of school and leaving with the social studies teachers. Put the sweater on to go outside.
"Cool sweater."
"No really, really cool sweater, love the Jolly Rogers . . . where did you get it."
"I made it."
"Really?!?"
So either the sweater is so impressive that it couldn't possibly be handmade or no one has any confidence that I could actually knit a sweater that cool. Not sure which. They see me knit at every faculty meeting. They see my silly hats. And yet, they are incredulous about a sweater. Really?!?
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Retraction
My sister has pointed out that I bought the goofy "in shower" moisturizer at the good sale Target in Wixom, while I was with her . . . not the German Thanksgiving guests. Sorry, Mere. It had been a long day.
And for all of you that gave me crap today about shopping at the evil Walmart and spending money there which supports their evilness . . . it turns out I didn't. I spent the money at Target, with their happy red shirts and khaki pants and their clearance end caps. I hope you'll sleep better with this news.
I'm missing ALIAS again and I have to go for a walk out in the freezing rain (well . . . not really HAVE to, more like, if I don't I'll feel like crap and I don't want to feel like crap). It's enough to make you go spend money for a membership at the Y. However, the Y is just close enough to my house that I would feel guilty for driving and yet just far enough away when it's really cold. I'll just go put on my flannel lined jeans and do it. I'll hope my father DVR'ed the adventures of Sydney and Jack.
And for all of you that gave me crap today about shopping at the evil Walmart and spending money there which supports their evilness . . . it turns out I didn't. I spent the money at Target, with their happy red shirts and khaki pants and their clearance end caps. I hope you'll sleep better with this news.
I'm missing ALIAS again and I have to go for a walk out in the freezing rain (well . . . not really HAVE to, more like, if I don't I'll feel like crap and I don't want to feel like crap). It's enough to make you go spend money for a membership at the Y. However, the Y is just close enough to my house that I would feel guilty for driving and yet just far enough away when it's really cold. I'll just go put on my flannel lined jeans and do it. I'll hope my father DVR'ed the adventures of Sydney and Jack.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Must Hold Off the Madness Before It Consumes Me
In addition to pricey soap use, I like this "in shower" moisturizer of late. I was running low so I bought some at the evil Walmart, while taking the Thanksgiving German guests shopping (they love the Walmart, for it's inexpensive deodorant and Saran Wrap . . . as do I, for that matter). Inadvertently, I left the moisturizer at Stately Wayne Manor and my mother kindly offered to drop it off at my house . . . since she is auditing the school district next door anyhow.
I talked to her tonight and she says that she put the moisturizer in my back doorway two days ago. I found it tonight . . . it's not that I think she's lying, but how did I step over a bottle of Oil of Olay moisturizer for two days without noticing or squishing it? Sure enough . . . found it in the doorway today when I got home. The squirrels must have borrowed it or something.
Was at school until 8:30 tonight. Was thanked by a parent for staying with her student until she picked them up . . . something that I just assumed was my job, maybe from the private school days where I would sit for an hour until someone was picked up. The parent tonight was very appreciative, which was so nice. But again, it's my job . . . I just can't abandon them in an empty school when we are working on the yearbook late.
So much madness . . . match.com is weirder and weirder. Got a wink tonight from someone with "3 or more children" and "they live at home" . . . thank goodness I don't answer "winks". Can't wait until the weekend. Except my truck's heater is broken and my brother is not going to be happy about taking it to get fixed. One of the downfalls about working at a dealership, your sister makes you take things to get fixed. My heat only works if you turn it ALL the way up and then it's too hot.
So just have to lie low for two more days. And thank goodness the squirrels have returned the moisturizer.
I talked to her tonight and she says that she put the moisturizer in my back doorway two days ago. I found it tonight . . . it's not that I think she's lying, but how did I step over a bottle of Oil of Olay moisturizer for two days without noticing or squishing it? Sure enough . . . found it in the doorway today when I got home. The squirrels must have borrowed it or something.
Was at school until 8:30 tonight. Was thanked by a parent for staying with her student until she picked them up . . . something that I just assumed was my job, maybe from the private school days where I would sit for an hour until someone was picked up. The parent tonight was very appreciative, which was so nice. But again, it's my job . . . I just can't abandon them in an empty school when we are working on the yearbook late.
So much madness . . . match.com is weirder and weirder. Got a wink tonight from someone with "3 or more children" and "they live at home" . . . thank goodness I don't answer "winks". Can't wait until the weekend. Except my truck's heater is broken and my brother is not going to be happy about taking it to get fixed. One of the downfalls about working at a dealership, your sister makes you take things to get fixed. My heat only works if you turn it ALL the way up and then it's too hot.
So just have to lie low for two more days. And thank goodness the squirrels have returned the moisturizer.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Obsessive Complusive Tree Control
Ha, Ha, Ha, there's a fake Christmas tree in my living room. It's color-coordinated. For now. Just like I would wish for when I was a child.
When I was a child, I always wanted a Christmas tree like they had in the store, especially Hudson's, all elegant and the same color. So unlike my Christmas tree at home with all the random priceless ornaments with all of the sentimential stuff because it was made by a three year old.
Now I have a Christmas tree with just blue and purple . . . though the star will just NOT stay straight. I can even add the bells that my mother bought for me for every Christmas when I was a child, because they are silver and will match.
It's so great to be an adult sometimes.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
O Christmas Tree, Part Deux
So did I mention that my original 1950's fake Christmas tree was from my Grandma B? The one with the Alzheimer's?
The Christmas tree had directions . . . I remember reading them when I was five. But they are long gone, probably still in the fruit cellar at my Grandmother's house. My mother brought the fake Christmas tree to my house, so it was in one place and not on three different floors. The post has different colored dots on it, which I assumed corresponded to the dots on the branches, until I had fourteen leftover yellow branches and no black or white dots. I called my mother for the third time, who was a bit exasperated at that point, and she just told me to put the damn thing together and not worry about the colors. I then discovered that I did not have enough branches for the amount of slots . . . but this time I didn't call, I just worked it out. I'm wondering where all the branches went? Did we lose a box of them? Did they just get wrecked over the years and thrown away? Did they burst into flame? It's not like they are small and can hide out under the couch. And who repainted them all yellow?
I am now working on the light problem. Because there is always a light problem.
Next year, 6ft. fake Xmas tree, prelit from Target, $29.99 . . .
Were fake trees flame retardant in 1953?
The Christmas tree had directions . . . I remember reading them when I was five. But they are long gone, probably still in the fruit cellar at my Grandmother's house. My mother brought the fake Christmas tree to my house, so it was in one place and not on three different floors. The post has different colored dots on it, which I assumed corresponded to the dots on the branches, until I had fourteen leftover yellow branches and no black or white dots. I called my mother for the third time, who was a bit exasperated at that point, and she just told me to put the damn thing together and not worry about the colors. I then discovered that I did not have enough branches for the amount of slots . . . but this time I didn't call, I just worked it out. I'm wondering where all the branches went? Did we lose a box of them? Did they just get wrecked over the years and thrown away? Did they burst into flame? It's not like they are small and can hide out under the couch. And who repainted them all yellow?
I am now working on the light problem. Because there is always a light problem.
Next year, 6ft. fake Xmas tree, prelit from Target, $29.99 . . .
Were fake trees flame retardant in 1953?
But the Great Pumpkin was Just Here, I Swear
Oh, Christmas tree . . .
So I think I am going to dig out the original 1950's fake Christmas tree from the basement and put it up tonight. Lights, ornaments, all in the picture window . . . the whole shebang. I also have Christmas (excuse me, "holiday" as not all of my planned recipients are Christian) cards that I may, in fact, get around to sending this year, but only because they are either mildly smutty or mean. Those of you on the list will have to comment about if that is really true.
Thanksgiving update: The turkey was awesome, thanks to my brother D. and Alton Brown. We had way too much food. I got to the end of "James and the Giant Peach", although Z. had wandered off by that point . . . I had forgotten that the peach ends up in NYC. My mother, sister and I spent just enough time together to get sick of each other. My father's German friends kept him very busy and gave me a reason to go to the mall on Black Friday because I certainly don't need any more stuff but there is no Abercrombie and Fitch in Germany.
Speaking of Black Friday and A&F, while we were in the store getting shirts for Mr. R's son, the music was so loud that even the saleperson had to shout "WHAT?!?" when my sister asked for another size in the color we were sent to get. Such a ridiculous store, but not as ridiculous as Ruehl, another store owned by A&F. Ruehl's marketing strategy includes: keeping the store as dark as possible, paying teenagers to "hang" outside the store, having no sign whatsoever so you have to guess if it's even a store or just a place were teenagers lean, and having no employees inside the store . . . so if you actually find something under $100 that you might want to purchase (after taking it to a light between two giant fake plants to actually see the product) you can't buy it. Totally way cool.
So things to be Thankful for: my family, all my friends, my nose still being on my face, my somewhat challenging (and somewhat annoying at times) employment, making enough money to have expensive soap and a Starbucks addiction, and being old enough that I don't HAVE to shop at any Abercrombie stores (Hollister, Ruehl, etc.) due to extreme peer pressure.
The above mentioned expensive soap, which I purchase at Bath and Body Works . . . this time I tried a new scent, "Fresh Vanilla", and have discovered that it reminds me of the smell of Play-doh. So I'm walking around smelling like Play-doh. Hopefully someone finds that to be sexy . . . but somehow I don't think so . . .
So I think I am going to dig out the original 1950's fake Christmas tree from the basement and put it up tonight. Lights, ornaments, all in the picture window . . . the whole shebang. I also have Christmas (excuse me, "holiday" as not all of my planned recipients are Christian) cards that I may, in fact, get around to sending this year, but only because they are either mildly smutty or mean. Those of you on the list will have to comment about if that is really true.
Thanksgiving update: The turkey was awesome, thanks to my brother D. and Alton Brown. We had way too much food. I got to the end of "James and the Giant Peach", although Z. had wandered off by that point . . . I had forgotten that the peach ends up in NYC. My mother, sister and I spent just enough time together to get sick of each other. My father's German friends kept him very busy and gave me a reason to go to the mall on Black Friday because I certainly don't need any more stuff but there is no Abercrombie and Fitch in Germany.
Speaking of Black Friday and A&F, while we were in the store getting shirts for Mr. R's son, the music was so loud that even the saleperson had to shout "WHAT?!?" when my sister asked for another size in the color we were sent to get. Such a ridiculous store, but not as ridiculous as Ruehl, another store owned by A&F. Ruehl's marketing strategy includes: keeping the store as dark as possible, paying teenagers to "hang" outside the store, having no sign whatsoever so you have to guess if it's even a store or just a place were teenagers lean, and having no employees inside the store . . . so if you actually find something under $100 that you might want to purchase (after taking it to a light between two giant fake plants to actually see the product) you can't buy it. Totally way cool.
So things to be Thankful for: my family, all my friends, my nose still being on my face, my somewhat challenging (and somewhat annoying at times) employment, making enough money to have expensive soap and a Starbucks addiction, and being old enough that I don't HAVE to shop at any Abercrombie stores (Hollister, Ruehl, etc.) due to extreme peer pressure.
The above mentioned expensive soap, which I purchase at Bath and Body Works . . . this time I tried a new scent, "Fresh Vanilla", and have discovered that it reminds me of the smell of Play-doh. So I'm walking around smelling like Play-doh. Hopefully someone finds that to be sexy . . . but somehow I don't think so . . .
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Laughing in the Face of Domesticity
Let's face it . . . I did not follow in my mother's home ec-y becky footsteps. My sister received all the genes that are remotely interested in Martha Stewart. Cooking to me involves a box with the words "Lean Cuisine" printed on it, or better yet, it involves waitstaff and busboys.
But somehow, I got stuck with dessert this Thanksgiving. It's not my fault that my sister's boyfriend keeps blowing up her pies (something about not knowing what burner is on . . . ever . . . pyrex doesn't stand up to direct heat well and then there is molten pie and glass all over, physics, ain't it wonderful?). I can manage sweet potatoes. Arranging the marshmellows in intricate patterns somehow keeps my interest and the rest is just steaming and mashing.
So I'm making a pie. This does not involve steaming (the only thing I'm good at) or mashing (the other thing I can do, but I make a huge mess) and there is no arranging. My pie currently looks like this:
But somehow, I got stuck with dessert this Thanksgiving. It's not my fault that my sister's boyfriend keeps blowing up her pies (something about not knowing what burner is on . . . ever . . . pyrex doesn't stand up to direct heat well and then there is molten pie and glass all over, physics, ain't it wonderful?). I can manage sweet potatoes. Arranging the marshmellows in intricate patterns somehow keeps my interest and the rest is just steaming and mashing.
So I'm making a pie. This does not involve steaming (the only thing I'm good at) or mashing (the other thing I can do, but I make a huge mess) and there is no arranging. My pie currently looks like this:
However it not even close to done cooking and it is midnight, so I may fall asleep and set the house on fire with it. I went to Whole Foods Market and ended up buying the apples for it because they were so pretty. Here are the apples:
And now my kitchen is a mess and I'm not done baking . . . I'm going to make pumpkin cupcakes in the morning. Of course, my kitchen is pretty much always a mess. Oh, and I now have to bake something else because I have all this stuff -- baking powder, flour, eggs, -- and I have to use them up before they go bad. So it's the amazing 70 dollar pie and pumpkin cupcakes. Would have been cheaper just to go with the "someplace with waitstaff" idea.
Oh and my hair is ORANGE to go with the pumpkin cupcakes . . . have to fix that tomorrow also.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
I Have Free Cats in Miami
You know you have good friends when they are willing to put you in your place once in a while. Every so often (okay, once every five minutes or so) I need to be checked. In the last few days, my friends have lived up to the challenge.
I tried to rib Princess (a.k.a. Maverick, as she now would prefer to be called) about Ohio State winning and I got a football lecture to end all football lectures. It was like she was trying to bore me to death with insults about Michigan State's poor coaching. I couldn't get away. And thus I was taught my lesson.
Now whenever I say something remotely . . . let's just say I'm distracted most of the time and have about seventeen thoughts going in my head at any given moment. Every so often something comes out of my mouth that no one but me (and possibly my family) could possibly understand. My friend M2 usually does a good job of translation but lately she's just been saying "That's going in the book . . . " I don't remember what it was yesterday. Today the comment that made M2's book entry was "I have free cats in Miami."
