Are You Sure?

People say things that they don't mean, all the time. And there are some things that you can not take back . . . no matter how much time passes or how much you tell yourself that you don't care.

Even more complicated when you think you mean it . . .

Best lyric of the day:

"between the lines of fear and blame, you begin to wonder why you came . . .

Let him know that you know best, cause after all, you do know best . . . "

-- The Fray, How to Save a Life

Now I Don't HAVE To . . .

The H&M opened Friday in Ann Arbor . . . it's Sunday and I've already been there twice. The bigger store is opening at Lakeside on June 2 and I'm half thinking of working there. It would keep me off the streets and give me a 25% discount.

Ikea is opening in Canton in 23 days. So it is the summer of shopping (like last summer was different . . . before these stores). Now I don't have to travel to New York, Chicago or, in the extreme, Paris, to shop. Not that I won't do that anyway. I don't even have to leave the state. I may become provincial . . . except that most of my friends have left me, so I have to travel to see them.

So glad that Detroit is kinda becoming real.

Mother's Day

"Could you stop sending me flowers for Mother's Day? The cat just eats the flowers and then I just have chewed up looking flowers."
"I didn't send you the flowers, Mom."
"But your name was on them."
"I know. They didn't help pay for the ring, so my name is on the flowers."
"So just wait until the cat dies to send me flowers."
"Well, you know what we're going to do if the cat dies . . ."
"Send me flowers?"
"No, we're going to get you another cat. J. has loads of extra ones."

Good Stuff

Especially on the radio commercial . . . "STOP . . . MONKEY! THAT . . . TICKLES. . . STOP, STOP . . . MONKEY . . .OH THAT FEELS SO GOOD . . . NO, THAT FEELS BAD . . . MONKEY PLEASE." Or something like that.

Just push the red button, he's there for emotional support.

Have one bad day on the internet

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

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

But yeah, still here. Just busy.

Whole lot of Suck

You know those moments that you know so exactly what you don't want . . .

Yeah, that's been today. All over the place.

It Might Be the P.M.S.

You know those moments when you know so exactly what you don't want . . .

Yeah, that's been today.

I don't want drooley dogs.
I don't want to be anyone's default girlfriend.
I don't want to think that you will just keep going out with me because you've never broken up with anyone.
I don't want to hear about your pining for Heidi, the fabulous ex-girlfriend.
I don't want to stand there waiting while you talk to your ex-wife.
I don't want to know that you thought about asking "super-mega hottie" out.
I don't want to know that it was only the picture on her desk that stopped you, not thoughts of me.
I don't want to know that you are fundamentally unhappy . . . and that it means that I don't make you happy.
I don't want to do this.
I don't want to feel this.
I don't want to cry about you . . . or about me and how inadequate I feel right now.
I don't want to break up with you.

I do want to be the center of someone's universe. I want someone to appreciate my quirks and think that I'm really cool. And I want them to be the center of my universe and I want to think they're really cool (even if they really aren't . . . I'm not all that cool either).

And so it's back to the drawing board.

Kill Them All

I have killed exactly four ants, one in my kitchen and three in my living room. Another ant crawled across Imaginary Boy's hand the other night . . . and I couldn't find him as he fell to the floor. So five ants. Five ants in my house.

Now we all know there is no such thing as five ants. For those of us who have not lived an ant battle in person, I'm sure you've see some show on PBS where they show you an ant's life. And it's not all cute and cartoony and "let's cooperate with the dancing circus ladybug." It's swarmy. They come in swarms. As my brother pointed out, "Those ants they're shifty, you can't trust them."

Now I don't know why the ants want in my living room. As a rule, I don't have any food in the house (though lately I have been grocery shopping . . . I do have an orange on the table) and I don't know what they think they will find crawling around my living room. But they just can't be there. They're not welcome . . . I have major ant damage from childhood.

When we lived in Wyandotte, there were a lot of secrets to our house. One being that when the sugar rationing of the 1940's happened, whoever owned the house decided to hoard sugar. Up in the attic, where the sugar police wouldn't find it. That would have been fine . . . I'm okay with needing sugary goodness, except that when the rationing was over, they left the sugar. Or forgot about the sugar. Or thought that the rationing would come back? I don't know. But the ants found the sugar and then the rest of the house, and ate it. We did not know this . . . I was five, so I was blissfully unaware of most things, except that my Mother was perpetually at war with the ants. And the ants were everywhere. And the ants would not stop (and my Mother is not one to give up and be carried away by ants, either). I can still remember the taste of Diazinon in the air each spring. The hockey puck orange ant traps (that we used as hockey pucks). The yelling at the ants. It was worse than the Amityville horror . . . with ants.

My parents found out about the sugar much later. I think they decided to sell the house (among other reasons) when it was discovered that the house was pretty much just wall paper and siding with nothing in between, because the ants ate it all. I hate ants. I feel my Mother's disgust and hear her screams. They make me anxious . . . if they are indoors. I don't even really like them outdoors.

So I have just treated my foundation with enough Triazacide to kill anything that walks within a foot of my house. The butterflies can flit in other people's yards . . . must . . . kill . . . the ants.

Sad thing is . . . I was once recruited for the Entomology program at State (I think because they wanted more girls) so I understand Integrated Pest Management and some Bug Conservation. But with ants, I just don't care. Sorry environment . . . and spiders.

Two Closets of Nothin' to Wear

Shopped for hours yesterday, with no luck. No dress for tonight. Yes, yes, I know I have four dresses from friends weddings, plus the five previous prom night dresses and all of the "affairs of state" outfits that I have stuffed into my closet. But it wasn't about having nothing to choose from . . . it was about bribing myself into being excited about Prom. It's always so much better with a chipper attitude, otherwise I am tempted to go catch the smokers . . . and no one wants me to do that. Not even the adults in charge.

Being an adult shopping for prom dresses is much more complicated than if you are in high school. It can't be too dressy, as you're not there to upstage anyone. I think floor length is way too much. Not too "Jenny Cleves". For some reason the "alternate length" trend meant there were old lady dresses that were way too short. And black is nice . . . you really just want to blend into the wall for the most part. The dress is really for the book club afterward anyhow.

So I will have to make do with what I have. I didn't even get new shoes . . . because, quite frankly, there were a few contenders but none of them were on sale enough. Found a great fifty dollar dress that was actually $182.00, but it was only fifty dollars worth of good to me. And you can't get the shoes until you know which dress. So I will dig deep . . . I'm sure I have shoes that I have forgotten about.

I drew my forehead too

What I would do all day if . . .

If I wasn't the English teacher.

My Eighth Prom

Part of my penance for being naughty is that I have to do things . . . things that I didn't like to do when I was in high school, over and over again. Like the movie "Groundhog Day" but with rah, rah stuff. I wouldn't have been caught dead at a powderpuff game in high school (my high school even had one . . . I just saw it in my yearbook. I had no idea that we even did that at PCCS.) and now I go to every one. Never went to Homecoming . . . now I'm there with a walkie-talkie telling kids to "leave room for Jesus".

This week is Prom, my eighth, counting the two I went to when I was actually in high school. And I hate to admit this, but after five proms as a quasi-chaperone, I've gotten good at it. I always buy a new outfit . . . gives me something to do and gives the kids something to talk about. I only come for part of the festivities. We don't need pictures of the whole thing. I only dance after most of the children have gotten back into their obnoxious limos and left for their hotels/parties. The nice kids stay . . . and we have a nice time. Someone will request some ska and we'll jump around in our party clothes. I always go out to dinner afterward, thus giving me a real reason to dress up.

So prom won't be that bad. Always show up late and leave rather early . . . remember that it's not your job to chaperone (I'm not on the list), just to take the pictures.

Men and Comments

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

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

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

Wasting Daylight

It's now 1:45 p.m. and I still haven't showered . . . or changed out of my pajamas. My father did wake me up at some ungodly time to announce that he was going to work (on Sunday?), which brought me back to my childhood. "Get up! You're wasting the day." He would announce when I was a teenager . . . and really wanted to waste the day, as there was nothing else to do in that God-forsaken town I grew up in, except watch the corn grow or get into trouble.

With my hair all askew, I have made Ramen noodles for my mother and I as lunch. Amazing how you sometimes crave the Ramen . . . especially if you don't have to eat Ramen, as I did for most of my twenties. My mother calls the Ramen fake chicken favor packets "goosh", as in two packets of noodles and one packet of "goosh". Now that we are full of Ramen, we might go get a fire ring (oooh, fire . . . ) and maybe a Nerd flurry or two. (Problem is: Nerd flurries are always too big, even if you get the small size. Nerd flurries need to come in their own special size because of their overt sweetness. Still way good though.) So wasting the day at Stately Wayne Manor . . .

Went and picked up my diamond, which mesmerizes me and I sit and play with it, so it sparkles. Miss talking to "imaginary boy" even though it's only been a day and half, so it's way too early to be going through withdrawal. My sister is going to make an offer on the dreamy house (way better than my house, and I am pouting) and we are going to look into "containment" options. Have to grade a pile of papers and get ready for the week but probably won't because sitting here "wasting the day" is too much fun. I'll let the lawn try and mow itself today (I know that won't work . . . but still.) And now it's 2 p.m.

Thank goodness it's light until 9 p.m.

Concussion and Asbestos Angst

We managed to get to Kalamazoo on time and looked at four whole houses . . . with my sister AND Mr. Crabbypants in tow. It seemed like we found "the one", the house that you walk into and just know that you have to buy it. Perfect 1940's bungalow, with everything original . . . which is a plus for the decor, minus in terms of the furnace and electrical. But this house was so cool that the tribe was willing to overlook the furnace (and that never happens) (we might negotiate on a bad roof and give on the windows, but it has to be special for the furnace to be original). The cabinet hardware was the best I have ever seen and it had the original stove, which I so want to steal for my house. Cute as a button.

But then I just had to go into the attic. "Oh, M. this is bad . . . really bad." The insulation looked like kitty litter . . . and for some reason I know that kitty litter insulation somehow equals asbestos. It's like a gift. It was so sad, my sister and I in the little attic, looking down at the toxic kitty litter, which was going to be the deal breaker of the house. As I called for my mother and the realtor (CP was taking a nap in the jeep at this point), I was so distracted by the sad facts that I clocked my head on the top of the gnome door to the attic. HARD. So hard that I couldn't move. So hard that I just had to close my eyes to keep the stars from coming. So hard that I was slightly nauseous. So hard that I yelled "Monkey f@#ker" in front of my sister's realtor.

After recovering from the shock of my made-up swearing combination, the realtor assured us that it was "just vermiculite". She then made a big show of calling up her house inspector "John" who assured her on the phone that they still use vermiculite to insulate houses and that it was "perfectly safe" and "vermiculite is not asbestos". And I hoped she was right, because quite frankly, I didn't want to be right about the toxic kitty litter in this great perfect house. A house that June Cleaver would be proud of . . .

And this was all well and good, until we arrive back home and used the evil internet. All vermiculite produced before 1990 was gathered out of one mine (the Libby mine) which also had a huge vein of asbestos mixed through it. They didn't bother to remove it from the vermiculite because they didn't know . . . so any vermiculite you find mined before 1990 is potentially full of asbestos and therefore toxic cancer-causing kitty litter. You should be okay if you don't touch it or take a stick and poke at it (disturb the kitty litter) but then how do you sell the house to the next person?

So outdated furnace we can swallow . . . cancer-causing kitty litter, not so much. So now my sister gets to research how much a haz-mat team is. And these things are good to know.

My head still hurts too.

Family of Writing Techies

For those of you haven't recently . . . you should really read my mom's blog. It is really funny.

Bits of lint and cat hair.

Misnomer . . . or Just Average Smart

My mother was speaking about her possible future grandchildren last night at dinner. "I'm just afraid that your brother J.'s kids might regress to the mean . . . I just hope they're not disappointed, what with M so smart and J so smart. They might, you know, get a kid like you . . ."

"So what are you saying Mom? I'm not smart?"
"Well, you're average smart (looks at my face) . . . I mean you're really smart in a right brain kind of way but . . ."
"So you ARE saying that I'm not smart. Geez, Mom . . . "

So as it turns out, I'm not smart in my mother's opinion. Kinda ruins the whole name of the blog . . . any suggestions? Other than "Mymotherdoesn'tthinkI'mreallysmart.blogspot.com", because that's a little long.

My Fancy Tulips

Thanks Mom!

Chihuly

Now with less sarcasm?

"Well most of your blog was about how you didn't have a life . . . so now you have one." Having a life makes one very tired. And doesn't leave much time to write. And lately, I haven't had much that I want to write about . . . well, nothing that I want to tell the entire internet about anyhow. Perhaps I'm too happy to blog?

Okay, the new music obsession is The Dresden Dolls, which I bought on a whim (because it was less than nine dollars . . . and therefore "free"). I had checked their stuff out before, but I really like the new album. I'm teaching English 10 next year . . . thus climbing slightly out of the primordial ooze that is high school English. It's like I've grown little stumps and crawled up on the sand. Or grown lungs. I need to dye my hair. My neighbor tells me that I'm doing a "great job" . . . I'm not sure what he means, at being a single woman? at mowing my lawn? at being friendly to him? Anyhow, I'm doing a "great job" at something.

See? This is just boring . . . no enchanting sarcasm . . . I feel so blocked, or edited. (I'm doing all the editing myself, by the way) What was that Nirvana line again?

Oooh! A Sparkley!

So I went to the mall on Friday . . . had a nice lunch, went to the Gap, same old, same old. Walked by the engagement ring display (of the 4 thousand of them located in the mall) and paused a minute . . . thinking "hey, I may never really get one of these". And there was a little ache. It was the store where my first "real" boyfriend worked (when he finally graduated from high school) and even fifteen years later, I'm leery about standing too long in one place near it. (rumor is that he "went gay" and moved to California -- Good for you Guenter!)

Went to Marshall Field's simply because I had a coupon from the paper and was somehow genetically drawn to their fine jewelry counter also (theme of the day). I do like to look in the clearance section . . . gotta love "scratch and dent" gemstones. Of course, the lady swoops down, wanting you to try things on so you will hopefully fall in love and she will make the sale. I rebuff her and move on to the diamonds and then the emeralds . . . when I see "the ring". I had picked it out three years ago when my brother was shopping for engagement rings. Very 1920's looking, with filigree. It's a little high . . . and had an emerald instead of a diamond but I love that ring.

I don't know if it was the turning 35 angst . . . or the "be careful what you wish for" angst . . . but the lady was still there, hovering. "Do you have this ring (pointing on the glass at the emerald) with a diamond?" She did . . . and let me put it on and priced it for me. And I bought it. I hesitated, don't get me wrong. I looked at the clearance section again, tried on a nice ruby for less but still went with the diamond. Bought it and sent it off to be sized. It's little . . . only a quarter carat and I can wear it on my right hand . . . and I can be over the ring angst.