It all started with a conference that is located in Miami. There was discussion about how I couldn't go (no more sick days) but how I have a place to stay in Miami but you would have to like cats because my brother, he has, like, nine of them now so I can't really stay with him because I'm allergic to cats and that's just too many but if you like cats . . . I have free cats in Miami.
I'm not sure about the format of M2's book, if it's just a list of dumb things I say or if it's chapters of my freakishness. I hope I get a cut of the profits so I can stay home and paint.
I do have access to free cats in Miami. They would have to go to good homes, of course, and shipping would be extra.
I tried to rib Princess (a.k.a. Maverick, as she now would prefer to be called) about Ohio State winning and I got a football lecture to end all football lectures. It was like she was trying to bore me to death with insults about Michigan State's poor coaching. I couldn't get away. And thus I was taught my lesson.
Now whenever I say something remotely . . . let's just say I'm distracted most of the time and have about seventeen thoughts going in my head at any given moment. Every so often something comes out of my mouth that no one but me (and possibly my family) could possibly understand. My friend M2 usually does a good job of translation but lately she's just been saying "That's going in the book . . . " I don't remember what it was yesterday. Today the comment that made M2's book entry was "I have free cats in Miami."
It all started with a conference that is located in Miami. There was discussion about how I couldn't go (no more sick days) but how I have a place to stay in Miami but you would have to like cats because my brother, he has, like, nine of them now so I can't really stay with him because I'm allergic to cats and that's just too many but if you like cats . . . I have free cats in Miami.
I'm not sure about the format of M2's book, if it's just a list of dumb things I say or if it's chapters of my freakishness. I hope I get a cut of the profits so I can stay home and paint.
I do have access to free cats in Miami. They would have to go to good homes, of course, and shipping would be extra.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
ACK! Breeders!
At the evil corporate crack . . . I mean coffee . . . dealer this afternoon, there were breeders in front of me in line. They came equipped with a stroller the size of an SUV and a three-year-old with absolutely no manners or self-control.
While I realize that three-year-olds are developmentally unable to have self-control, that's what there are parents for . . . but these breeders weren't parents, they simply saw themselves as creators, or money machines. So "princess scream", as I will now call her, is climbing into the cooler and throwing packages of milk on the floor while her creators stared at the Starbucks menu, plotting to order the most complicated things on the menu. They took such a long time that the efficient (I know, sometimes that happens at Starbucks) barista had already taken my order and was well into making it. I had trouble getting around the SUV stoller while they were deciding on the free cookie. At this point I just want to pay AND scream "It's a free cookie, you idiots, just take one!" but I stop myself.
I have to go around the SUV again to get my drink and Princess Scream is now screaming about the free cookie and then they figure out that they have forgotten all about the kid in the SUV stroller and maybe we should get him a cookie too? Don't you think we should get him a cookie? Excuse me? How do we get another cookie? Can we get another cookie?
Of course they ordered Princess Scream some sort of complicated drink also. They wander aimlessly, with the SUV stroller in the way as much as possible, until they manage to find a table, with no chairs. By this time, I am sitting, reading my paper, sucking down soy latte goodness. I have no need for two chairs, so I offer the chair to the breeder that is standing. What does he do? He gives the chair to Princess Scream, so she is the only one sitting. Her male creator is standing in the middle of an aisle, her female creator is on her knees on the floor but Princess Scream has a chair. Don't forget the SUV stroller blocking the aisle.
A kind gesture is a kind gesture. I gave up the chair to the male creator of Princess Scream and he had every right to do with it whatever he chose. However, someone is going to have to be Princess Scream's teacher one day. And I feel for them.
Ironically, I then read an article about a restaurant in Chicago that insists that parents keep control of their children. Evidently, it is causing quite a stir with a bunch of breeders protesting. I think it sounds like heaven.
Later, while shopping for underwear at Marshall Fields, a family is digging through the clearance lingerie while their three-year-old sings and plays with the underwires on the lowest rack. I don't want to shop for underwear with three-year-olds and I think it is very creepy that "Daddy" is looking for a thong for "Mommy" with the daughter in tow. Makes my skin crawl.
What ever happened to either babysitters . . . or parenting?
While I realize that three-year-olds are developmentally unable to have self-control, that's what there are parents for . . . but these breeders weren't parents, they simply saw themselves as creators, or money machines. So "princess scream", as I will now call her, is climbing into the cooler and throwing packages of milk on the floor while her creators stared at the Starbucks menu, plotting to order the most complicated things on the menu. They took such a long time that the efficient (I know, sometimes that happens at Starbucks) barista had already taken my order and was well into making it. I had trouble getting around the SUV stoller while they were deciding on the free cookie. At this point I just want to pay AND scream "It's a free cookie, you idiots, just take one!" but I stop myself.
I have to go around the SUV again to get my drink and Princess Scream is now screaming about the free cookie and then they figure out that they have forgotten all about the kid in the SUV stroller and maybe we should get him a cookie too? Don't you think we should get him a cookie? Excuse me? How do we get another cookie? Can we get another cookie?
Of course they ordered Princess Scream some sort of complicated drink also. They wander aimlessly, with the SUV stroller in the way as much as possible, until they manage to find a table, with no chairs. By this time, I am sitting, reading my paper, sucking down soy latte goodness. I have no need for two chairs, so I offer the chair to the breeder that is standing. What does he do? He gives the chair to Princess Scream, so she is the only one sitting. Her male creator is standing in the middle of an aisle, her female creator is on her knees on the floor but Princess Scream has a chair. Don't forget the SUV stroller blocking the aisle.
A kind gesture is a kind gesture. I gave up the chair to the male creator of Princess Scream and he had every right to do with it whatever he chose. However, someone is going to have to be Princess Scream's teacher one day. And I feel for them.
Ironically, I then read an article about a restaurant in Chicago that insists that parents keep control of their children. Evidently, it is causing quite a stir with a bunch of breeders protesting. I think it sounds like heaven.
Later, while shopping for underwear at Marshall Fields, a family is digging through the clearance lingerie while their three-year-old sings and plays with the underwires on the lowest rack. I don't want to shop for underwear with three-year-olds and I think it is very creepy that "Daddy" is looking for a thong for "Mommy" with the daughter in tow. Makes my skin crawl.
What ever happened to either babysitters . . . or parenting?
Friday, November 18, 2005
Now I Smell
Unfortunately, all the people I grew up with (and some that grew up with my parents), who listen to Bauhaus, still all smoke. A LOT. This was not so annoying when I was "one of them" but now I am not, so my brainwaves alternated between what Mr. Crabbypants would say ("kill them all now since they seem to want to die anyway") and wishing there was just a "smoking section" so they could all go there . . . which would not be near me . . . a smoking section in, say, Toledo.
They all wore the same outfits as they did in 1985, except for the couple that thought they were in the Matrix. At one point, I had to walk away because I was laughing too hard at the conversation I was eavesdropping in on and I didn't want them to notice. This man actually said "well, I don't mosh anymore . . . because well, you know, the . . . piercings" (with exaggerated hand gestures) and I thought "no, you don't 'mosh' anymore because you're too damn old and you would hurt yourself". And then I started laughing. And then his boyfriend started to notice that I was laughing.
We were all fat, including the lead singer (sorry bud) and at one point I noticed a woman resting her beer on her stomach, while standing . . . and she wasn't pregnant. At least I hope not because she was drinking a beer. Now I'm not svelte by any means . . . but come on, don't use your fat as a table.
I only knew three people in the whole place and was not talked to by anyone. One would think this would be my night to pick up people, but no such luck. Two of the familars were former students, one working security and the other working the T-shirt line. The other was this guy that keeps looking at my profile on match, who teaches in a nearby school district and knows who I am . . . he's a journalism teacher and I'm a yearbook teacher, we shared a bus once to a conference. I don't want to date him, by any means, but it seems like he could just call his buddy Ake and get my phone number instead of checking my profile once a week. People are so weird.
I now have to take a shower, as I smell like an ashtray. Amazing how sinus surgery takes away all your tolerance for second hand smoke. More on the concert later.
They all wore the same outfits as they did in 1985, except for the couple that thought they were in the Matrix. At one point, I had to walk away because I was laughing too hard at the conversation I was eavesdropping in on and I didn't want them to notice. This man actually said "well, I don't mosh anymore . . . because well, you know, the . . . piercings" (with exaggerated hand gestures) and I thought "no, you don't 'mosh' anymore because you're too damn old and you would hurt yourself". And then I started laughing. And then his boyfriend started to notice that I was laughing.
We were all fat, including the lead singer (sorry bud) and at one point I noticed a woman resting her beer on her stomach, while standing . . . and she wasn't pregnant. At least I hope not because she was drinking a beer. Now I'm not svelte by any means . . . but come on, don't use your fat as a table.
I only knew three people in the whole place and was not talked to by anyone. One would think this would be my night to pick up people, but no such luck. Two of the familars were former students, one working security and the other working the T-shirt line. The other was this guy that keeps looking at my profile on match, who teaches in a nearby school district and knows who I am . . . he's a journalism teacher and I'm a yearbook teacher, we shared a bus once to a conference. I don't want to date him, by any means, but it seems like he could just call his buddy Ake and get my phone number instead of checking my profile once a week. People are so weird.
I now have to take a shower, as I smell like an ashtray. Amazing how sinus surgery takes away all your tolerance for second hand smoke. More on the concert later.
Peter Murphy isn't dead?
I am going to see Bauhaus tonight alone. While I would love to stay home and sulk about how I don't have any friends (at least any friends who want to go see Bauhaus . . . I do have wonderful friends), the guys in Bauhaus must be . . . let's see . . . about fifty or sixty by now. Plus all the wear and tear from the drugs. So I'm figuring that they won't tour again and this is my LAST CHANCE.
Bauhaus had broken up by the time I could drive, so I've never seen them. I've never been to Peter Murphy . . . never seen Love and Rockets. So this is it.
My brother pointed out (because I was calling him to see if it was totally lame to go by myself to a concert) that they are an "eighties has-been band" and that it would probably be totally lame. While I agree that it will either be wonderful, or ridiculously bad . . . I have to go. I'll stand in the back and try not to draw attention to myself or my "I'm here alone"-ness.
It's comforting that there are 89 other people who still want to see Bauhaus. 89 people is much easier to deal with than, say, 500. (I was assigned "general admission seat" 89, so I'm making an assumption, which I didn't buy because the service fee was more than at the door tickets) So 89 other freaks like me that want to see Petey propped up on the stage, singing "Terror Couple Kill Colonel" in Detroit one last time. I'm getting all misty.
Bauhaus had broken up by the time I could drive, so I've never seen them. I've never been to Peter Murphy . . . never seen Love and Rockets. So this is it.
My brother pointed out (because I was calling him to see if it was totally lame to go by myself to a concert) that they are an "eighties has-been band" and that it would probably be totally lame. While I agree that it will either be wonderful, or ridiculously bad . . . I have to go. I'll stand in the back and try not to draw attention to myself or my "I'm here alone"-ness.
It's comforting that there are 89 other people who still want to see Bauhaus. 89 people is much easier to deal with than, say, 500. (I was assigned "general admission seat" 89, so I'm making an assumption, which I didn't buy because the service fee was more than at the door tickets) So 89 other freaks like me that want to see Petey propped up on the stage, singing "Terror Couple Kill Colonel" in Detroit one last time. I'm getting all misty.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Watch the luck.
I haven't had a random bleeding incident in a whole 24 hours.
Of course, I say this in print and I will have a nose bleed of all nose bleeds during ALIAS, just you watch. All this tempting of fate.
Of course, I say this in print and I will have a nose bleed of all nose bleeds during ALIAS, just you watch. All this tempting of fate.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Oowwuch!
So I went to "Todd" this morning to have my "scars scraped", which sounds nicer than it actually is . . . as if that were possible. According to "Todd" and his fiber optic hose, the right side of my nose looks okay. Evidently the boney growth is gone and it is healing well. A little "debris" (it frightens me, so I didn't look) but otherwise the right side . . . it's going well. The left side of my nose is a whole other story.
I knew this, however, because of the random nose bleeds. They are not like the nose bleeds that I never got in elementary school. I didn't ever have a nose bleed until I was well into my . . . well . . . whatever, it was recent. Even when I might have broken my nose, all those times. The random nose bleed starts with a STREAM of blood that is very, very red. Arterial red. Bright red. As my friend remarked, it is very NEW blood. So bright red blood pours out of my nose, just like a horror show. This makes going back to work very interesting, especially with the whole biohazard panic.
The first time was at work, although after school. I sneezed and then it wouldn't stop. I had to drive home with tissue stuffed up my nose. Most of the time, you don't think about how other people can see you in your car. When you have a wad of tissue packed in your nose, you are suddenly very aware.
Next, I decided to go for a walk. Started with the blood streaming about half way to Starbucks, but after a week of this, I just held a tissue up to my nose and kept walking. Cleaned up in the bathroom of the Starbucks. I'm sure people assumed I'd been beat up or something. "Oh look honey, the battered person just washed up in the bathroom." I'm sure it was appetizing.
According to "Todd", the left side of my nose is still "a mess" with "scabs" and "swelling" and all that good stuff. He took out some of the stitches but left some intact, so I won't grow a hole in my septum. Thanks. He also scraped out some scar tissue in my sinus cavity so that it won't close up . . . I didn't know that "closing up" was an option, so I'm now a little paranoid.
Oh, and it hurts like hell. It fact it hurt so much last night that I woke up from the pain. So I'm back on the pain moderation. So now I have to go involuntarily pass out again.
The random bleeding may go on for "a while" according to "Todd". While I would like a more definitive answer . . . a while means that it will eventually stop. Everything else turned out well . . . and I was given the phone number to order my copy of the CT scans. Whhheeee! Back to work tomorrow.
I knew this, however, because of the random nose bleeds. They are not like the nose bleeds that I never got in elementary school. I didn't ever have a nose bleed until I was well into my . . . well . . . whatever, it was recent. Even when I might have broken my nose, all those times. The random nose bleed starts with a STREAM of blood that is very, very red. Arterial red. Bright red. As my friend remarked, it is very NEW blood. So bright red blood pours out of my nose, just like a horror show. This makes going back to work very interesting, especially with the whole biohazard panic.
The first time was at work, although after school. I sneezed and then it wouldn't stop. I had to drive home with tissue stuffed up my nose. Most of the time, you don't think about how other people can see you in your car. When you have a wad of tissue packed in your nose, you are suddenly very aware.