But then I had to shop with the ring gone for a week to be sized. I almost went back to get it . . . but went to J. Crew instead and then my mom called. Not the best influence about the sparklies, my mother. "A ruby for $200? You can't get a ruby for $200 . . . " she says.

They had the ruby in two matching rings, which I thought would be nice . . . we could have matching rings. She did give birth to me and all. So I went back and bought them both. Gave one to my mother as a "giving birth to me 35 years ago/Mother's day present". May be able to sucker my siblings into paying for some of it. If not, oh well. She's worth it . . . and it's super cute and it matches my hair. Didn't get it sized so I could wear it (and it needs to be sized) so I will drop it off when I pick up my diamond.

So I have Sparklies . . .

I don't suppose they get used up or go bad. Thank goodness I get a raise next year . . . at this rate, with the jet-setting and the fine jewelry, I'll never have a garage. I'm a "material girl", who knew?

It's Here

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

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

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

In a Handbasket

Are we noticing a hell theme to the post lately? Wonder what that is about?

I am now on day two of the worst hangover in my entire life. Day two has been considerably better in that 1. there is no throwing up 2. there is no being trapped on a plane for six hours (with the possibility of throwing up) 3. I managed to get down some solid food.

Yes, yes, Vegas was fun. The last night was a little too fun, so I will be abstaining from alcohol for say . . . a year or two. At least. As Mr. Crabbypants said, "You're too old for that . . . how did that happen?" and I know you are all wondering . . . how did that happen? Well, first there was a phone call from school and a newspaper article and then there was some major self medication, with mixing and things that were "on the rocks", which looking back was so not a good phrase.

Princess and E2 are the greatest girls ever and they wrangled me with grace . . . which considering the damage I have done to my liver (did I mention that we are on day two of the hangover?) was not easy . . . or pleasant, I imagine. So now I am on the good girl plan.

Once Upon a Time

We all grew up listening to fairy tales. Fairy tales about how Prince Charming isn't always apparent in the form you meet him in . . . a frog, a beast, a underemployed web designer with two kids. And in those fairy tales, the protaganist . . . or princess, if you will, doesn't KNOW that he is really Prince Charming. And yet, it still works out in the end.

Saran Wrap Hat

I sit here discussing cheesecake recipes and music with my brother J, in my self-fashioned saran wrap hat (keeps some heat in), waiting for the blood red dye to set so I can annoy the housekeeping staffs of Vegas with pink stained pillowcases.

Later I will have to find something open so I can eat (Is Starbucks open on Easter Sunday?) and I am celebrating this lovely Christian holiday by again pretending to be Jewish and ignoring it totally. (I asked my mother if she wanted me to come over . . . "why bother?" was the reply. So much for family togetherness) I do have to mow the lawn . . . so maybe that can be seen as a celebration of the resurrection (in that I'm causing the grass to grow more? hmmm). I'm sure I'll probably use the Lord's name in vain a couple of times to get the lawnmower started.

So I'm definitely going to hell . . . at least that is my status today. In my saran wrap hat.

These are going to be fantastically short

As I have to sneak onto a computer, between jobs at Stately Wayne Manor. Soon I will have to move the dining room furniture . . . again. Luckily, my mother vacuums VERY thoroughly so I have some time.

My parents are very much like a republican version of the Osbournes (I know I have brought this up before) and there is much swearing and the yelling of "Norma" loudly, instead of "Sharon". My mother does the same routine of alternating between ignoring her husband and kind of gentle patronizing that Sharon does to Ozzy. (by the way, they both read this) And amazingly, people look at us pretty much the same way in public, even though my parents are in Nautica wear instead of black and tattoos.

My father informs me that I have not "captured" the amusing and interesting quality of the pickle conversation. Something about the "spirit" of the conversation . . . or the pickles . . . or Walmart carrying the pickles, or something. Sorry I missed the mark. I'm sure you all wanted to be here, in person, to experience the pickle conversation firsthand. Perhaps my father should start blogging, so he could share these thoughts with the world firsthand. Don't get him started on the Oldsmobile minivan . . . they just should have started over if they wanted those specs.

The vacuuming has stopped. Have to go move furniture.

What is it we are waiting for?

"Do you have to be here to watch it print?" says Mr. Crabbypants, in an attempt to rush me to Costco because it's Saturday and we must have a Costco fix.

My taxes are done, for all those who were concerned. I am getting a big check from the federal government. My money, I know . . . but I was never much of a saver. Better to get it all in one chunk.

Selection of Pickles

It has been mentioned by two people this week that someone should just follow me around with a camera . . . so someone just needs to write up the package and send it to California, I guess.

Today, at dinner:

"Walmart has Heinz pickles now . . . "
Me (being ever so polite): "Oh?"
"Yeah, it makes me want to check at the Howell Walmart . . . they might have an even larger selection of Heinz pickles. Meijer used to have a great selection of Heinz pickles, but they don't carry them anymore. Heinz used to be big on the West side of the state, what with the pickle factory and all."

I had a whole conversation about pickles . . . and not just any pickles, Heinz pickles. It was like I was in a commerial. Or a bad episode of "Everybody Loves Raymond".

I haven't done my taxes yet . . . how's that for procrastination?

Priceless

Coffee from cute Starbucks boy -- $3.55
Flight (non stop for Princess) and Hotel in Vegas -- $497.00
2 cans of Kilz for the dining room -- $15.87

Being on Spring Break as of 11:10 this morning . . . priceless.

Good Intentions Line the Road to Hell

Isn't it funny how I can pick one sentence from a conversation . . . a sentence that I did not react to at the time . . . and now loop precariously toward the death spiral about it. And I suppose I should just have another conversation, to clear everything up, but I don't want to. I don't want to know what it meant. I don't want to talk to anyone about anything at this moment.

The sentence was meaningless and nothing was meant by it. It wasn't malicious or hurtful . . . maybe just truthful, but it is now looping in my brain. It won't leave. I wasn't promised anything and everyone (especially M2 . . . thanks) has been very upfront about their thoughts. I suppose I will just have to let it play itself out. I will have to play with the various possible meanings and intentions until something turns off my head. I will have to mull and make jabs, turning the subtle impossible nuances over and over until I am utterly sick. All this for one sentence, which again probably meant absolutely nothing.

So yeah, that just sucks.

Procrastination

Despite my fear of the Asian manicure lady, I'm still finding ample opportunity to pick at my cuticles.

Spring break is in three and a half days and my brain feels like mashed potatoes. Still haven't done my taxes (which isn't to my advantage . . . I'm getting money back) and have these cockamamy plans that I'm going to do all this work on my house over break. Remember when I thought I was going to take all the plumbing apart in my bathroom and put in new cartidges and seals? Yeah, those "I have no water" plans, because we all know that I won't be able to get things back together once I take them apart (plus, all the parts are from 1949).

Mr. Crabbypants has cabin fever and therefore, is even crabbier than usual. Insists that he will be able to drive this week, which I think is a bad idea, but no one is asking me. Had a lovely time yesterday with my mother at the outlet mall.

It occurs to me that I probably need a bathing suit to sit by the pool in Vegas (it didn't occur to me that we could gamble until, like, yesterday though) and for some reason, the entire garment industry has decided that everyone should wear bikinis this season. So not only am I having a hard time finding something to wear, my anxiety level is growing about what I will have to see on other people at the pool. I would, quite frankly, skip the whole pool experience but I want to see Princess' face when I pull out the 45 SPF sunscreen.

The Carver

A whole day of fashion and "personal beauty" (Princess' words, not mine). First to Target for shoes (flip-flops . . . you have to bring them, who knew?) and reading material (Vogue and Marie Claire), then to Coney Island (mmmm . . . coney island), and then to the nail place.

No one speaks English at the nail place, so there is no idle chit-chat . . . at least no chit-chat that I can understand. You have to "pick your color" first, a concept I did not understand but there is a rack of nail polish and you go to pick one. I don't know what happens if someone else has your chosen color, however I'm a novice, so I didn't have one to begin with. I chose "I'm Not Really A Waitress" from O.P.I., which I had coveted at the Target a few days ago. Got a manicure too.("Thank God", says Princess) ("Her cuticles were in rough shape.") So my nails are even . . . and bloody, which I don't think is supposed to happen. Evidently, if I come in every two weeks this will not happen next time. ("Considering that she eats her fingers, it was a wonder that the girl could do anything with them at all." Again, Princess.)

So while "carving out some friend time", as penance I also had my cuticles carved. Serves me right for opening my mouth. Did get some wicked good shoes for book club tonight though. Might be slightly cold and I'll have to read many books to not feel the pain of the heels but well worth the effort.

Have booked Vegas. Someone should warn them to be ready for us.

Must Remember

Must remember to stop writing random things on random pieces of paper and putting them into random piles, which I then give to people. Must keep more randomness to myself. Except for on this, of course.

Carving out some time . . .

I don't understand how people find time to date . . . or find time to date people they like. I'm exhausted, and slightly cranky (though Princess might argue about the "slightly", considering my behavior at the track meet today . . . but it was freakin' cold), haven't graded things that I was supposed to grade, and need to do major hair and nail maintenance. I've penciled this all in for tonight, plus a walk. Of course, it's already 10 p.m.

As I was making plans for this weekend, without thinking, stated to Princess that I was "carving out some time for her" . . . which I will not live down for weeks. Perhaps months.

Oh, and I'm going to Vegas for my birthday. Surreal, but Yippee!

I am my Mother's Daughter

Maybe it's because my mother is (was) a home ec teacher. Maybe it's the damage from her being so "left brained" (a.k.a. anal retentive) that I had to have "outfits" and could only wear certain shirts with certain pants -- otherwise they fade in the wash differently, don't you know. But I only have one way to clean.

I cannot straighten. I used to be good at shoving things creatively into spaces that I thought my mother wouldn't check . . . under the bed, in the closet, the usual. I don't bother with that anymore now that I have my own house. I just step over it. But when I clean I do this obsessive "must clean under the couch" move everything, dust the ceiling, thing. Which I am in the middle of right now. Living room is almost done. Just have to do one more wall and vacuum one final time.

Then it will be on to the kitchen and bathroom. Maybe I'll have Princess come over next week to deal with the dining room, though I can't imagine her stripping furniture. It's too hard on the nails.

I do love my Dyson.

Man Boobs

I had a whole conversation about "man boobs" with someone today. Had never given the subject much thought. Evidently, it is quite a concern.

My advice: "Those aren't man boobs . . . those are "huge pectoral muscles". (must be said in Ren voice from Ren and Stimpy)

Walking B Movie

I've had the same headache for 36 hours now . . . and my palate hurts, so my sinus "thing" might be back (sounds like a sci fi B movie, "The Girl with the Thing in her Sinus).

My days are being spent in either the 5th or 9th circle of hell and the sad thing is I can't tell anymore . . . logical thinking is not in play.

But as I'm supposed to cheer the F&*k up . . . good news. The yearbook is done!

Miss Crankypants

I don't know whether it that I just spilt my dinner on the floor, or if it's because I'm turning 35 in less than a month, or my hormones are outta wack, or that my profession is currently located in the 6th level of Dante's inferno, or what . . .

but I'm really cranky today. I've been cranky for the last few days and I can't seem to shake it. Princess has suggested that it's the haircut. I pointed out that my ovaries are shrinking like raisins . . . so maybe it is a "I'm turning 35 and this is not what I pictured my life to be" crisis.

Anyhow, I need to get over it.

What Do You Mean I've Been Tagged?

Yes, I know this is dumb.
Four jobs you have had in your life:
1. library page
2. meat processing
3. lifeguard
4. teacher

Four movies you would watch over and over:
1. Sixteen Candles
2. Sin City
3. To Kill a Mockingbird
3.5 La Femme Nikita
4. Romeo and Juliet (since I have to for school anyhow)
4.5 Shopgirl

Four places you have lived:
1. Cleveland, OH
2. Wyandotte, MI
3. Canton, MI
4. Detroit, MI (my friends from the west side of the state would argue that Canton, Plymouth and Berkley ARE Detroit, MI)

Four TV shows you love to watch:
1. Alias
2. CSI
3. NCIS (mmm. . . Mark Harmon)
4. Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Four places you have been on vacation:
1. Paris
2. Miami
3. NOLA
4. Hawaii

Four websites you visit daily:
1. dooce.com
2. blogger
3. hotmail
4. dailymumps.com

Four of my favorite foods/restaurants:
1. Strawberries
2. Vanilla Yogurt
3. Guinness
4. "Stout" in Brighton

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. in my bed
2. on the sun porch in Milford
3. 1976 (very little responsibility that year)
4. on a random road trip

Thanks to M1 for providing the topic of the day . . . otherwise I would have gone on a rant about genetic engineering.

Exhibit B

Junior year picture for yearbook . . . as we can see, I really liked this hair style for some reason.

Exhibit A

I'd say around 1992 . . . maybe 93, since it seems grown out.

I Swear it Looked Good When I Was There

Okay, back to the hair crisis . . .

Back in 1986, I willingly submitted to a haircut that would be later be described by my boyfriend at the time as "You look like a little skater boy." I will scan in the yearbook picture as soon as I get home, but I did look like a skater boy.

Yesterday, Jennifer (my "hair care professional") was stacking clients, so I waited a little longer than usual. Therefore, I had more time to look at the hair magazines . . . always a dangerous activity. I'm a firm believer that my hair stylist does not tell me how to teach art . . . so I should not tell her how to cut my hair. She is a professional and knows much more about cutting hair than I do. So maybe it was the fumes . . . or the goo on my head burning into my brain, when I marked two pictures and said, "Hey Jen, look at these!"

"Oh, fun!" was the reply.

It looked great in the salon. The color looked right this time, which is always a challenge. My hair looked good. All was right with the world. I swear they pipe nitrous oxide into that place.

Later, as I was talking to my brother in Miami on the phone about the motorcycle debacle . . . "Damn it! My hair is orange." My brother, who used to dye his hair bright orange ON PURPOSE, was less than sympathetic. "I don't know why you go get it done in the first place. You could just do it yourself." As he was talking, I'm noticing that some of the hair is bright yellow . . . Big Bird yellow and I sigh, knowing that I will now have to go dye my hair immediately. So he is probably right. And then I catch my head again out of the corner of my eye. "S&*%! and this haircut looks dykey . . ." My brother laughs.

So my hair looks very much like it looked in 1986 and in 1992 . . . as pictures will show. Have to remember to stay away from the hair magazines. Luckily, it grows out . . . but right now it's way too short.

I Now Have a Free Pass

or . . . no paternity test needed.

I went out to the neighborhood of Stately Wayne Manor to get my hair redone (which we will talk about later). I called my father, Mr. Crabbypants, on the way to plan lunch for after. My father was chipper . . . amazingly so, considering that he has been trapped in the house all week "resting" with his Frankenstein scar. I was to call after my hair was done.