Next, I decided to go for a walk. Started with the blood streaming about half way to Starbucks, but after a week of this, I just held a tissue up to my nose and kept walking. Cleaned up in the bathroom of the Starbucks. I'm sure people assumed I'd been beat up or something. "Oh look honey, the battered person just washed up in the bathroom." I'm sure it was appetizing.
According to "Todd", the left side of my nose is still "a mess" with "scabs" and "swelling" and all that good stuff. He took out some of the stitches but left some intact, so I won't grow a hole in my septum. Thanks. He also scraped out some scar tissue in my sinus cavity so that it won't close up . . . I didn't know that "closing up" was an option, so I'm now a little paranoid.
Oh, and it hurts like hell. It fact it hurt so much last night that I woke up from the pain. So I'm back on the pain moderation. So now I have to go involuntarily pass out again.
The random bleeding may go on for "a while" according to "Todd". While I would like a more definitive answer . . . a while means that it will eventually stop. Everything else turned out well . . . and I was given the phone number to order my copy of the CT scans. Whhheeee! Back to work tomorrow.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Space Connecticut
My brother D. and nephew Z. joined me in R.O. for Cuban sandwiches (can I put any more initials? C.S.s maybe?). During lunch, we got to talkin' about Z's parent teacher conferences . . . evidently school is not going as well as it could. This is not a new situation for Z, as last year he just seemed to drive his teacher crazy along with the other SEVENTEEN boys in his class (they wanted that lady to retire, didn't they?).
This year, Z is currently trying to convince his 2nd grade teacher that he is dumb. When you ask Z a question and he doesn't feel like answering, he replies, very convincingly, "I don't know?". Aunt Emily then replies, "That's crap." and he answers the question but sometimes he uses it as a stall tactic . . . sometimes he just doesn't feel like answering. But his teacher is assuming that he is being truthful in the not knowing anything. So she suggested a reading tutor and a math tutor.
It eventually came out that Z is only interested in the "fun" things at school, like, say, lunch, recess, writing books and colorin'. If the activity is deemed unfun, like math . . . well, Z does it as quickly as possible (and with the least amount of effort) so that we can get to the next thing . . . which is hopefully more fun. Makes perfect sense to me.
So I asked him if he wanted people to think he was a space cadet. He answered that he did not, in fact, want anyone to think he was a "Space Connecticut" but that they should hurry up and get to the fun stuff.
So for all you space connecticuts out there . . . I think school should hurry up and get to the fun parts too.
This year, Z is currently trying to convince his 2nd grade teacher that he is dumb. When you ask Z a question and he doesn't feel like answering, he replies, very convincingly, "I don't know?". Aunt Emily then replies, "That's crap." and he answers the question but sometimes he uses it as a stall tactic . . . sometimes he just doesn't feel like answering. But his teacher is assuming that he is being truthful in the not knowing anything. So she suggested a reading tutor and a math tutor.
It eventually came out that Z is only interested in the "fun" things at school, like, say, lunch, recess, writing books and colorin'. If the activity is deemed unfun, like math . . . well, Z does it as quickly as possible (and with the least amount of effort) so that we can get to the next thing . . . which is hopefully more fun. Makes perfect sense to me.
So I asked him if he wanted people to think he was a space cadet. He answered that he did not, in fact, want anyone to think he was a "Space Connecticut" but that they should hurry up and get to the fun stuff.
So for all you space connecticuts out there . . . I think school should hurry up and get to the fun parts too.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Craftsman boyfriend
So I'm off the pain moderators . . . which is totally by choice but still kind of sucks. I just was having trouble getting out of bed. Bad thing, not getting out of bed. A lot like being depressed, so we (me and the mouse in my pocket) had to cut out the depressants. It hurts . . . and now I CARE that it hurts.
"Todd" will take the stitches out next Wednesday. I look in the mirror and tell myself that "yeah, your nose IS straighter . . . " but I don't think my nose is really any straighter. I haven't had a random bleeding incident in a day, but that will probably change as soon as I get back to school and my blood pressure spikes.
It really feels like someone scraped out my left maxillary sinus with something sharp. Oh, yeah, someone did last week.
Taking a week off of the match.com. I changed my profile and it seems to be attracting . . . well . . . the profile of my ex-boyfriend from college, who was a tool. I mean I didn't see it at the time but he was really a tool. Ask anyone who knew me at the time. And if I need tools, I'll go to Sears and buy some. So someone needs to re-write my profile, pronto!
"Todd" will take the stitches out next Wednesday. I look in the mirror and tell myself that "yeah, your nose IS straighter . . . " but I don't think my nose is really any straighter. I haven't had a random bleeding incident in a day, but that will probably change as soon as I get back to school and my blood pressure spikes.
It really feels like someone scraped out my left maxillary sinus with something sharp. Oh, yeah, someone did last week.
Taking a week off of the match.com. I changed my profile and it seems to be attracting . . . well . . . the profile of my ex-boyfriend from college, who was a tool. I mean I didn't see it at the time but he was really a tool. Ask anyone who knew me at the time. And if I need tools, I'll go to Sears and buy some. So someone needs to re-write my profile, pronto!
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
I had these up my nose
My splints have been removed and they were very careful not to let me see them, even though I know they look like this but with way, way, more blood. I almost asked for them but I don't think the nurses would have liked that.
I'm going back to work on Friday. Happy medium between my mother's desires and work's desires. Honestly, I feel crappy (though when has that ever stopped me from going to work?), woozy and I randomly bleed all over the place. It's the random bleeding that really is the problem.
According to "Todd", my ENT, it will be better now that the splints are out. But that was said right after he tried to suction more skin out of my sinus. So at this moment . . . it is NOT better, though I could smell some macaroni and cheese. Todd says everything very matter of factly . . . like, "Well . . . the reason you can't smell is you had splints blocking your nasal passages, plus those big clots (looks at chart) . . . oh, right, I did a left endosopy on your maxillary . . . well, that explains all the blood . . ." I love it when Todd forgets what he's done to my nose. Makes me feel like a person, not just an object in the Beaumont machine. Really.
I had a list of questions, because I was woozy and didn't want to forget, and that really annoyed poor Todd, who evidently just wanted to suck out my brain with that little stick he had. My aunt Leona was right though . . . I did want the TWO pain moderation pills . . . if not four. So I have to go see Todd again in a week and he did promise to suck more blood out then. I have some sutures up there too. Great. Uh-huh.
I'm still in pain . . . but the pain moderation pills just makes you not care. I'm in pain, I just don't care that I am in pain. Ah, a whole new attitude for me.
I'm going back to work on Friday. Happy medium between my mother's desires and work's desires. Honestly, I feel crappy (though when has that ever stopped me from going to work?), woozy and I randomly bleed all over the place. It's the random bleeding that really is the problem.
According to "Todd", my ENT, it will be better now that the splints are out. But that was said right after he tried to suction more skin out of my sinus. So at this moment . . . it is NOT better, though I could smell some macaroni and cheese. Todd says everything very matter of factly . . . like, "Well . . . the reason you can't smell is you had splints blocking your nasal passages, plus those big clots (looks at chart) . . . oh, right, I did a left endosopy on your maxillary . . . well, that explains all the blood . . ." I love it when Todd forgets what he's done to my nose. Makes me feel like a person, not just an object in the Beaumont machine. Really.
I had a list of questions, because I was woozy and didn't want to forget, and that really annoyed poor Todd, who evidently just wanted to suck out my brain with that little stick he had. My aunt Leona was right though . . . I did want the TWO pain moderation pills . . . if not four. So I have to go see Todd again in a week and he did promise to suck more blood out then. I have some sutures up there too. Great. Uh-huh.
I'm still in pain . . . but the pain moderation pills just makes you not care. I'm in pain, I just don't care that I am in pain. Ah, a whole new attitude for me.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Wicked Cool Bruise
I want someone to come and take me for a walk. I hate sitting in the house for this long, even with the time compression of narcotics (excuse me . . . pain moderation, get it right). Today did fly by with the napping. There was intensive napping.
There was so much napping that I'm not sure how work is going to go on Wednesday . . . I tried a pain moderation free day today, which I thought would help with the dizziness. Turns out that I'm now still dizzy AND in pain, so that is just not going to work. We'll see what the doctor says tomorrow. My mother doesn't want me to go back until next week (or the week after) . . . and she made some good arguments: Schools are germ factories, I come into contact with way more people than in a usual office job, students are highly unpredictable and prone to bonking your nose, if I get an infection, it's really close to my brain, etc. But then the good arguements, and the momness of it, all made me cranky. I can't go to school if I'm still bleeding . . . I think that will be the rule for now.
The splints might be taken out tomorrow. I made the mistake (again talking to my mother) of looking up what the splints looked like on the internet and tomorrow will be a TWO pain moderation pill day for sure. My father is coming to take me to the doctor.
So this is what sucks . . . usually I don't mind being alone because if I don't want to be alone anymore I'll go to Target or Starbucks or the mall. But in experiencing the shopping trip of yesterday . . . I really did almost fall over. I had to stop and rest several times. I really HAD to hold on to the cart. So now I'm afraid to go out and about. I would love to go for a walk, just to move, but I'm afraid that I'll get halfway and have to stop, or worse . . . I'll just fall over. I'm also afraid that I'll make the bleeding worse and the goal is to STOP bleeding. Gotta stop with all the bleeding.
So I'm stuck in my house . . . full of bloody tissues and television is sooo dumb and the internet is full of scary stuff, like what the pieces of plastic in my nose look like and I can't focus enough to read anything but Martha Stewart and I'm done with knitting, plus it isn't a good gift if you've bled on it.
Okay, focus on the positive . . . I have a wicked cool bruise on my hand and I'll maybe get a copy of my CAT scans tomorrow. Oh, and I can sorta smell vanilla lotion . . . a little bit.
And you guys say I never look at the bright side.
There was so much napping that I'm not sure how work is going to go on Wednesday . . . I tried a pain moderation free day today, which I thought would help with the dizziness. Turns out that I'm now still dizzy AND in pain, so that is just not going to work. We'll see what the doctor says tomorrow. My mother doesn't want me to go back until next week (or the week after) . . . and she made some good arguments: Schools are germ factories, I come into contact with way more people than in a usual office job, students are highly unpredictable and prone to bonking your nose, if I get an infection, it's really close to my brain, etc. But then the good arguements, and the momness of it, all made me cranky. I can't go to school if I'm still bleeding . . . I think that will be the rule for now.
The splints might be taken out tomorrow. I made the mistake (again talking to my mother) of looking up what the splints looked like on the internet and tomorrow will be a TWO pain moderation pill day for sure. My father is coming to take me to the doctor.
So this is what sucks . . . usually I don't mind being alone because if I don't want to be alone anymore I'll go to Target or Starbucks or the mall. But in experiencing the shopping trip of yesterday . . . I really did almost fall over. I had to stop and rest several times. I really HAD to hold on to the cart. So now I'm afraid to go out and about. I would love to go for a walk, just to move, but I'm afraid that I'll get halfway and have to stop, or worse . . . I'll just fall over. I'm also afraid that I'll make the bleeding worse and the goal is to STOP bleeding. Gotta stop with all the bleeding.
So I'm stuck in my house . . . full of bloody tissues and television is sooo dumb and the internet is full of scary stuff, like what the pieces of plastic in my nose look like and I can't focus enough to read anything but Martha Stewart and I'm done with knitting, plus it isn't a good gift if you've bled on it.
Okay, focus on the positive . . . I have a wicked cool bruise on my hand and I'll maybe get a copy of my CAT scans tomorrow. Oh, and I can sorta smell vanilla lotion . . . a little bit.
And you guys say I never look at the bright side.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Biohazard
So I left the house . . . I had to go buy more popscicles and Puffs since no one left any on the porch. No one really ran and hid their faces, though there was this toddler who was looking at me funny, but I think that was just because of the mouth breathing (or mouf breafing, as I now say it).
The newest pain extravanganza feels as though someone has slammed a fork through the roof of my mouth and just left the fork there. Oh, and I can feel the splints now. The store was okay as long as I held onto the cart . . . kind of like when I would bring my grandmother to the store, who really needed a walker, and I would prop her up with a cart. So I propped myself up on a cart and purchased popscicles.
I also bought the large pack of Clorox wipes, as I am one giant biohazard. I have managed to get my medications on a six hour schedule, so I will be involuntarily passing out in about 15 minutes. My pain meds have to be refilled at Beaumont, so I guess I will be exploring the hospital tomorrow . . . and they said people went back to work the next day. They so lied. Because the people I work with care that I'm coughing up blood and they don't want me to be at work like that. Gotta go get another wipe.
The newest pain extravanganza feels as though someone has slammed a fork through the roof of my mouth and just left the fork there. Oh, and I can feel the splints now. The store was okay as long as I held onto the cart . . . kind of like when I would bring my grandmother to the store, who really needed a walker, and I would prop her up with a cart. So I propped myself up on a cart and purchased popscicles.
I also bought the large pack of Clorox wipes, as I am one giant biohazard. I have managed to get my medications on a six hour schedule, so I will be involuntarily passing out in about 15 minutes. My pain meds have to be refilled at Beaumont, so I guess I will be exploring the hospital tomorrow . . . and they said people went back to work the next day. They so lied. Because the people I work with care that I'm coughing up blood and they don't want me to be at work like that. Gotta go get another wipe.
The Ones with NutraSweet
Thank you's to all who have called to make sure I am not dead. Post-surgery morning number three . . . I don't know how my cousins did all that mouth-breathing in the eighties. I have wicked chapped lips and my throat hurts like hell. Oh, and the occasional waves of nausea are great . . . really great . . .
I can't figure out what the nausea is from and I have to keep rinsing my nose out with saline, which is just about as fun as when you squirt water up your nose . . . because it is squirting water up your nose. No fun at all.
Bring popscicles. I'm running out. I like the no-sugar-added variety pack. And Puffs Plus with lotion. The doorbell still doesn't work so knock loudly.
I can't figure out what the nausea is from and I have to keep rinsing my nose out with saline, which is just about as fun as when you squirt water up your nose . . . because it is squirting water up your nose. No fun at all.
Bring popscicles. I'm running out. I like the no-sugar-added variety pack. And Puffs Plus with lotion. The doorbell still doesn't work so knock loudly.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Darn it!