Two hours and some bad decisions later (again, we'll talk . . . with pictures), I called Stately Wayne Manor, figuring since I was in town, I could walk and get the table. My brother D. answered the phone and for a moment I thought that I had accidentally called him instead of my parent's house. After a short conversation about who I had actually called, I told my brother to ask Mr. Crabbypants where he wanted to go to lunch. "Dad dropped the bike."

It was snowing. The freeways were all clogged with accidents. The statement didn't register. "What?" "Dad dropped the bike." What bike? What was Dad doing on a bicycle in 32 degree weather? "No, we were going to sell the motorcycle today . . . " Oh shit, THAT bike.

When my father bought the motorcycle from a friend, my brothers and I all took the motorcycle safety course at the community college. My father passed the first time, D. decided that motorcycles were not for him, J and I had to take the course twice to pass.

My father had also bought a little 250cc bike in pieces, thinking that it would take J. all summer to rebuild. J. had the bike built in less than a week. Dad's bike was more than I liked to handle (850cc and too high . . . plus you could drop the little Kawasaki without guilt, but not wreck Dad's) so J. would ride Dad's and we would ride the back roads of the west side. My father was very serious about being properly prepared to ride and I have never been on a bike without gloves and boots. Even spent $300 on a full face helmet (a huge amount in those days . . . ) because I had spent too much on orthodontics to chance it. We were not so serious about our motorcycles (though I would still like a little 500cc one) but very serious about safety . . . or at least calculated risk.

D. didn't know what was going on, it had all happened so fast. All I got was "on the way to the hospital" and I hung up the phone. Ended up at Stately Wayne Manor to do the vigil with my brother (my mother didn't want us at the hospital). I really freaked when I found that she had driven to U of M. St. Joe and Providence were broken arm locations . . . U of M was serious.

D. had thought my father was talking about taking the motorcycle for a ride ON THE DRIVEWAY. "I kept saying on the driveway . . . and I looked up and he was gone." D. then mentioned that he had told my father not to put his helmet on as to not "mess up the scar". But he was just going to be on the driveway. D. told me there was no blood. Father was talking.

So my father, my so responsible father, upstanding citizen that he is (the Bush's Christmas card still on the fridge) decided to go see if the motorcycle's brakes worked, while it was snowing . . . without a helmet, or gloves . . . and wearing loafers. And kids, this is where I share with you that I am so lucky still to have a father . . . with his brains still in his head, even though they weren't working very well to begin with, obviously.

He had the brakes lock up at the gazebo in the neighborhood, less than a mile away. He had called my mother on his cell phone, telling her to come get him . . . that he had broken his leg. At this exact moment, D. had noticed that Mr. Crabbypants was not still in the driveway and had gone done to the end (Stately Wayne Manors have really long driveways) to look for him. (My mother insists that D. was futzing in his car and NOT looking for Dad, or even noticing that he was gone) (either way, D. is no longer in charge of Dad wrangling . . . for a while) Some neighbors were walking their dog and came upon my father lying in the middle of the street (not the first time this has happened) and one was a nurse. They loaded my father into my mother's jeep, leaving my brother (who doesn't like motorcycles) to deal with the bike.

In motorcycle school, they warn you to never have a bike that you can't lift upright from the ground. This is the other reason I never liked that bike. My brother somehow got it up and pushed it back to my parent's house. Managed to get it up the driveway, bravely using the clutch. It was already in the garage when I called. It wasn't sold yesterday. I'll sell it to you now, cheap. Slightly dented. Be careful with the brakes, evidently the master cylinder is too full.

My father has a broken shoulder and a messed up knee. The knee is so swollen that they don't know how messed up yet. Broken shoulder means no crutches, so we have a fun wheelchair. Both injuries are on the same side, so getting up and down are interesting tasks, as is getting him to the bathroom. He seems very realistic about his bout with stupidity. However, J. and I are doing a little dance . . . we are usually the stupid ones. And we now have a free pass for at least a year.

"Oh yeah Dad? Well remember when you wanted to check the brakes on the motorcycle?"

All Dressed Up . . .

. . . and no place to go.

I need a new wingperson . . . one that doesn't get all headachey and tired at 11 p.m. Now I'm home with too much lip gloss on (for home anyway) and nothing to do. Would just go to the Front by myself, but I think that is asking for trouble, in more ways than one. It has been promised that we will go "out" tomorrow . . . but I hate that bookclub, all older men and weird oldest profession types.

And now that I'm hyper-aware of being noticed, I did have a boy say good-bye to me at the restaurant. I could go back, but it is my former employer (Princess' choice) and I was tiring of talking to former cronies. Hate doing the smiley nicey-nice, "Oh, how are the kids?" routine with the people who were fired . . . who are now working there again. Worse yet, time has stopped there, no one has done anything . . . and the place has gotten lame. So the "I haven't seen you in a year" (when Princess drags me) conversation is not very stimulating. It's the same conversation from last year.

Monkeys

The Week that Will NOT End

I never wanted an existence where I only looked forward to the weekend . . . but I'm afraid this week has gotten the best of me. I just want it to be Saturday . . .

Have to work late tomorrow. The whole week has been freakshow. Haven't been home before 10 p.m. in two days, and tomorrow is not looking good either. And as I sleepwalk through the end of the week, I cling to the magical moment of being curled up in bed on Saturday morning when I will think of nothing.

And spring break is how far away?

I Lived Through Wednesday . . .

So now I get to go buy jeans . . . yay!

With fingernails that shine like justice

"Wow, Emily! You look great. Nice suit." she says in a tone of wonderment and surprise. She doesn't know me very well and this is the first time she has seen me dressed as a grown up. (and personally, I think I should ditch the red shirt I'm wearing . . . but I want to look like I have something on underneath my suit.)

I should just say "thank you" but instead say, "yeah, I clean up nice, don't I?" And I do clean up nice.

Makes me wonder what she thinks of my other clothes though . . .

Excuse the Cake song title. My fingernails do not actually shine like justice . . . and I will never trade my truck in for a Chrysler LeBaron.

This Took Forever

Luckily, I have to wait for my nails to dry, so I have the time to mess with Blogger and it's issues.

Quotes

"It and I have worn away together. The mice have gnawed at it, and sharper teeth than teeth of mice have gnawed at me." -- Miss Havisham, Great Expectations

"Don't think 'cause I understand, I care
Don't think 'cause I'm talkin', we're friends." -- Sneaker Pimps, 6 Underground

"I'll show you mine, if you show me yours first
Let's compare scars, I tell you who's is worst
Let's unwrite these pages
and replace them with all wrong words" -- Rise Against, Swing Life Away

"I'm drunk . . .
and right now I am so in love with you
and I don't wanna think too much about
what we should and shouldn't do . . ." -- NIN, The Only Time

The Week Ahead

As I prepare for my weekly Royal Oak ritual, I realize that I am dreading this week. The headache I currently have is not helping. I'm trying to be more in the moment lately, but the thoughts still creep in . . .

So after I get home, I will try on all the suits in my closet. Find conservative yet elegant shoes, go buy two pairs of pantyhose. Agonize about whether wearing red makes the hair look "more normal" or accentuates it too much. I hate dressing up as a grown up.

I'll have to do my nails tonight, which means sitting still for two hours, something I do not do well. Redye the hair, so it's not orange. (which is worse than the red, trust me)

I had a dream l last night (this morning actually) that one of my teeth fell out. Just got wiggley, like when you were a kid and pulled out, root and all, from the left side of my bottom jaw. Had to check to see if it was still there when I woke up. So wonder what that means? Other than I should make an appointment . . . I hate weird stress dreams.

Saturday Night

Oh, the exciting life of a single girl in Detroit on a Saturday night. With Princess staying in . . . which she is allowed since I left her hanging with the "sorority" sisters last night, leaving her to win the Euchre tournament while being the only person under the age of 45 . . . and others somehow getting lives (and not calling me back), I have no wingperson. So I went grocery shopping instead.

Topped off a shopping day really. Went to Twelve Oaks on the way home from Stately Wayne Manor and tried on at least 142 pairs of jeans. Princess was right, the DKNY bootcuts DO make your ass look amazing . . . but they don't come in the right length. I'm tired of stepping on my jeans and I don't care what Vogue says, I'm not wearing heels with my jeans.

Came home and took a long nap. Went to Somerset to try on more jeans. Then tried on this amazing Calvin Klein suit . . . and lusted for it. Decided that I needed to audit my closet before paying $200 on a suit (on sale from $300). So didn't buy anything . . .

So going back and buying the DKNY jeans as a treat after parent teacher conferences . . . maybe I can get them hemmed. Oh and grocery shopping was a blast, as always. At least they had yogurt this time.

Stargazing

As this is one of my least favorite holidays, despite my quasi-Irish heritage, I went out to Stately Wayne Manor this evening. Mr. Crabbypants only lost a dime-sized piece of this face and basically then received a free face lift . . . but only on one side. He has to "relax" for two weeks, which will be harder than the surgery. My mother wanted me to park my truck blocking his jeeps so he can't escape.

The stars are much brighter here, without all the light pollution and I had to surpress the urge to lie down in the middle of the street just to look up. (If Z had been here we would have) Spotted some planets (I think), Orion, the Little Dipper . . . finally appreciate what little I remember from that Astronomy class I suffered through. Could even tell the subtle differences in color.

So glad that Mr. CP now has "clean margins". I will take him to Starbucks tomorrow to get him out of the house. We are drinking the wine I brought back (and sat through Customs for) from France . . . and he is already yelling at my mother (about cars), so he must be feeling okay.

Blogger Backload or Why is it so Light in Here?

Blogger was down for a whole 20 or so hours . . . and it took me about an hour last night to figure out that it wasn't just ME but the whole of blogger that was "F"ed up. In the sinking feeling of "oh, crap this really doesn't work" (without, of course, checking the help section) I decided to make at least a quick backup of what I had written so far, in case something was the "fatal error" that it was saying it was . . .

It should be pointed out that I have another blog set up, an extra one . . . set up when playing at first and never taking down. And last night I could post to that one. Thus the panic that the year of blog would be lost, while the blog with one post sat smugly. "I'll show for giving me a name that is not as easy to remember."

So the archive has been made . . . in word because it was quick. I was in bed by bedtime. All was (sort of) right with the world. And then I cracked my eye open (right one for those who care) and wondered why the room was so light. I looked at my watch . . . yes, I wear one to bed, I'm blind and can't see my alarm clock, because I have to put my alarm clock very far away, because . . . well, it's just too many becauses. 7:05. I usually leave the house at 6:55 a.m.

Managed to get to work on time . . . wasn't pretty and forgot a bunch of essentials, like say, my phone, but was on time. So add buy new alarm clock (or maybe fix this one) to the list of duties for the weekend. I'm pretty sure it was operator error, not the alarm clock's problem . . . but I really like a shower in the morning.

Post From Last Night

Walked the short course tonight, after getting home at 10 p.m. Now painfully aware that I shouldn't be walking this late at night (especially with headphones) since D just gave me a lecture. But did it anyway.

Am so tired that I can hardly keep my eyes open . . . took some decent pics tonight, considering the lighting conditions. Now I don't have to worry about what the kids take or if the kids even take them. Have been interested in other things, when I should be doing the mundane . . . laundry being of high priority this weekend, grading essays . . . sleep. Was supposed to take tomorrow off, as Mr. Crabbypants is having minor surgery. Was going to sit in the waiting room and knit with my mother but was told that is unnecessary . . . and lessons plans for a substitute are often harder than just going to work.

So for D's piece of mind, I was very careful. Didn't walk my road, went into the neighborhood. If I scream twelve people will run out of their houses. Do need some reflective tape though. Wonder where you get that? And no, I will not wear one of those vest things. Forget it.

Dear Pam

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

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

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

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

After all that, I'm getting some babies

I've been the resume queen lately. Unfortunately, not for myself . . . but editor for "the coven", who has decided as a collective that maybe we should be in charge. Since I have the degree, it is felt that I should also be pushing to be "in charge". And at one time, that really was my goal.

I could polish the resume, dye my hair a "normal" color, start wearing some other shoes . . . skully Converse do not scream "administrative material". But I've done that for 10 years and, quite frankly, I like having a job where I can wear Converse. I would actually like a job were I could wear the Converse more.

So M2 keeps pushing for me to work toward my potential. She is graduating . . . and will get job this spring, no doubt about it. As she was asking about my lackadaisical job search the other night, I said, only half kidding, "Nah, I think I just want to find someone to marry and then make babies." Wouldn't have time to do that if I do my best at being an A.P.

So despite my commitment issues and my selfishness, this my new plan. My mother has suggested that I could just "get" some babies . . . there are lots of extra in the world that are in need of a parent. Can always count on Mom for a plan B. When queried about who would help in the taking care of the adopted critters, the reply was "that is what day care is for . . . " This from a woman who put her life on hold for thirteen years to raise her children. (Well, there was the master's degree years -- where we ate lots of smoky links, mac and cheese in the blue box and hung out at car dealerships and the airport. But we learned much in those years . . . about hubcabs, planes, brochures)

So how far I have come . . . from "Relationship? But I don't want a relationship." to "find someone to marry and make some babies." How 1950's. I think I'll go pick out the china pattern this weekend.

An acquaintance of mine did mention that it was the taking care of the babies once you have them that is the hard part . . . noted.

Letter

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

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

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

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

There. I let the internet know.

My Computer May have Bird Flu

Two twenty minute phone calls to the cable company later . . . and I am back on the internet. Not that anyone on the phone helped me . . . yes, I know how to "ipconfig" . . . "ohhh, yeah honey, it's seems that there may be a problem in your area." Like the wind? "Well . . . yeah . . . fourteen other people have called from your area, honey."

Can you imagine? Someone calling me "honey"? (E2 better not make that my new name at school)

Had already reset the modem. Had a bad ip address for a while, so know how to reset the modem since the cable company always starts with that and couldn't figure out what was wrong for a week. A week in the summer, can you imagine? There was a lot of walking to the library.

"So I can send someone on a 'special call' tomorrow . . . they'll come anytime between eight a.m. and eight p.m." No sorry, I'm not going to take a day off and be chained to the house for what might be wind. I have to work. And there is an internet connection at work.

My brother suggested that I might just watch some T.V.

Naah.

But maybe it works now . . . slowly . . . like it has a cough or something, but working.

Best Alternative Career Suggestion

Today's best new career suggestion: Pirate

I would definitely dig being a pirate.

Just the Start of the Race

Went to visit the 'rents yesterday . . . partially to go for a drive and partially to check up on them and make sure that they weren't carried away by chipmunks. Found them in the basement, watching Nascar on the TV that is bigger than some European countries. Plopped down and listened to the interviews, the Prayer, the National Anthem, the "Ladies and Gentleman . . . start your engines".

By the time the cars started moving, I was ready to go DO something. Look at sheds, go outside, pull the teeth out of head . . . anything but watch the cars go round and round, in intense stereo sound. I love to sleep to Nascar. Find the engine noises soothing somehow. But I wanted to move. "Let me just watch the start of the race," pleaded my father. So I left him to Nascar, thinking to myself that the race had already started. The cars were moving, weren't they?