My nose looks way cuter three times it's normal size . . . no, really, I'm not being sarcastic or anything. It's a little wider and it actually looks better. Maybe because the swelling evens it out or something.
A bit better right now . . . I'm at home. Got a cup of tea. Have all sorts of weird stuff in my nose and throat and I'm all shakey from the Darvocet. I haven't had any "pain moderation" in about six hours and may cut back to one pill. Right now, it feels like a really bad sinus infection as long as I don't move my nose. One "Samantha witch" twitch reminds me quick though. Hot showers help.
Not smelling anything isn't so bad. Not tasting anything sucks . . . it makes you think eating is a really good idea, until you get to the middle of the thing you are eating . . . and then you just kind of lose interest. Not being able to hear is not all that great either.
Take my contacts out and I only have the sense of touch . . . good thing that inservice I had the other day "taught" me that I have 43 other senses (ummm. . . . cough, cough, cough, bulls$%t).
A bit better right now . . . I'm at home. Got a cup of tea. Have all sorts of weird stuff in my nose and throat and I'm all shakey from the Darvocet. I haven't had any "pain moderation" in about six hours and may cut back to one pill. Right now, it feels like a really bad sinus infection as long as I don't move my nose. One "Samantha witch" twitch reminds me quick though. Hot showers help.
Not smelling anything isn't so bad. Not tasting anything sucks . . . it makes you think eating is a really good idea, until you get to the middle of the thing you are eating . . . and then you just kind of lose interest. Not being able to hear is not all that great either.
Take my contacts out and I only have the sense of touch . . . good thing that inservice I had the other day "taught" me that I have 43 other senses (ummm. . . . cough, cough, cough, bulls$%t).
Have a Tissue
So my mother invites me to her house . . . and she uses that "I'm your mother and I'm always right" voice when I hesitate and she says, " . . . well, you could stay here and relax, I suppose." Which really means pack your stuff and get in the car.
And that I did . . . so now I'm having a bucket of blood mixed with snot allergy attack from the damn cat and I really, really want to go home but am dosed on davocet and have no car. No escape. No escape from Stately Wayne Manor . . . or Witch Mountain for that matter.
And I itch all over. I'm hoping that is also a cat reaction but am having paranoia that it's the Kleflex or whatever heavy duty antibiotics that they have me on . . . I'm waiting for the blisters and the skin sluffing or what have you that happens when you have a bad reaction to antibiotics. Oh, and in my drug haze (did I just say drug haze? pain moderation . . . that's what I meant) I heard my mother wrong and thought I was only supposed to take one antibiotic pill a day, when I was supposed to take four a day. So this all could just be infection settling into my brain.
I can't sleep, but everyone else is asleep . . . so I'll just wait until my dad gets up at 8 a.m. and talk him into talking me home, with the lure of the Trader Joes dangling before him. Cheap wine, daddy, take me to Starbucks and then home and there is cheap wine. (he would call it inexpensive . . . 7.49 for Columbia Crest Twin Vines is a darn good deal) I can't even lie down for fear of drowning. And my face HURTS. And I still have to wear this nose diaper (my mother prefers "nose bra", just for the record) because of the oozing of blood.
I can't taste anything. I can't smell anything. I have to breathe through my mouth, which makes my tongue all dry and yucky. I have to use a sippy cup because using a glass just gets the gauze all wet. If I could taste anything my mouth would taste like, well, blood. I have all these weird scrapes in my mouth from the tubes, I guess. Oh, and I can't talk because you have to use your palate to talk . . . and I can feel the clots above my palate and well, I don't want to "disturb" them. So, yeah, day two . . . pretty miserable. At least I got my contacts in . . . wearing glasses pretty much sucked too.
I have to sneeze (darn cat . . . darn mom) but can't because my brains might fall out.
And that I did . . . so now I'm having a bucket of blood mixed with snot allergy attack from the damn cat and I really, really want to go home but am dosed on davocet and have no car. No escape. No escape from Stately Wayne Manor . . . or Witch Mountain for that matter.
And I itch all over. I'm hoping that is also a cat reaction but am having paranoia that it's the Kleflex or whatever heavy duty antibiotics that they have me on . . . I'm waiting for the blisters and the skin sluffing or what have you that happens when you have a bad reaction to antibiotics. Oh, and in my drug haze (did I just say drug haze? pain moderation . . . that's what I meant) I heard my mother wrong and thought I was only supposed to take one antibiotic pill a day, when I was supposed to take four a day. So this all could just be infection settling into my brain.
I can't sleep, but everyone else is asleep . . . so I'll just wait until my dad gets up at 8 a.m. and talk him into talking me home, with the lure of the Trader Joes dangling before him. Cheap wine, daddy, take me to Starbucks and then home and there is cheap wine. (he would call it inexpensive . . . 7.49 for Columbia Crest Twin Vines is a darn good deal) I can't even lie down for fear of drowning. And my face HURTS. And I still have to wear this nose diaper (my mother prefers "nose bra", just for the record) because of the oozing of blood.
I can't taste anything. I can't smell anything. I have to breathe through my mouth, which makes my tongue all dry and yucky. I have to use a sippy cup because using a glass just gets the gauze all wet. If I could taste anything my mouth would taste like, well, blood. I have all these weird scrapes in my mouth from the tubes, I guess. Oh, and I can't talk because you have to use your palate to talk . . . and I can feel the clots above my palate and well, I don't want to "disturb" them. So, yeah, day two . . . pretty miserable. At least I got my contacts in . . . wearing glasses pretty much sucked too.
I have to sneeze (darn cat . . . darn mom) but can't because my brains might fall out.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
The Horror . . . The Horror
Actually, it's not all that bad . . . I have a bone to pick with Beaumont again, but other than that I'm not in too much pain or anything. It's just the blood . . . all the blood. Massive amounts of blood everywhere. You know what they say about head wounds.
We had a bit of a confidentiality problem with my mother in the room . . . something about the male nurse saying "oh, and you quit smoking . . . that's good . . ." Now I'm sure my mother knew I smoked at one time, but we really did not need to be reminded of that this morning. Especially since it's not like I quit smoking last week, it was four years ago. We also shared that I was not pregnant. There was a lot of sharing. Too much sharing. And he could have just said "and you don't smoke" and gotten his answer.
The whole thing was surreal. Various RNs would come into the room and ask the same round of questions (except for Skippy "you quit smoking") and then they would check your answers . . . toward the end, after they checked my mouth for "dentures, loose teeth, caps or appliances" (toaster, in your mouth?) for the tenth time, I wondered outloud if we could skip a step and they could just check without asking. Since they were going to check anyhow.
So now I have this nose sling, that is attached to my ears, holding gauze against my nose . . . which has just stopped bleeding profusely. The clots down the back of my throat were the worst, followed closely by the blood dripping from the gauze because I was bleeding so much. My nose is now swollen to three times the size but you can't see it because of the nose diaper. Other than that, I feel okay. Look hideous, but feel okay.
Supposably, I have splints in my nose, but I can't feel them. I don't think I have any packing either, as I could breathe really well in the recovery room. I can't breathe now but boy, it was great in that recovery room. Turns out I really couldn't breathe out of the left side of my nose ever. So when you open that up . . . well, I think I was on an oxygen high or something. But again that was before the buckets of blood and the clots. Hideous . . . don't look at me, I'm hideous.
So if anyone wants to visit, bring a blindfold . . . or a mask. And popscicles. And a grande soy latte.
Probably be better if you just leave them on the porch and run though. Just saying. I have pictures . . . but I have to wait until I think they are funny . . . which is not quite yet. Maybe tomorrow though. They are hideous . . .
We had a bit of a confidentiality problem with my mother in the room . . . something about the male nurse saying "oh, and you quit smoking . . . that's good . . ." Now I'm sure my mother knew I smoked at one time, but we really did not need to be reminded of that this morning. Especially since it's not like I quit smoking last week, it was four years ago. We also shared that I was not pregnant. There was a lot of sharing. Too much sharing. And he could have just said "and you don't smoke" and gotten his answer.
The whole thing was surreal. Various RNs would come into the room and ask the same round of questions (except for Skippy "you quit smoking") and then they would check your answers . . . toward the end, after they checked my mouth for "dentures, loose teeth, caps or appliances" (toaster, in your mouth?) for the tenth time, I wondered outloud if we could skip a step and they could just check without asking. Since they were going to check anyhow.
So now I have this nose sling, that is attached to my ears, holding gauze against my nose . . . which has just stopped bleeding profusely. The clots down the back of my throat were the worst, followed closely by the blood dripping from the gauze because I was bleeding so much. My nose is now swollen to three times the size but you can't see it because of the nose diaper. Other than that, I feel okay. Look hideous, but feel okay.
Supposably, I have splints in my nose, but I can't feel them. I don't think I have any packing either, as I could breathe really well in the recovery room. I can't breathe now but boy, it was great in that recovery room. Turns out I really couldn't breathe out of the left side of my nose ever. So when you open that up . . . well, I think I was on an oxygen high or something. But again that was before the buckets of blood and the clots. Hideous . . . don't look at me, I'm hideous.
So if anyone wants to visit, bring a blindfold . . . or a mask. And popscicles. And a grande soy latte.
Probably be better if you just leave them on the porch and run though. Just saying. I have pictures . . . but I have to wait until I think they are funny . . . which is not quite yet. Maybe tomorrow though. They are hideous . . .
Paranoia IS Genetic
Having lived with my Grandmother for those years . . . every so often a Reichen trait would shine through the Alzheimer's fog. Mostly it was how she explained things happening in her world. "That girl that lives with me (which was me by the way), she comes in at night and STEALS my clothes . . . because she doesn't have anything nice to wear, you know. Her clothes are awful."
I did steal her clothes . . . to put them directly in the washer. We would laugh and laugh at the thought of me stealing my 89-pound grandmother's sweatsuits to wear out on the town.
But in the shower this morning, I had a very "Reichen girl" thought. In thinking about what to wear to surgery . . . since I have had all these phone calls and problems . . . I came to what shoes to wear. "Better not bring the ones with the orthodics. Someone could steal my shoes." slipped into my head out of nowhere. Then "I'd be out 400 dollars then" scooted by. The paranoid Reichen part of my brain was taking over.
The slightly more rational part of my brain knows that no one is interested in my shoes, let alone the inserts in my shoes (lovingly made by feet-loving gnomes in Ohio). But the rational part of my brain is weakened by a migrane (which I cannot take drugs for) and for want of a soy latte (that would help with the migrane for sure).
So you do live on through your offspring. I'm not sure that paranoia would be what my grandmother would pick to pass on(though I do have her creativity and strive toward her sense of fun). Scary that I might soon desire to make creative deserts such as chocolate jello . . . but that is for another entry.
No, I haven't had nose surgery yet . . . four more hours.
I did steal her clothes . . . to put them directly in the washer. We would laugh and laugh at the thought of me stealing my 89-pound grandmother's sweatsuits to wear out on the town.
But in the shower this morning, I had a very "Reichen girl" thought. In thinking about what to wear to surgery . . . since I have had all these phone calls and problems . . . I came to what shoes to wear. "Better not bring the ones with the orthodics. Someone could steal my shoes." slipped into my head out of nowhere. Then "I'd be out 400 dollars then" scooted by. The paranoid Reichen part of my brain was taking over.
The slightly more rational part of my brain knows that no one is interested in my shoes, let alone the inserts in my shoes (lovingly made by feet-loving gnomes in Ohio). But the rational part of my brain is weakened by a migrane (which I cannot take drugs for) and for want of a soy latte (that would help with the migrane for sure).
So you do live on through your offspring. I'm not sure that paranoia would be what my grandmother would pick to pass on(though I do have her creativity and strive toward her sense of fun). Scary that I might soon desire to make creative deserts such as chocolate jello . . . but that is for another entry.
No, I haven't had nose surgery yet . . . four more hours.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Pre-Surgery Consult Part II
So I was a bit stressed today, as I am leaving work for four whole days and a lot can get destroyed in that amount of time. So I prepped my students . . . giving them all the gory details, so they would, hopefully, feel sorry for me and behave. I know there are teachers who can leave and just let it go . . . I am not one of those teachers. So I give them all my email and lecture them on guest teacher etiquette. I leave 42 extra handouts. I have plan A, plan B and emergency plan C. I left the substitute an actual bin of stuff. Not a substitute folder . . . a BIN.
So in amongst this I get my surgery time call. I thought they were going to just tell me the time, so I answered the phone . . . "okay, 10:30 check-in . . . third floor to the right . . . waiting room . . . " and the special instructions begin. No metal, no jewelry, no pocketwatches, we might let you wear underwear but probably not . . .
So the lesson bin is done. I found my keys, right on the stairway door where I left them last night. The jewelry is all off. I still have to take a walk and I'm going to get Starbucks at midnight, darn it. What the heck, I'm going to be forced to sleep all day as it is . . . oh, and my mother decided not to spend the night, which is why I can write this instead of vacuuming underneath everything in my house. Yesterday, I was vacuuming like a maniac, moved my bed and everything. Tonight, not so much.
It's really simple . . . just going to break the inside of my nose, suck out some stuff and stick some splints in there. Happens every Monday and Thursday . . . I hear anyway.
So in amongst this I get my surgery time call. I thought they were going to just tell me the time, so I answered the phone . . . "okay, 10:30 check-in . . . third floor to the right . . . waiting room . . . " and the special instructions begin. No metal, no jewelry, no pocketwatches, we might let you wear underwear but probably not . . .
So the lesson bin is done. I found my keys, right on the stairway door where I left them last night. The jewelry is all off. I still have to take a walk and I'm going to get Starbucks at midnight, darn it. What the heck, I'm going to be forced to sleep all day as it is . . . oh, and my mother decided not to spend the night, which is why I can write this instead of vacuuming underneath everything in my house. Yesterday, I was vacuuming like a maniac, moved my bed and everything. Tonight, not so much.
It's really simple . . . just going to break the inside of my nose, suck out some stuff and stick some splints in there. Happens every Monday and Thursday . . . I hear anyway.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Pre-surgery consult
So no makeup . . . but I can shower and wear deodorant . . . and brush my teeth, as long as I spit everything out . . . no nail polish either. So I guess I can smell good . . . just not look good?
Monday, October 31, 2005
Oodles of Yayness
I received a package from my friend M today . . . new music for me to listen to gleefully! I will now have to make intricate playlists to return in kind. Love it! So awesome . . .