So ended up going to Walmart with my mother. When did my parents become hillbillies? With all the Nascar watchin' and the Walmartin'? Darn those chipmunks and deer. They're rotting their brains.

Spring is Here?

I know, I know . . . it's Michigan and we could still get seven inches of snow next week. So I'm not taking the snow tires off yet. (and yes, father, I thank you and my lucky stars every day for the snow tires)

But I feel the urge to break out the truck, roll down the windows and drive really fast, which is what I'm going to do in about a half an hour. Maybe even wash the truck. Which I don't do enough.

Have been amazingly unproductive this weekend. Too much ruminating about getting a fire safe that only protects against fire for a half an hour. Did my mother read the box when she bought them for Christmas? Who has a house fire that only lasts a half an hour? Why does the damn thing weigh 17 pounds? What was wrong with my underwear drawer for storage of important papers? So now I have this 17 pound box hidden in my house with only two pieces of paper in it. And I won't take the keys off of the thing, because we all know that I would then lose the keys . . . and then I would never be able to travel out of the country again.

Yes, I know Christmas was three months ago . . . I'm going to go frolic in the springness. Maybe go to Costco and look at sheds. I would really like a new shed.

Girl . . .You'll Be a Woman . . . Soon

A follow up on the poor little spoiled rich dog . . . evidently, MP is now a woman. They grow up so fast.

And now, in addition to the expensive puppy pads all over the house, Princess has to buy feminine products for her dog. See what happens when you don't just pick one out at the pound?

(Seriously, one should always pick one from the animal shelter . . . it's my little soapbox and I'm going to use it)

Not a Day Over . . .

Had "bookclub" at the Front last night. Service was slow, unusually slow. Starting so late, we were at the "counter" and I was often in charge of getting the attention of the servers.

As an aside, it was Princess's first time at the Front. She liked the music . . . the six to one ratio (lots of boys at bookclub), but "I don't even want to think about what is on this chair." I offered her a "wipe" a la Monk, but she said she preferred to just not think about it.

So this girl behind me just cannot get a "book" and we start talking -- cause that's what I do at the Front, talk to girls -- it was her birthday. "A boring one," she said. I thought she meant because she was at the Front, standing around talking to Princess and me, but instead she meant her age -- a youthful 26.

I told her that if I was 26 it would be a very exciting birthday . . . in a very trying to impart wisdom on the young way. "How old are you?" she asked. I answered truthfully. "No, you don't look a day over 28 . . . " she said, "in fact, you could pass for 27." I sat wondering what the significant difference was between the two . . . or what she thought the difference was.

She finally got her "book" and bounced off. I realized that every time I am at the Front, my age has come up. I never lie and no one ever believes me. Or they are just trying to be really, really, overly nice. Since I only ever talk to girls (and they aren't usually all that nice, as a whole), I don't think so. So from this point forward, I'm 27 . . . since I could probably "pass" and all.

And the only talking to girls isn't true . . . just mostly true.

Palace Virgin

I went to the MHSAA state wrestling finals this evening, a.k.a. "Wrestlemania 2006" according to Princess. Princess asked if she should turn into the West Parking lot, and I replied, "I don't know. I've never been here before."

I was then teased for the rest of the evening for being a virgin to the Palace. Princess even called some of her family members to announce her shock and dismay. So I don't like basketball . . . or arena rock.

So now I have been to the Palace. I'm going again tomorrow. So no longer a Palace virgin.

I Would Love You Too . . .

My friend Princess has a dog training problem. The problem being that there is NO training . . . at all. "MP" does exactly what she wants, when she wants. This includes relieving herself on the floor. Princess insists that it is on the "puppy pad", which are $1.50 a piece. However, I stood this evening and watched the precious animal walk next to the puppy pad and pee on the rug. Princess assures us that "she was close" AND the pad is skewed . . . therefore confusing the cutest dog in the world.

As we stood outside, Princess held the dog in her arms and pronounced, "Yes, you love me . . . you love Mommy." I then announced that if Princess let me pee in the middle of the living room, I would love her too. Endlessly.

One Year Later

Hard to believe that due to M1 limited mobility a year ago . . . this happened. My first post was on March 6, 2005 -- Eharmonizing. And I received a comment right away, warning me of the dangers of eharmony. Little did they know that I'm the type to get kicked off.

So happy blog birthday to me. This has served as wonderful outlet, a great creative discipline and well, it's really early in the morning so I'm not really sure what I'm typing and this is probably all crap.

But He Was Too Cute . . .

I had to drink a caramel macchiato this morning . . . and now I can't eat anything for the rest of the day, since I just had 45 billion empty caramel-y calories (and milk, yuck). Unfortunately, this state just makes me want to go to coney island . . .

The reason for the sudden caramel macchiato? Something that I would never order. Well, the cute boy with the tattoo on his neck was in drive-thru this morning and I just couldn't bring myself to say "Umm, this isn't my coffee." The giant band-aid covering his neck tattoo aside (a new addition, I was wondering when the management at Starbucks would get around to it), he is really attractive in an alt boy in kind of way. And flirty, and nice . . . and terrible at working the drive-thru. So it wasn't all that unexpected when he handed me a cup that was a different size from what I had ordered (another very predictable thing about me: grande soy latte).

To his credit, he did charge me for the caramel macchiato, so it's not like I stole someone's drink. It just wasn't what I ordered and after all the flirting ("So, what's your name again?") well, it just didn't seem right to kill the moment. And even the giant band-aid is kinda cute.

Paris

Chipmunk Squaredancing

My mother asked why the mouse traps were set in the middle of the floor. "Don't you know anything about rodents? What'd you think? They were going to have a square dance?"

I didn't set the mouse traps but the idea of a chipmunk square dance and the fact that my brother did in fact bait the middle of the room (looking for brave chipmunks? mentally-ill risk-taking chipmunks?) was very funny to me for some reason. Little doe-see-does until "oh shit! Jorge stepped in the peanut butter." Snap.

One could see, if you were square dancing, how you could forget the large baited traps all over the middle of the floor. Oh, and you were a chipmunk. (For E2 . . . I promise my parents will have a more racially diverse chipmunk square dance in their pump room soon)

Bring on the Kool Aid!

Ahh, the Christian Right and personality assessment! I can't think of a better way to spend an afternoon/evening.

Sure, Jim . . . I'll have some of that Kool Aid . . . right after I stomp on this copy of the first Amendment.

Death Spiral

"In some ways you're random, but in some ways you're so predictable . . ." was the comment made to me yesterday.

I agreed with the comment, but wanted to know how I was predictable (basically, to see if I agreed with the ways in which I am predictable).

"Well, let's start on how you're not going to let this go . . ."

I then brought up that I knew about my "death spiral", where I just get so winged out about something. I will not let it go . . . at least for a couple of hours (some things days) and then it's over. Just over. I don't keep it. However there is a storm . . . or a process that I have to go through. "But I haven't done that in a long time" I said.

And then there was this afternoon . . . and I'm all worked up in predictable fashion. The blog may have to go. People don't think about how their actions effect other people . . . other people who were just trying to mind their own business. I'm just being reactionary and I know it and it sucks and I will just go through this process . . . and everything will be fine.

As an aside, I feel that I should explain the origination of the term "death spiral". My brother was a "unique" child, unique being a kind term for . . . say . . . demon spawn from hell. When he was two, he didn't sleep or more accurately wouldn't sleep for days. We could tell when he was about to crash when he would do what my mother called "the death spiral". He would just start running in circles (I think in an attempt to stay awake) until he crashed and fell asleep on the floor. I distinctly remember stepping over him in the kitchen, while the textured tile imprinted his face. We never moved him . . . didn't want to chance waking him.