I now have "Love Cats" by The Cure. It sooo makes me want to break out the entire Smiths collection, maybe rat my hair and mope for a while.
I now have "Love Cats" by The Cure. It sooo makes me want to break out the entire Smiths collection, maybe rat my hair and mope for a while.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
New Hat and Neighbors
This is the new hat purchased in New York, which no one will ever see because we cannot wear hats in school, for some mysterious reason. Bought it from the hatter across the street from J's apartment and it came with instructions . . . I was shown lint brushing and everything.
I will eventually lose the feathers. In my memory this hat is very much like one I used to steal every chance I got. So now I have one of my very own. The picture was taken by M in the lobby of J's building, with the doorman rolling his eyes. Such silliness.
Went to Royal Oak this morning for coffee but forgot that it was the citywide trick-or-treat fest. It was like the heterosexual suburban frat/sorority culture took over for a day. And children . . . children everywhere you looked or stepped. Funny how I was thinking about how much my uterus ached for one earlier and then this . . .
The good news was all the stores were open. Got some Lamb's Pride Bulky for a hat I am planning and some hair dye . . . though Noir was out of colors again. I know I'm the only one who buys it but still . . . at least I'm loyal. Had to buy some candy, in case some children show up at the house (the last two years has just been a cat . . . a different cat each year but just cats).
Walked back and met the new neighbors. With ache being the word of the day . . . I now ache for the former tenants, very cute engineer boys. The new renters are NOT cute engineer boys . . . the introductory conversation started with "that van won't be there long . . . just have to get all the parts off it. It doesn't run and I got tired of fixin' the trans, you know . . ." Great. Let's start with the van that's up on blocks. I love being a homeowner.
Saturday, October 29, 2005
A Little Shopping Center on Every Corner
Once upon a time . . . my parents moved to the boondocks, or what their collected families thought were the boondocks, way out in Plymouth-Canton. It was a very confusing time and there was much discussion about how to get to the farmlands of Canton. Taking Joy Road all the way out was often an option.
As an aside, before Stu (and others, I'm sure) gets pissed off . . . I grew up in Canton, the poorer (and lesser in some opinion) of the two suburbs of Plymouth-Canton. My parents eventually moved to Plymouth . . . but I am a Canton girl, if that matters to you. Just so I don't hear Canton under everyone's breath when I say Plymouth. By the way, Canton now has better McMansions and better social amenities . . . have you seen their pool?
So while driving Joy Road all the way from Wyandotte one day my Great Aunt Hazel made a startling observation, which she then shared with my parents. "There is a little shopping center on every corner out here" she informed them. My parents, who knew that they had not moved to the permanent boondocks and that there would soon be McMansions built over the little shopping centers, nodded and smiled. And then they made it the family joke . . .
I know I'm taking a long time to get to it, but that's how I felt in New York this visit. Except that the line was "there's a little Urban Outfitters on every corner" instead. When did Manhattan turn into a mall? As I described it to my father (who says he hates New York), "it's just like Somerset, with a couple of rats thrown in to give the tourists something to talk about." Actually, I only saw one rat and that was in the subway . . . and he wasn't very big.
Everything was relatively shiny. Everyone was . . . for the most part, nice. I was only accosted by a woman in a Burberry coat because I was criticizing her parenting skills (one should not let two year olds take the stairs by themselves on the subway). (Molly got the brunt of it . . . and she wondered why the lady was screaming "I saw that face you made . . . " until she remembered that I was behind her) (But the Burberry lady was British, not a New Yorker)
The Starbucks employees were always shocked by MY politeness, especially when they f*#ked up my order, which happened more than you would think but . . . yeah, maybe Disney did take over the place. It seems like they put something in the water. So basically, I can't move to New York because it is way too nice . . . that and it seems that I could just move to Somerset and get some smallish rats.
As an aside, before Stu (and others, I'm sure) gets pissed off . . . I grew up in Canton, the poorer (and lesser in some opinion) of the two suburbs of Plymouth-Canton. My parents eventually moved to Plymouth . . . but I am a Canton girl, if that matters to you. Just so I don't hear Canton under everyone's breath when I say Plymouth. By the way, Canton now has better McMansions and better social amenities . . . have you seen their pool?
So while driving Joy Road all the way from Wyandotte one day my Great Aunt Hazel made a startling observation, which she then shared with my parents. "There is a little shopping center on every corner out here" she informed them. My parents, who knew that they had not moved to the permanent boondocks and that there would soon be McMansions built over the little shopping centers, nodded and smiled. And then they made it the family joke . . .
I know I'm taking a long time to get to it, but that's how I felt in New York this visit. Except that the line was "there's a little Urban Outfitters on every corner" instead. When did Manhattan turn into a mall? As I described it to my father (who says he hates New York), "it's just like Somerset, with a couple of rats thrown in to give the tourists something to talk about." Actually, I only saw one rat and that was in the subway . . . and he wasn't very big.
Everything was relatively shiny. Everyone was . . . for the most part, nice. I was only accosted by a woman in a Burberry coat because I was criticizing her parenting skills (one should not let two year olds take the stairs by themselves on the subway). (Molly got the brunt of it . . . and she wondered why the lady was screaming "I saw that face you made . . . " until she remembered that I was behind her) (But the Burberry lady was British, not a New Yorker)
The Starbucks employees were always shocked by MY politeness, especially when they f*#ked up my order, which happened more than you would think but . . . yeah, maybe Disney did take over the place. It seems like they put something in the water. So basically, I can't move to New York because it is way too nice . . . that and it seems that I could just move to Somerset and get some smallish rats.
Friday, October 28, 2005
"In Love With a Bad Idea"
My current fav song . . . Matthew Good of course . . . especially the "princess sticky magazine" because it is just SO graphic. Plus there are just so many bad ideas to be in love with . . .
Broke my fast of not calling boys . . . bad idea . . . called S and found out his number had been changed, without so much as an email . . . bad idea . . . took my profile off match and then changed my mind like five minutes later and put it back up . . . which may in fact be a bad idea . . .oh, and gave my blog address out . . . bad idea . . .
So I have to move on. In spite of the bad ideas and the email I received from another boy once I got back to Detroit (wishing me luck . . . and saying, oh, by the way, it's your fault . . . and I'll still read your blog . . . great). On to blind date no. 4 (if anyone takes me up on that) and then only 95 to go.
Broke my fast of not calling boys . . . bad idea . . . called S and found out his number had been changed, without so much as an email . . . bad idea . . . took my profile off match and then changed my mind like five minutes later and put it back up . . . which may in fact be a bad idea . . .oh, and gave my blog address out . . . bad idea . . .
So I have to move on. In spite of the bad ideas and the email I received from another boy once I got back to Detroit (wishing me luck . . . and saying, oh, by the way, it's your fault . . . and I'll still read your blog . . . great). On to blind date no. 4 (if anyone takes me up on that) and then only 95 to go.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
The Joy of an Afternoon Nap
After the adventures of the past week, I have been a bit sleep deprived. I hit the wall today while proctoring a test . . . I was having trouble focusing my eyes. So I didn't bring any work home and crashed as soon as I got near the couch.
Now that I am out of the coma, I realize that I may, in fact, be sick again. I have eaten two popscicles and am moving on to tea for my throat. And here I thought sleeping would fix the problem . . . so I still feel like crap, despite the afternoon coma.
Ahh, but tomorrow is Friday and anyone can live through a Friday. And this weekend is clear, just house straightening, laundry and sleep. Gotta get ready for next weekend's surgery coma with the straws sticking out of my nose. Fun!
Now that I am out of the coma, I realize that I may, in fact, be sick again. I have eaten two popscicles and am moving on to tea for my throat. And here I thought sleeping would fix the problem . . . so I still feel like crap, despite the afternoon coma.
Ahh, but tomorrow is Friday and anyone can live through a Friday. And this weekend is clear, just house straightening, laundry and sleep. Gotta get ready for next weekend's surgery coma with the straws sticking out of my nose. Fun!
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
It is Really True, You Know
My favorite poem about Detroit, by Jim Gustafson:
The Idea of Detroit
Detroit just sits there
like the head of a large dog on a serving platter
It lurks in the middle of a continent,
or passes itself off as a civilization
dangling at the end of a rope.
The lumpiness of the skyline
is the lumpiness of a sheet stretched over
what’s left of a tender young body.
Detroit groans and aches and oppresses.
It amounts to Saturday night at a slaughter house,
and Sunday morning bed
with a bag of bagels and the Special Obituary Supplement.
Air the color of brown Necco wafers,
a taste like the floor of an adult movie theater,
the movement through the streets
that of a legless wingless pigeon.
Detroit means lovers buying matching guns,
visitors taken on tours of foundries,
children born with all their teeth,
a deep scarlet kind of fear.
It breeds a unique bitterness,
one that leaves deep deep gashes in the tongue,
that doesn’t answer telephones or letters,
that carves notches in everything,
that illustrates the difference between
"rise up singing" and "sit down and shut your face."
It forms a special fondness for uncooked bacon,
for the smell of parking lots,
for police sirens as opposed to ambulance sirens,
for honest people who move their heads
whenever they move their eyes.
Detroit is the greasy enchilada
smeared across the face of a dilemma,
the sanctuary of the living dead,
the home of Anywhere-But-Here travel agency,
the outhouse at the end of the rainbow.
Detroit just sits there
drinking can after can of Dupe beer,
checking the locks on the windows,
sighing deeply, know that nothing
can save it now.
By the way, I miss Roy Castleberry. Just sayin'.
The Idea of Detroit
Detroit just sits there
like the head of a large dog on a serving platter
It lurks in the middle of a continent,
or passes itself off as a civilization
dangling at the end of a rope.
The lumpiness of the skyline
is the lumpiness of a sheet stretched over
what’s left of a tender young body.
Detroit groans and aches and oppresses.
It amounts to Saturday night at a slaughter house,
and Sunday morning bed
with a bag of bagels and the Special Obituary Supplement.
Air the color of brown Necco wafers,
a taste like the floor of an adult movie theater,
the movement through the streets
that of a legless wingless pigeon.
Detroit means lovers buying matching guns,
visitors taken on tours of foundries,
children born with all their teeth,
a deep scarlet kind of fear.
It breeds a unique bitterness,
one that leaves deep deep gashes in the tongue,
that doesn’t answer telephones or letters,
that carves notches in everything,
that illustrates the difference between
"rise up singing" and "sit down and shut your face."
It forms a special fondness for uncooked bacon,
for the smell of parking lots,
for police sirens as opposed to ambulance sirens,
for honest people who move their heads
whenever they move their eyes.
Detroit is the greasy enchilada
smeared across the face of a dilemma,
the sanctuary of the living dead,
the home of Anywhere-But-Here travel agency,
the outhouse at the end of the rainbow.
Detroit just sits there
drinking can after can of Dupe beer,
checking the locks on the windows,
sighing deeply, know that nothing
can save it now.
By the way, I miss Roy Castleberry. Just sayin'.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Apples and 1986
So I figured out how to get this to work . . . though it took some conniving. The trip is great. Have some great pictures, especially of this dead thing hanging in a stairwell.
So St. Marks has these kids that hang out on the street and they look exactly the same as they did in 1986. Except that these are KIDS, not the people from 1986, who are in their 30's and 40's by now. So there is either some Peter Pan thing going on or new teenagers who "study up" on the exact style of punk 1986. I know there is some reference material but really, did we want to go back to Johnny Rotten? (1970's, I know) Heck, John Lyndon doesn't even want to go back there.
So it was like the "Hall of Presidents" from Disneyworld or the reenacters at Greenfield Village, except with punk culture. And somehow that was just as lame as the "Hall of Presidents" (sorry, mom, it is lame. You just go there because it's quiet and air conditioned) except that their were real people attached to the mohawks, instead of animatronics.
So every sales person seems to recognize me. Evidently the sales pitch here is, "Didn't I see you in here last week?" or "don't you come in here all the time?" Either that or I have a doppelganger. Scared of that.
So St. Marks has these kids that hang out on the street and they look exactly the same as they did in 1986. Except that these are KIDS, not the people from 1986, who are in their 30's and 40's by now. So there is either some Peter Pan thing going on or new teenagers who "study up" on the exact style of punk 1986. I know there is some reference material but really, did we want to go back to Johnny Rotten? (1970's, I know) Heck, John Lyndon doesn't even want to go back there.
So it was like the "Hall of Presidents" from Disneyworld or the reenacters at Greenfield Village, except with punk culture. And somehow that was just as lame as the "Hall of Presidents" (sorry, mom, it is lame. You just go there because it's quiet and air conditioned) except that their were real people attached to the mohawks, instead of animatronics.
So every sales person seems to recognize me. Evidently the sales pitch here is, "Didn't I see you in here last week?" or "don't you come in here all the time?" Either that or I have a doppelganger. Scared of that.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Hey Kids!
Lived through parent teacher conferences . . . though I just realize that tomorrow I have nothing, absolutely nada, planned. Hey kids! Let's learn about free verse! And since I so wisely planned a trip for this weekend to have something to live for . . . I don't really care about tomorrow. That's terrible, I know. I'm sure I can punt with "Charge of the Light Brigade" or maybe I'll look up some T.S. Eliot or something.
Maybe I'll whip out the Audioslave song that I wanted to use for the poetry unit . . . but I don't want to do that by the seat of my pants either. Hey kids! Let's sit here in the dark and write a really long journal entry . . . quietly.
"Charge of the Light Brigade" it is then . . . oh, what fun!
Maybe I'll whip out the Audioslave song that I wanted to use for the poetry unit . . . but I don't want to do that by the seat of my pants either. Hey kids! Let's sit here in the dark and write a really long journal entry . . . quietly.
"Charge of the Light Brigade" it is then . . . oh, what fun!
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Like a Real Person
I now own a suitcase that cost more than $10, thus moving me closer to the realm of the "real" people. It's very nice, black, wheelie, and has words like "ballistic" written on it. It will fit into the overhead bin and should hold the 48 mini moon pies, that I'm taking as an offering, very well. Oh, and the two towels that I am leaving there. So much for packing light.
I really just wanted to wear the same pair of jeans all weekend but I have been told that is unacceptable. So $94 dollars later, and I have a bag that is much bigger than my head. (Then again, I was told to bring more than one purse . . . I still think this is ridiculous) Speaking of ridiculous, I have a migrane which I think will last until tomorrow (if experience shows anything) and that is going to be WONDERFUL for parent teacher conferences.
Why hello, parent, please ignore the squinting and wincing . . . oh, and ignore the hair . . . please don't look at the hair . . .
Maybe I can pull off wearing sunglasses? The sunglasses look good with the hair. Anyhow, kind of makes me wish I had a primary care physician and a script for some Imitrex but not enough to actually go out and get either of those things. So I will be in a high school gym, with the floor covered with blue tarps, in a suit . . . all while holding my temple so my brains don't explode out the side of my head. Fun, Fun, Fun.
I really just wanted to wear the same pair of jeans all weekend but I have been told that is unacceptable. So $94 dollars later, and I have a bag that is much bigger than my head. (Then again, I was told to bring more than one purse . . . I still think this is ridiculous) Speaking of ridiculous, I have a migrane which I think will last until tomorrow (if experience shows anything) and that is going to be WONDERFUL for parent teacher conferences.
Why hello, parent, please ignore the squinting and wincing . . . oh, and ignore the hair . . . please don't look at the hair . . .
Maybe I can pull off wearing sunglasses? The sunglasses look good with the hair. Anyhow, kind of makes me wish I had a primary care physician and a script for some Imitrex but not enough to actually go out and get either of those things. So I will be in a high school gym, with the floor covered with blue tarps, in a suit . . . all while holding my temple so my brains don't explode out the side of my head. Fun, Fun, Fun.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Haven't you ever seen . . .
Just paid all of my bills . . . and am now having a panic attack about parent teacher conferences. I know it will be fine but I have to panic about something. It may just be . . . gasp . . . PMS.
I've been terribly overdramatic lately, especially about boys. And now that "Sex in the City" is on every channel, all day . . . in addition to watching it myself, people keep giving me advice they have seen on "Sex in the City" while saying "don't you watch 'Sex in the City'?" I either have to watch less of it . . . or more, I'm not sure.
Spent way too much money on shoes to be paying bills this evening, speaking of Carrie Bradshaw. Oh, and only consumed, like, 900 calories today. How's that for an eating disorder statement? On the shopping disorder front, I bought a slipcover for my couch (downstairs) which I don't even need, but it was too good a deal to pass up. And I still have to buy moonpies at Costco tomorrow and maybe a suitcase. I need a suitcase right? People in their thirties should have a "real" suitcase to use instead of the one they bought at Walmart for $10? So there's another $100 bucks out the door.
I've been terribly overdramatic lately, especially about boys. And now that "Sex in the City" is on every channel, all day . . . in addition to watching it myself, people keep giving me advice they have seen on "Sex in the City" while saying "don't you watch 'Sex in the City'?" I either have to watch less of it . . . or more, I'm not sure.
Spent way too much money on shoes to be paying bills this evening, speaking of Carrie Bradshaw. Oh, and only consumed, like, 900 calories today. How's that for an eating disorder statement? On the shopping disorder front, I bought a slipcover for my couch (downstairs) which I don't even need, but it was too good a deal to pass up. And I still have to buy moonpies at Costco tomorrow and maybe a suitcase. I need a suitcase right? People in their thirties should have a "real" suitcase to use instead of the one they bought at Walmart for $10? So there's another $100 bucks out the door.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
One of Those Girls
I've become one of "those" girls . . . my sister pointed out as I quoted the calorie counts for soy lattes versus non-fat milk lattes. The girls who only order chicken caesar salads. The girls who share dessert three (or eight) ways. The girls who say, "Oh, I couldn't possibly eat that." Those girls.
My grandmother was one of "those" girls. She never finished a meal while eating with other people. She never ate dessert. She was constantly complaining about her weight (and my weight, and my father's weight . . . come to think of it). With the lipstick obsession (lipstick was always reapplied after eating, it was often checked at random intervals), the food obsession was just annoying. Plus my grandmother always ordered the salad with fried chicken fingers . . . it just didn't make sense.
And now I'm looking up the calories on the internet for my daily crack, I mean soy, latte from Starbucks. I check my lipstick. I try to walk everyday. And I do feel better about myself. But still . . . so don't want to be one of "those" girls . . . eehwoo.
My grandmother was one of "those" girls. She never finished a meal while eating with other people. She never ate dessert. She was constantly complaining about her weight (and my weight, and my father's weight . . . come to think of it). With the lipstick obsession (lipstick was always reapplied after eating, it was often checked at random intervals), the food obsession was just annoying. Plus my grandmother always ordered the salad with fried chicken fingers . . . it just didn't make sense.
And now I'm looking up the calories on the internet for my daily crack, I mean soy, latte from Starbucks. I check my lipstick. I try to walk everyday. And I do feel better about myself. But still . . . so don't want to be one of "those" girls . . . eehwoo.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
The Dependable One and Morning
My brother, the dependable one, used to be an early bird. He would get up at 6 am every day and have coffee, read the paper, putz around doing whatever my brother does. He and my father were very alike in that aspect.
While I hate the phone calls . . . "What you're still asleep?" or "Why didn't you answer? I waited until 7 am." There was something were dependable about my brother being up on at the butt crack of dawn . . . or as listed in the Odyssey: dawn with it's fingers of rose . . . sorry, English 9 flashback . . .
But no more . . . my brother got married, to an awesome woman, who we all love very much. However, once married . . . my brother switched from morning guy to right around noon guy. This is confusing to us, confusing to me. He said that he would come help me with my thermocouple this morning ("help me with my thermocouple?" Sounds kinda dirty) and it is now 11. I got up at 8 thinking he would be here banging on the door.
Now I have to go find something else to do . . . I can't fix the thermocouple because I'm not really sure which, of all the thingies in my furnace, it is. And the thing is, thermocouples, they come in sizes. So you have to know what size to buy, which means you have to take it out of your furnace and take it with you to the hardware store. Again, I could do that by myself . . . but I don't know which thing to disassemble and take.
So my brother is no longer a morning person. One can now longer call at 8 am and know that he will be there with his coffee and his newspaper. It is a sad state of affairs.
At least there is still Mr. Crabbypants. But then again, his morningness might be just the fact that he stops breathing 127 times a night. His body might just say, "Get the hell up so we can breathe." Mr. Crabbypants being a late sleeper would really rock my world. Of course, the payback would be a bitch . . . I've gotten used to calling him at 7 am on a Saturday.
While I hate the phone calls . . . "What you're still asleep?" or "Why didn't you answer? I waited until 7 am." There was something were dependable about my brother being up on at the butt crack of dawn . . . or as listed in the Odyssey: dawn with it's fingers of rose . . . sorry, English 9 flashback . . .
But no more . . . my brother got married, to an awesome woman, who we all love very much. However, once married . . . my brother switched from morning guy to right around noon guy. This is confusing to us, confusing to me. He said that he would come help me with my thermocouple this morning ("help me with my thermocouple?" Sounds kinda dirty) and it is now 11. I got up at 8 thinking he would be here banging on the door.
Now I have to go find something else to do . . . I can't fix the thermocouple because I'm not really sure which, of all the thingies in my furnace, it is. And the thing is, thermocouples, they come in sizes. So you have to know what size to buy, which means you have to take it out of your furnace and take it with you to the hardware store. Again, I could do that by myself . . . but I don't know which thing to disassemble and take.
So my brother is no longer a morning person. One can now longer call at 8 am and know that he will be there with his coffee and his newspaper. It is a sad state of affairs.
At least there is still Mr. Crabbypants. But then again, his morningness might be just the fact that he stops breathing 127 times a night. His body might just say, "Get the hell up so we can breathe." Mr. Crabbypants being a late sleeper would really rock my world. Of course, the payback would be a bitch . . . I've gotten used to calling him at 7 am on a Saturday.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Magical Thinking
There is this lovely passage in Augusten Burroughs' Magical Thinking, from the story of the same name, about how Mr. Burroughs believes in the Baby Jesus and his pet cow. Not Augusten's pet cow but the Baby Jesus' pet cow. It's a hilarious passage, which I will quote when I get the book back . . . because I lent it out immediately.
Anyhow, I had to picture petting the cow today . . . evidently if you are friendly to the Baby Jesus' cow, he will do you favors (or the cow will do you favors) but somehow creating the image in my head of the Baby Jesus and a cow AND walking up and petting the cow, was somewhat soothing. Let it go . . . just pet the cow . . .
So when I'm muttering later about petting the cow, you'll all know what I mean.
Anyhow, I had to picture petting the cow today . . . evidently if you are friendly to the Baby Jesus' cow, he will do you favors (or the cow will do you favors) but somehow creating the image in my head of the Baby Jesus and a cow AND walking up and petting the cow, was somewhat soothing. Let it go . . . just pet the cow . . .
So when I'm muttering later about petting the cow, you'll all know what I mean.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Scar of Grape Jelly
The grape jelly is now just a scar imbedded with glass . . . someone cleaned up the majority (curious dog? wandering jelly-eating cat? did the squirrels gather it up?) so now it just looks like a weird scar on the sidewalk.
Today was one of those "kinda awful, everything is just going wrong enough to be annoying" days. There was an accident on the freeway so I sat in first gear for twenty minutes for nothing . . . I hate it when I get to the accident and it's dumb, just a smashed fender. So almost late for work because no one would move the dented car.
Then Starbucks was out of soy milk AGAIN (see previous) and I was pissed off enough to mutter the word "again?" within hearing of the speaker, which caused a panic in the Starbucks for some reason. Maybe they recognized my voice? So then the Starbucks lady felt that she had to explain, repeatedly, that there was something about Roseville and soy, and no matter how much they ordered they always ran out. I pointed out that soy didn't go bad . . . at least not that quickly, so they could really just order an extra two cases and if it was too much it would keep. All this while later to work than I should be . . .
Then I had to punch my "key card" in the door . . . thus leaving the record that I walked into the building at 7:49 which is one minute late. The teacher before me at the copier couldn't figure out how the thing worked and so recopied the same document several times. So many tries were had at making a double sided document, without staples, that I gave up and just went to my room and wrote what I needed on the board.
Then the whole "will you set up this meeting" exercise, which is like, I don't know, putting one, two . . . eight cats in the same bag. "I can't go Friday or Tuesday and so and so is only available on the second Tuesday of the full moon." Arrgh! If I were a pirate, I wouldn't have to have meetings.
Then I went to Marshall Fields with the coupons . . . and found NOTHING. Not even underwear. There was nothing good to buy at Marshall Fields. No wonder they need coupons.
Now I have to pay bills. Yuck. And I should clean the bathroom. Double yuck, with a side of yuck.
Today was one of those "kinda awful, everything is just going wrong enough to be annoying" days. There was an accident on the freeway so I sat in first gear for twenty minutes for nothing . . . I hate it when I get to the accident and it's dumb, just a smashed fender. So almost late for work because no one would move the dented car.
Then Starbucks was out of soy milk AGAIN (see previous) and I was pissed off enough to mutter the word "again?" within hearing of the speaker, which caused a panic in the Starbucks for some reason. Maybe they recognized my voice? So then the Starbucks lady felt that she had to explain, repeatedly, that there was something about Roseville and soy, and no matter how much they ordered they always ran out. I pointed out that soy didn't go bad . . . at least not that quickly, so they could really just order an extra two cases and if it was too much it would keep. All this while later to work than I should be . . .
Then I had to punch my "key card" in the door . . . thus leaving the record that I walked into the building at 7:49 which is one minute late. The teacher before me at the copier couldn't figure out how the thing worked and so recopied the same document several times. So many tries were had at making a double sided document, without staples, that I gave up and just went to my room and wrote what I needed on the board.
Then the whole "will you set up this meeting" exercise, which is like, I don't know, putting one, two . . . eight cats in the same bag. "I can't go Friday or Tuesday and so and so is only available on the second Tuesday of the full moon." Arrgh! If I were a pirate, I wouldn't have to have meetings.
Then I went to Marshall Fields with the coupons . . . and found NOTHING. Not even underwear. There was nothing good to buy at Marshall Fields. No wonder they need coupons.
Now I have to pay bills. Yuck. And I should clean the bathroom. Double yuck, with a side of yuck.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Japanese Pan Noodles
So I'm walking along, on my way to get some Japanese pan noodles, and there is an entire jar of grape jelly on the side of the road. Broken. Actually, it was in the middle of the sidewalk, like it had been thrown from a car. Who throws jars of grape jelly out their car windows? Why would anyone do that? It looked like the blob (from the movie "The Blob" which was the first horror movie I watched, ever) but in color.
The noodles were spicier than I thought they would be and I need to start carrying my stolen mag light if I'm going to be walking in the dark (don't worry, I stole it from Mr. Crabbypants). The walking a lot is helping with suppressing the urge to punch people in the face.
So that's good.
The noodles were spicier than I thought they would be and I need to start carrying my stolen mag light if I'm going to be walking in the dark (don't worry, I stole it from Mr. Crabbypants). The walking a lot is helping with suppressing the urge to punch people in the face.
So that's good.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Unfortunately
I can die now . . . saw "Suck" live . . . though not really close enough, so maybe there is a reason to keep living. I don't care how old I am, the old person section really . . . well . . . sucks. Maybe it's worth it to get jostled.
So yeah, Trent (Mr. Reznor to you, lady) played Suck last night, which is actually a Pigface song but is also the secret B side on some CD I have. It's my favorite song. Hilarious, because everyone sat down for it (because it's a bside) and I'm jumping up and down and screaming . . . in the old people section. I even have the original Pigface version.
No encore . . . or no encore that we stayed for . . . my companions were on a mission to get home for some reason, so no afterglow for me. Much more fun when I was with people who wanted to guess the bar that the performer was going to go to . . . met Sisters of Mercy that way with Stu.
Oh, and women kept complimenting my hair. That was nice, I guess.
So yeah, Trent (Mr. Reznor to you, lady) played Suck last night, which is actually a Pigface song but is also the secret B side on some CD I have. It's my favorite song. Hilarious, because everyone sat down for it (because it's a bside) and I'm jumping up and down and screaming . . . in the old people section. I even have the original Pigface version.
No encore . . . or no encore that we stayed for . . . my companions were on a mission to get home for some reason, so no afterglow for me. Much more fun when I was with people who wanted to guess the bar that the performer was going to go to . . . met Sisters of Mercy that way with Stu.
Oh, and women kept complimenting my hair. That was nice, I guess.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Imaginary Ladder
Had one of those days yesterday . . . when something is so awful that you have to reflect on WHY you are doing things. A little bit of an anxiety attack last night, in the "ohmygodcanIdothismuchlongerandnotbehollow?" category.