He still does a version of this . . . now that he is almost 29. But I think his girlfriend won't let him run in the apartment, or sleep on the floor. Riles up the dogs.

No Incognito

As I stood on the corner of Main and Third, pissed that all the tables were taken at Starbucks (by high schoolers . . . ), I heard a beep and see a young man waving from the backseat. I can hear the conversation in my head, "Hey Dad? I think that's my teacher." I am not supposed to run into people from work in Royal Oak . . . I'm not supposed to run into people I know in Royal Oak if possible (hard, because of the restaurant days, but doable). I am suddenly aware of my scowl and have to change it to "happy school me".

Of course, if I didn't have Elmo colored hair I would be harder to spot, scowling on the corner about the Starbucks.

And before E2 comments about the "happy school me", I do cheerfully say hello to everyone in the hallways . . . she just doesn't get to see this. I even know all of their names, because I'm the yearbook lady.

Chipmunk Madness

I went to the Crabbypants residence for my brother to check my brakes and found my brother and his friend P in crisis. Evidently, P was interested in my parents ornate water systems and went to the "well room" to look at it. Upon opening the door, P heard rustling and an big thunk . . . so he closed the door hastily and went up to get D. "Something is in there."

Armed with a flashlight and a broom, they returned to the well room to investigate. My brother found the light, switched it on and found little beady eyes staring back at him. The chipmunk had scaled the foam insulation and was at eye level. The chipmunk, now named Jorge, is described as "a huge zombie flesh eating" chipmunk. They screamed like girls and retreated. They then stacked the boxes of empty beer bottles against the door . . . so Jorge couldn't creep under the door. Or get the door open. I'm not sure which.

They then heard "scritching" behind the giant Mr. Crabbypants my T.V. has to be bigger than a small third world country television. Jorge has a friend. Soon afterward, I showed up.

I had to go into the well room (with P telling me to "be careful") and with much bravery, picked up the two mousetraps that were already in the well room. My brother baited them with peanut butter (which they had to find in the middle of pretzels . . . we couldn't find any real peanut butter) and corn. It was pointed out that the mouse trap will only wound the chipmunk, if that . . . but my brother contends that it will at least slow them down.

My mother came home and then we had to do all the speculating about how Jorge and his little friends have gotten into the house. As mentioned previously, Mr. Cat is quite the chipmunk hunter/killer but we think the last chipmunk messed with his liver. Mr. Cat lost a tremendous amount of weight after the chipmunk kill and we had to take him to the vet. His liver is swollen and cats with swollen livers don't eat. Either that, or he got a taste of chipmunk and cat food now pales in comparision. My mother is getting him to eat by serving him crack cat food "Fancy Feast". So now we have to plot about how to keep Mr. Cat from killing Jorge and his friends. His liver just can't take chipmunk . . . they're too rich or full of cholesterol or something.

My mother contends that the last chipmunk was poisoned with Decon and thus the liver problems. This doesn't say much for the cats hunting skills, since then the chipmunk must have been dazed with the poison.

So the Crabbypants, they have chipmunks. Jorge and his friends . . . Passada and Gabriella.

Super Bonus Word of the Day

concupiscence

Look it up and use it in a sentence.

I received an email with it used as an adjective (concupiscent) and as a noun. While I think it was a little forward for the fourth email -- though I'm not sure if it was to be directed at me or just a general nature sort of thing -- you know how I love a man that makes me look things up in the dictionary.

Learning With Nemo

So I'm sitting at FR's computer, because I couldn't wait to check my email and see if someone wrote me back . . . and there is a Pixar learning disk . . . "Learning With Nemo" next to the computer. So I now know FR's secret. She needs to learn with Nemo on the computer.

Hmmm. I wonder WHAT she is learning? Did Nemo plot to take over the world? Was Nemo busy trying to convert people into democrats? Did Nemo make fun of his friends over pantyhose? What IS she learning with this fish?

Now that Everyone is Sick of Hearing About France

Here is a bunny telling you the perils of not paying attention.

Happy Birthday D!

It was just 32 years ago that I ran screaming and threw myself on the bed crying because I wanted a baby not a brother.

You did turn out to be better than a baby . . . Happy Birthday bro!

Au Homard looking for the scissor aisle

Last week I went to France. (and I am still rather jetlagged, which I will use as an excuse for my horrible punctuation, or lack of storytelling abilities) I went with my sister, who is eight years younger than myself . . . and my polar opposite. I am right-brained and random, she is left brained and organized. The last time we spent long amounts of time together, she was ten and I was awful. I think I may be less awful now, being not eighteen, however, within three days I almost smacked her on the back of the head with my (closed) umbrella.

We were in the country of her choice, even though neither of us speaks any French, because it was somehow more interesting than London and she had already been to Germany. Oh, and Europe was cheaper than NYC which is where we were supposed to go in the first place.

We spent a week using gestures and facial expressions, partially because we didn't want to draw attention to ourselves (I know, muppet hair didn't help, duh) and partially because when you heard other Americans on the Metro . . . well . . . they sounded really dumb. When you spend some time with a quiet, mumbly language with no hard sounds -- the words "like" and "yeah" really stick out. And there was the whole being so annoying to each other that one had the desire to do some umbrella smacking, but that was really only once a day. So we put in our headphones and pointed a lot. It turns out most people just thought we were Dutch.

My sister and I come from a family that enjoys . . . well, I suppose it would be called researching the ordinary? We go to the local grocery stores on trips, just to see what is different. Going to the French version of Lowe's (because the museum isn't open yet) and envying the wallpaper (they have such good textures, with all the old plaster to cover up) while confused French people wonder why the Dutch tourists are gesticulating in the paint section . . . it's what my family does.

The French seem to have three important food sections in the Monoprix (like Target with food) -- yogurt, things with made chocolate, and spreadable meats. Each of these had a whole aisle, both sides. Of course, I was basically illiterate for a week so I ate lots of yogurt with interesting surprises. The best was the yogurt with brown sugar syrup on the bottom. The worst, well, I think some of the spreadable meat had gotten mixed in.

We avoided the spreadable meat aisle entirely. The things with chocolate aisle had surprising variety . . . bread with chocolate, rolls with chocolate, croissants with chocolate, Special K with chocolate (thus defeating American Special K logic) . . . chocolate with chocolate. The American section was small and off near the cleaning solutions, with a sign bearing "Tex Mex" and shelves of taco shells and peanut butter.

The most horrible food accident because of illiteracy happened in a very expensive shee-shee restaurant "George" which is on the top of the Centre Georges Pompidou. It’s known for it’s high design and snotty servers. We sat down in our "designed" chairs with our specially printed menus on translucent paper and squinted at the type, not wanting to get out the book and look like tourists. Tomato salad is easy to order . . . M order haricot verts, which we were familiar with . . . but then I found "Macaroni au Homard". I thought this was fancy-shmancy macaroni and cheese. I then thought "yum" and ordered it. The waiter, having figured out immediately that we were not French, or Dutch, said, in English, "ahhh, lobster macaroni". This would have been even better than fancy-shmancy macaroni and cheese, if I liked lobster . . . which I don’t AT ALL. But to change my order would be to admit that I was illiterate. So I bit on my lobster claw and chewed and even swallowed. And didn’t even die. M insists that she knew, because even in France "macaroni and cheese doesn’t cost 29 Euro". I thought it was just really good cheese.