Some people just need to have all the eggs and I just want to do what is right . . . what is best. If the egg grabbers don't appreciate that, well, let them sue me. Best line of the day: I think people have a ladder of inference. They go up that ladder until they find something negative enough to suit their purpose. That's just my opinion. (smug smile) After that was said, I will continually imagine climbing my ladder of inference to drop something heavy on the person below.
So, yeah, I feel like my soul is being slowly killed by people with imaginary negativity ladders . . . but I signed up for this gig, didn't I? Must just close and lock all my doors. And try not to speak to anyone. And take up kickboxing. Cause it's all gonna be okay . . .
Some people just need to have all the eggs and I just want to do what is right . . . what is best. If the egg grabbers don't appreciate that, well, let them sue me. Best line of the day: I think people have a ladder of inference. They go up that ladder until they find something negative enough to suit their purpose. That's just my opinion. (smug smile) After that was said, I will continually imagine climbing my ladder of inference to drop something heavy on the person below.
So, yeah, I feel like my soul is being slowly killed by people with imaginary negativity ladders . . . but I signed up for this gig, didn't I? Must just close and lock all my doors. And try not to speak to anyone. And take up kickboxing. Cause it's all gonna be okay . . .
Thursday, October 06, 2005
so you didn't have to share
I was told tonight that my blog has become boring . . . perhaps it is the editing, maybe it's that my life is not all that exciting . . . don't know. Do know that being told that your posts suck . . . well, it kinda sucks.
My brain is now the consistency of marshmellow and I still have to grade ninety English Nine Odyssey tests (say that five times fast), which may not happen tonight. I'm sure they'll get over it. Oh, and if I have one more meeting I may just scream.
So tomorrow I'm going to a concert that one of my students is playing . . . at the Roseville theater. Evidently, his band is awesome. I so hope that they play at, like, 10 pm so I can fit in a nap AND I hope my feet don't stick to the floor at this place. They are headlining, so the later in the evening and Emily napping is looking good. Saturday is Nine Inch Nails . . . and I'd better be in the old people section. I want no jostling.
Z's birthday is Sunday. A whole eight going on 28, it seems. I will take him to The Corpse Bride, but may have to take my mother also. I don't know if Morna will fully appreciate Tim Burton but at least it will be a family event.
Currently listening to old "The The". So awesome, that Matthew Johnson.
My brain is now the consistency of marshmellow and I still have to grade ninety English Nine Odyssey tests (say that five times fast), which may not happen tonight. I'm sure they'll get over it. Oh, and if I have one more meeting I may just scream.
So tomorrow I'm going to a concert that one of my students is playing . . . at the Roseville theater. Evidently, his band is awesome. I so hope that they play at, like, 10 pm so I can fit in a nap AND I hope my feet don't stick to the floor at this place. They are headlining, so the later in the evening and Emily napping is looking good. Saturday is Nine Inch Nails . . . and I'd better be in the old people section. I want no jostling.
Z's birthday is Sunday. A whole eight going on 28, it seems. I will take him to The Corpse Bride, but may have to take my mother also. I don't know if Morna will fully appreciate Tim Burton but at least it will be a family event.
Currently listening to old "The The". So awesome, that Matthew Johnson.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
"The Reasons"
My favorite The Weakerthans song at this particular moment:
"How I don't know how to sing.
I can barely play this thing.
But you never seem to mind,
and you tell me to fuck off when I need somebody to.
How you make me laugh so hard.
How whole years refuse to stay where we told them to,
bad dog, locked up whining in a word or a misplaced souvenir.
How the past chews on your shoes,
and these memories lick my ear.
How we waste our precious time marching
in the picket lines that surround those striking hearts.
How the time is never now,
and we know who we should love,
but we're never certain how.
I know you might roll your eyes at this, but I'm so glad that you exist."
I love the time/dog metaphor and well . . . it's just the perfect little song. So yeah, that's what I want. Someone to be glad that I exist so I can roll my eyes. Plus, I really need more people to tell me to f*&k off. I don't think that happens enough when I need it to . . . though it happens all the time when I'm not being disorderly.
"How I don't know how to sing.
I can barely play this thing.
But you never seem to mind,
and you tell me to fuck off when I need somebody to.
How you make me laugh so hard.
How whole years refuse to stay where we told them to,
bad dog, locked up whining in a word or a misplaced souvenir.
How the past chews on your shoes,
and these memories lick my ear.
How we waste our precious time marching
in the picket lines that surround those striking hearts.
How the time is never now,
and we know who we should love,
but we're never certain how.
I know you might roll your eyes at this, but I'm so glad that you exist."
I love the time/dog metaphor and well . . . it's just the perfect little song. So yeah, that's what I want. Someone to be glad that I exist so I can roll my eyes. Plus, I really need more people to tell me to f*&k off. I don't think that happens enough when I need it to . . . though it happens all the time when I'm not being disorderly.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
gettin back on the horse . . .
Once upon a time, back when I lived in Northville, I went to this new chain restaurant called Noodle Bowl. I had the mushroom stroganoff and it was super yummy. I thought I saw one of my old exs with a pretty blonde wife and a new cutey-patootey baby. I played with chopsticks and talked with my mother, who had some sort of Asian noodley thing as only someplace called Noodle Bowl could serve. It was a good moment in time.
Until . . . five hours later when I was hurling up mushroom stroganoff. I puked stroganoff until there was no more stroganoff and then I puked some more. It was extremely unpleasant . . . and there was no sleep, as I recall.
When my brother heard about the incident, he said, "Hey, I did that too!" Thus the Noodle Bowl stroganoff conspiracy theory. Neither of us has ever eaten there since.
Until tonight . . . I don't know what it was, but desired to try it again. To get back on the horse. It had been long enough. So on my walk downtown, I stopped at the Noodle Bowl and ordered a small stroganoff. It was super yummy, just as I remembered. A bit too much cheese, but I'll know to order it without next time. And now we wait . . .
Why do I do this? I have no earthly idea. I could have ordered anything else on the menu (they even have things without noodles). But nooooo . . . I have to risk it, thinking as I'm eating . . . "Well, it doesn't seem to have any egg in it so it probably wasn't salmonella. Could be the cream base . . . maybe they put something in it that I'm allergic too. That would explain Dave getting sick on a different day. Hmmm, what spice could I be allergic too?" Gotta test the fates.
Until . . . five hours later when I was hurling up mushroom stroganoff. I puked stroganoff until there was no more stroganoff and then I puked some more. It was extremely unpleasant . . . and there was no sleep, as I recall.
When my brother heard about the incident, he said, "Hey, I did that too!" Thus the Noodle Bowl stroganoff conspiracy theory. Neither of us has ever eaten there since.
Until tonight . . . I don't know what it was, but desired to try it again. To get back on the horse. It had been long enough. So on my walk downtown, I stopped at the Noodle Bowl and ordered a small stroganoff. It was super yummy, just as I remembered. A bit too much cheese, but I'll know to order it without next time. And now we wait . . .
Why do I do this? I have no earthly idea. I could have ordered anything else on the menu (they even have things without noodles). But nooooo . . . I have to risk it, thinking as I'm eating . . . "Well, it doesn't seem to have any egg in it so it probably wasn't salmonella. Could be the cream base . . . maybe they put something in it that I'm allergic too. That would explain Dave getting sick on a different day. Hmmm, what spice could I be allergic too?" Gotta test the fates.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Crappy Poem No. 1094
while in search of bean burritos
there are two men with demons in their heads,
with their keeper
at least it seems like their keeper
could be the feather man's girlfriend
all rosaries and swaying
one dollar in his hand
and there is a lot of talking
to the demons
against the demons
the keeping of the demons in their heads
the pleading with them to stay still
and in between the order of one soft taco
please and thank you
and shut up, shut up, shut up
the feather man is giving advice
and the small one is muttering behind me
making sure that I don't see
the keeper is tired, trying
to sit everyone down
but I get up and
slurp one last slurp
walk out into the night
leaving the demon keepers
to their keeper
or girlfriend
judging by her car
there are two men with demons in their heads,
with their keeper
at least it seems like their keeper
could be the feather man's girlfriend
all rosaries and swaying
one dollar in his hand
and there is a lot of talking
to the demons
against the demons
the keeping of the demons in their heads
the pleading with them to stay still
and in between the order of one soft taco
please and thank you
and shut up, shut up, shut up
the feather man is giving advice
and the small one is muttering behind me
making sure that I don't see
the keeper is tired, trying
to sit everyone down
but I get up and
slurp one last slurp
walk out into the night
leaving the demon keepers
to their keeper
or girlfriend
judging by her car
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Doesn't Lose Suction?
I just bought the most expensive vacuum in the universe. It's pretty and shiny and candy-like but for 500 bones it better clean my dishes and wash my hair while it's not losing any suction. I'm expecting vacuuming to so joyful that it will be like an out of body experience . . .
I'll let you know when that happens of course . . .
I'll let you know when that happens of course . . .
Oh, You're Emily? . . . I Puked on Your Car Once
Went to my former place of employment to see Mikey this evening. Shared his resume with my father and needed to debrief him. I made sure that I showed up at last call, so I wouldn’t have too many flashbacks but still ended up carding some jerk for a strawberry stoli. Hate to break it to ya buddy but you’re drinking a girly drink, so don’t try to be all manly when you show the I.D. Mikey just I.D.ed them to be a hassle anyhow.
Now it’s 3 a.m. and I reek of smoke. Will have to wash everything, including myself before I go to bed and my sinuses KILL. Stayed to talk to Sasha . . . one of the people I truly liked working and hanging out with during my tenure in the restaurant trade. Met some fellow named Frank, who then immediately admitted that he threw up on my car when he was eighteen. How charming. Caught up on all the gossip . . . the five years of gossip. Still don’t miss it.
The thing about restaurants is everything works with lighting . . . when you turn them on you’ll find cockroaches, the way the people really look, how dirty and nicotine stained everything is . . . and it’s kind of the same with the personalities. The regulars who were actually into coke and young strippers. The charismatic sous chef with a horrible drug problem. The prep cook that sold heroin out in the alley. All floating in alcohol, like the ancient pineapple that they make the infused vodka with . . . they never change that pineapple . . .
Mikey evidently has a "present" for me . . . and I’m hesitant to find out what it is. Mikey loved that restaurant . . . got me fired in the process of loving it and it was the best thing to happen really. Otherwise, I’d still be looking at cockroaches in flattering lighting while breathing in secondhand smoke and waiting for something to happen.
Good to know I’m so famous that one remembers my car though . . . ahh, Mohawk days.
Now it’s 3 a.m. and I reek of smoke. Will have to wash everything, including myself before I go to bed and my sinuses KILL. Stayed to talk to Sasha . . . one of the people I truly liked working and hanging out with during my tenure in the restaurant trade. Met some fellow named Frank, who then immediately admitted that he threw up on my car when he was eighteen. How charming. Caught up on all the gossip . . . the five years of gossip. Still don’t miss it.
The thing about restaurants is everything works with lighting . . . when you turn them on you’ll find cockroaches, the way the people really look, how dirty and nicotine stained everything is . . . and it’s kind of the same with the personalities. The regulars who were actually into coke and young strippers. The charismatic sous chef with a horrible drug problem. The prep cook that sold heroin out in the alley. All floating in alcohol, like the ancient pineapple that they make the infused vodka with . . . they never change that pineapple . . .
Mikey evidently has a "present" for me . . . and I’m hesitant to find out what it is. Mikey loved that restaurant . . . got me fired in the process of loving it and it was the best thing to happen really. Otherwise, I’d still be looking at cockroaches in flattering lighting while breathing in secondhand smoke and waiting for something to happen.
Good to know I’m so famous that one remembers my car though . . . ahh, Mohawk days.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Umm, this might sound weird and disorganized, but . . .
For thirty some years I have resisted the Franklin Planner people. My mother being a member of the cult of Franklin, I have been to their stores (mall churches). I receive their shiny catalogs, with pretty stretched dead cow in decorative colors holding bits of paper and books that will evidently make my life more complete with just seven daily habits. Every couple of years or so, my mother tries in vain to convert me . . .
While I have never actually bought a Franklin, I have at least ten empty planners of different flavors stuck in a drawer, mostly because they have ancient addresses in them. I wrote these addresses on the day I bought the planners. After the address book fest (which only will include things from my memory, I won’t go back and look at the other abandoned planners . . . which is why I am storing all of them) it just never comes together. I never write in them again. I’ll carry them around for a week or two, put receipts in them though I’m not sure why. My mother’s always has neatly filed receipts, so I assume that you are supposed to be putting all your receipts in them.
But this is a woman who has every receipt from every purchase since 1968. No really, she admits it on her blog. (see sidebar) (Yes, I know it’s weird to have a mom with a blog when you are over the age of fourteen) It’s like she is going to have to prove it’s all hers to get into heaven or something.
Once we were in the Franklin church . . . I’m mean, store . . . and my mother convinced me to buy one with all the fixin’s. The bill came to over $150 and I believe I returned it the next day. Thank goodness for the receipt saving gene.
So I cannot make use of a planner. I’m too right brained, too disorganized, too lazy to carry the damn thing around . . . however, it would have been nice this morning if I could get over it. I am finally at a time in my life where I have a lot of appointments. Doctor’s appointments, hair appointments, union meetings, work meetings, Starbuck’s blind date meetings . . . Before I just wandered through life, calling for things at the last minute but now I have high maintenance hair, high maintenance nails, high maintenance sinuses . . .
So I wake up this morning at 5:30 a.m., on a freaking Saturday, because I am in a panic about my hair appointment. Did I make it for this week? Or next week? It’s very hard to get a Saturday appointment and if you miss one . . . well, you’re off the list AND you piss your hair professional off. No one wants to deal with that. It's very hard to find a good hair professional who will take requests such as "I think I'd like it colored like Elmo on Sesame Street" and not laugh at you or simply refuse to do it because that's insane. So at 5:30, I’m digging through my purse to find the little card they gave me. I’m searching the truck, while wondering if I even took the truck last time I went to get a haircut. I’m searching the internet for the phone number of the hair place.
I give up and go back to bed. I then get up at 8:30, and decide to drive out to Milford anyway, just to be safe. If I have an appointment, I’ll be on time . . . if I don’t, I’ll hang at Stately Wayne Manor. I’m in Milford by the time the place opens and my phone call begins with “Ummm. . . I know this sounds weird and disorganized but . . . do I have an appointment today or next Saturday?” Turns out my appointment is next Saturday at noon. I’ll have fresh red for the Nine Inch Nails concert.
So it dawns on me . . . this is why people join the cult of Franklin. If I had a planner, and wrote in it, I wouldn’t be searching underneath the seats of my truck at 5:30 on a Saturday morning. (I did find stuff I needed, like the Audioslave jewel case that I was missing) I wouldn’t have to panic when the doctor’s office calls about an appointment I made four months ago, which is the next day . . . and I already have forty-two other things to do. I might know when things were . . . be able to plan a week . . . not have journals due the same night as the hockey game I’m attending. I could have a place for all the receipts I receive that I could then organize and file once a week. I could schedule time to “sharpen my saw” . . . I’ve always wanted a sharpened saw, right?
Yeah . . . right. Get real. Never, ever going to happen. That would be like . . . well . . . putting the pens with the other pens.
While I have never actually bought a Franklin, I have at least ten empty planners of different flavors stuck in a drawer, mostly because they have ancient addresses in them. I wrote these addresses on the day I bought the planners. After the address book fest (which only will include things from my memory, I won’t go back and look at the other abandoned planners . . . which is why I am storing all of them) it just never comes together. I never write in them again. I’ll carry them around for a week or two, put receipts in them though I’m not sure why. My mother’s always has neatly filed receipts, so I assume that you are supposed to be putting all your receipts in them.
But this is a woman who has every receipt from every purchase since 1968. No really, she admits it on her blog. (see sidebar) (Yes, I know it’s weird to have a mom with a blog when you are over the age of fourteen) It’s like she is going to have to prove it’s all hers to get into heaven or something.
Once we were in the Franklin church . . . I’m mean, store . . . and my mother convinced me to buy one with all the fixin’s. The bill came to over $150 and I believe I returned it the next day. Thank goodness for the receipt saving gene.
So I cannot make use of a planner. I’m too right brained, too disorganized, too lazy to carry the damn thing around . . . however, it would have been nice this morning if I could get over it. I am finally at a time in my life where I have a lot of appointments. Doctor’s appointments, hair appointments, union meetings, work meetings, Starbuck’s blind date meetings . . . Before I just wandered through life, calling for things at the last minute but now I have high maintenance hair, high maintenance nails, high maintenance sinuses . . .
So I wake up this morning at 5:30 a.m., on a freaking Saturday, because I am in a panic about my hair appointment. Did I make it for this week? Or next week? It’s very hard to get a Saturday appointment and if you miss one . . . well, you’re off the list AND you piss your hair professional off. No one wants to deal with that. It's very hard to find a good hair professional who will take requests such as "I think I'd like it colored like Elmo on Sesame Street" and not laugh at you or simply refuse to do it because that's insane. So at 5:30, I’m digging through my purse to find the little card they gave me. I’m searching the truck, while wondering if I even took the truck last time I went to get a haircut. I’m searching the internet for the phone number of the hair place.
I give up and go back to bed. I then get up at 8:30, and decide to drive out to Milford anyway, just to be safe. If I have an appointment, I’ll be on time . . . if I don’t, I’ll hang at Stately Wayne Manor. I’m in Milford by the time the place opens and my phone call begins with “Ummm. . . I know this sounds weird and disorganized but . . . do I have an appointment today or next Saturday?” Turns out my appointment is next Saturday at noon. I’ll have fresh red for the Nine Inch Nails concert.
So it dawns on me . . . this is why people join the cult of Franklin. If I had a planner, and wrote in it, I wouldn’t be searching underneath the seats of my truck at 5:30 on a Saturday morning. (I did find stuff I needed, like the Audioslave jewel case that I was missing) I wouldn’t have to panic when the doctor’s office calls about an appointment I made four months ago, which is the next day . . . and I already have forty-two other things to do. I might know when things were . . . be able to plan a week . . . not have journals due the same night as the hockey game I’m attending. I could have a place for all the receipts I receive that I could then organize and file once a week. I could schedule time to “sharpen my saw” . . . I’ve always wanted a sharpened saw, right?
Yeah . . . right. Get real. Never, ever going to happen. That would be like . . . well . . . putting the pens with the other pens.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Supposed to Be
Talked to K yesterday and told him about my book concept . . . he asked how old I was now and then said "oh, honey . . . yes, it's time". Kind of depressing coming from him. He told me how he promised himself to be in a relationship by forty and that's how he ended up with C . . . but I don't want to end up with anyone. Ending up = settling, in my mind . . .
"Only Half Naked" is the book title derived from a conversation at the azure foul this afternoon at book club.
Funny, I was so adamant that A not call me until he got home in a week and now I kind of miss him. I don't know how that happens so soon . . . I think it's the "absence makes the" trick. I could just call him but that would be breaking rules and I am all about these silly rules made up in my head. I need a break anyhow. I need to go to Target and just wander around the aisles for nothing (or Meijer . . . it's getting late). I need to sleep. I need to not talk for a while.
MSU/U of M game tomorrow . . . we are going to get killed, only because we look like the better team this year.
"Only Half Naked" is the book title derived from a conversation at the azure foul this afternoon at book club.
Funny, I was so adamant that A not call me until he got home in a week and now I kind of miss him. I don't know how that happens so soon . . . I think it's the "absence makes the" trick. I could just call him but that would be breaking rules and I am all about these silly rules made up in my head. I need a break anyhow. I need to go to Target and just wander around the aisles for nothing (or Meijer . . . it's getting late). I need to sleep. I need to not talk for a while.
MSU/U of M game tomorrow . . . we are going to get killed, only because we look like the better team this year.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Miss Jenny Cleaves
(Disclaimer: This is NOT referring to anyone specific. If you are looking for Jenny Cleaves, hit back on your brower and click on another link)
Just a story from the wickedness of last night . . .
My friend's brother evidently will make fun of her if she is showing any cleavage by calling her "cleaves" which quickly moved to "Jenny Cleaves" or "you're being a Jenny Cleaves". It is all a bit fuzzy.
So blurry story short, there was a woman last night that was having far too good a time . . . for any human being. She was having some sort of surgery at some later date, though we were never clear about what kind of surgery (come on, I'm having surgery in November and I don't think I get to have that kind of fun). There was dancing on tables and chairs and another woman kept licking the surgery lady's cleavage for the multitude of men watching . . .
I should probably state, for the record, that this was a neighborhood bar in Dearborn. There was not supposed to be any of this funny business. But in amongst the free show, the cleaves term came up.
The bar was very cool. Little neighborhood place in Dearborn which another friend suggested. Howell's bar (since 1941) . . . pretty happening for a Wednesday. And evidently, pretty hedonistic if you are having any surgery the next day.
So today at work I was an accidental Jenny Cleaves and will now relegate this Gap tank top (oooh, sparkles!) to a part of my bar wardrobe. Luckily, I wore a jacket so I was not overtly cleaves. This is what happens when I only get two hours of sleep to start the week. My judgement goes all wonky and I end up being cleaves . . .
"jenny cleaves" and "cleaves" copyright MW and CAW 2005
My friend's brother evidently will make fun of her if she is showing any cleavage by calling her "cleaves" which quickly moved to "Jenny Cleaves" or "you're being a Jenny Cleaves". It is all a bit fuzzy.
So blurry story short, there was a woman last night that was having far too good a time . . . for any human being. She was having some sort of surgery at some later date, though we were never clear about what kind of surgery (come on, I'm having surgery in November and I don't think I get to have that kind of fun). There was dancing on tables and chairs and another woman kept licking the surgery lady's cleavage for the multitude of men watching . . .
I should probably state, for the record, that this was a neighborhood bar in Dearborn. There was not supposed to be any of this funny business. But in amongst the free show, the cleaves term came up.
The bar was very cool. Little neighborhood place in Dearborn which another friend suggested. Howell's bar (since 1941) . . . pretty happening for a Wednesday. And evidently, pretty hedonistic if you are having any surgery the next day.
So today at work I was an accidental Jenny Cleaves and will now relegate this Gap tank top (oooh, sparkles!) to a part of my bar wardrobe. Luckily, I wore a jacket so I was not overtly cleaves. This is what happens when I only get two hours of sleep to start the week. My judgement goes all wonky and I end up being cleaves . . .
"jenny cleaves" and "cleaves" copyright MW and CAW 2005
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Alien Babies and The Flying Spagetti Monster
First off, you have to check out the Flying Spagetti Monster . . . or rather The Church of The Flying Spagetti Monster. I'm seriously thinking about joining because I always wanted to be a pirate. Being a pirate is definitely something I can believe in, because "pirates . . . they're not trustworthy".
Second, whatever came out of my head this morning looked like an alien baby when I spit it onto the pavement. I have to get rid of this pestilence . . . I'm beginning to think I have mono or something. And if you see a bright chartreuse alien baby in the parking lot at work, don't step on it . . . it's mine (and it may eat you alive).
Second, whatever came out of my head this morning looked like an alien baby when I spit it onto the pavement. I have to get rid of this pestilence . . . I'm beginning to think I have mono or something. And if you see a bright chartreuse alien baby in the parking lot at work, don't step on it . . . it's mine (and it may eat you alive).
Monday, September 26, 2005
"We're All Monkeys in a Long Line"
Nothing like a good Matthew Good quote.
Okay, now I'm feeling much more balanced. Still full of snot but less woozy/dizzy. Had a two hour nap and then went to a school board meeting, which was kind of a nap session in itself.
Have to redo my nails . . . remember the nail obsession? Some of them are so long that they look fake at this point. Also have to dye the hair and mow the lawn. All this in between meetings . . . so many meetings. Meetings all over the place, one tomorrow and two on Wednesday.
AND I have to get to someplace with noise so I can grade journals. I have reverted to my old college ways, where I need movement and noise to study and concentrate. Best if I have the Mp3 player going in addition to whatever noise is going on in the place. The whole keeping my brain too busy so it slows down alittle idea (like knitting in faculty meetings).
And I must get more sleep . . . at times when people are supposed to sleep, like now for instance.
Okay, now I'm feeling much more balanced. Still full of snot but less woozy/dizzy. Had a two hour nap and then went to a school board meeting, which was kind of a nap session in itself.
Have to redo my nails . . . remember the nail obsession? Some of them are so long that they look fake at this point. Also have to dye the hair and mow the lawn. All this in between meetings . . . so many meetings. Meetings all over the place, one tomorrow and two on Wednesday.
AND I have to get to someplace with noise so I can grade journals. I have reverted to my old college ways, where I need movement and noise to study and concentrate. Best if I have the Mp3 player going in addition to whatever noise is going on in the place. The whole keeping my brain too busy so it slows down alittle idea (like knitting in faculty meetings).
And I must get more sleep . . . at times when people are supposed to sleep, like now for instance.
Banned
I am banned from coffee drinking after . . . say, 8 a.m., and I am no longer allowed to go anywhere on Sunday nights. Did get some antibiotics today and had a lovely conversation about the yellow goo in all parts of my head. "Oooh, yeah, I can see that bony growth" is really not something you want to hear while someone is looking up your nose. I also lost my car/house keys for about 15 minutes (okay they were not lost . . . I just didn't remember that I had put them there) and I had this panic attack about a kid stealing my keys. So much so, that it occurred to me to go look to see if the truck was still there but I was AFRAID to . . . but what would I do if it was stolen? Found them right in the drawer where I put them this morning but I am so tired that I can't think. It's all fuzzy.
Bought another color of hair dye yesterday and will try it tonight after the board meeting, if I wake up from the nap that I'm going to take in about ten seconds after I finish typing. While it's fun being a fabulous disaster . . . I think I may need some time off. Stay home and clean my bathroom or something, maybe do some laundry. Nap some more. Must get more than two hours of sleep. I'm not in college anymore and I'm certainly no spring chicken.
Bought another color of hair dye yesterday and will try it tonight after the board meeting, if I wake up from the nap that I'm going to take in about ten seconds after I finish typing. While it's fun being a fabulous disaster . . . I think I may need some time off. Stay home and clean my bathroom or something, maybe do some laundry. Nap some more. Must get more than two hours of sleep. I'm not in college anymore and I'm certainly no spring chicken.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Best Lines of Homecoming Dance
Number One: Who is that lady with the bright red hair? She has a camera around her neck . . . She's a teacher? I'm not judging or anything . . .
Number Two: (Emily [muppet hair teacher lady with camera] to DJs) Hi . . . I'm a teacher here (to compensate for the hair). Is there any way we could play something maybe upbeat and clean? Cause we've had a whole string of dirty and I think some of the kids would like to dance to something just fun.
Number Three: (Emily to DJ girl) (again) So could you play some Ska?
DJ Girl: Is that a band? Or is it a song? Emily: No, it's a genre.
Number Two: (Emily [muppet hair teacher lady with camera] to DJs) Hi . . . I'm a teacher here (to compensate for the hair). Is there any way we could play something maybe upbeat and clean? Cause we've had a whole string of dirty and I think some of the kids would like to dance to something just fun.
Number Three: (Emily to DJ girl) (again) So could you play some Ska?
DJ Girl: Is that a band? Or is it a song? Emily: No, it's a genre.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Off to Homecoming . . . Again
I am doing penance for not being interested in anything having to do with "school spirit" in high school. Six years of homecoming duty for being too cool to go to homecoming in the first place. A whole evening of awful music (oh, boy! The "Skeet, skeet, skeet song again! Because I don't know what "skeet" means . . . I'm an adult) and horny teenagers packed into a gym. All this and a sinus infection to boot! It's gonna be a blast!
I did do my annual "shop for a Homecoming dress four hours before Homecoming" mall trip and found something this year for fifty bucks. A bit too much cleavage, but hey, it was fifty bucks . . . I can wear a sweater. Gotta go though, since I'm already 30 minutes late. Will post pictures if I get anything interesting.
I did do my annual "shop for a Homecoming dress four hours before Homecoming" mall trip and found something this year for fifty bucks. A bit too much cleavage, but hey, it was fifty bucks . . . I can wear a sweater. Gotta go though, since I'm already 30 minutes late. Will post pictures if I get anything interesting.
Friday, September 23, 2005
This is Fun! (Insert Evil Laugh Here)
I'm in Michigan Electronic Library Training . . . and much like the kids I teach, I'm "multi-tasking".
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