Of War Protests and Dogs

I went to Starbucks to read the paper.

I then decided to walk to Shine to look for something for the M1 box, that is sitting on my counter, waiting, hoping to be sent.

There was a cute guy walking ahead of me. With a girl, but I was appreciating the cuteness . . . the overly cool tatt on his shin, the camo shorts, the nice looking dog, the shaved head . . . until my foot slid in something.

My feet are not suppose to slide on the sidewalks of Royal Oak. I look down. Dog sh*t. Fresh dog sh*t. Very, very fresh . . . because it had come out of the guy's dog about four seconds ago. The work F*CK careens out of my mouth as I realize that my Birk is covered in warm sh*t. Tattooed shin guy stops, turns around, looks at the ground and for some reason tells his girlfriend to turn back . . . so they have to walk past me and my soiled shoe.

For some reason I thought they were going to clean up the poop in the middle of the sidewalk. Nope. Maybe they had to run home in shame? Dogs let you know when they want to go . . . which is when you let them go somewhere that is NOT the middle of the sidewalk. Street would have been a better choice, grassy knoll by the railroad tracks, even better. God, people are a$$holes. Managed to avoid the giant piles of poop on the way back . . . but could see that other people hadn't. And had to spend twenty minutes cleaning my shoe once I got home. And tracked sh*t into a bunch of stores.

And because I don't have enough to do . . . I'm going to bring up something controversial . . . flame all you like, because you usually just flame my normal stuff anyhow. As I was leaving Royal Oak, out of the corner of my eye, I saw what seemed to be a war protest marching down Main Street. I'm not up on the schedules, as they won't put me on the mailing list.

But considering what is currently happening in the Middle East . . . I find it very ironic that the people who are carrying these signs are also some of the people who support Israel. So when you carry a "No War" sign, are you also saying that we should pull our support of Israel? Because despite the evil heathen arguments and the war for oil arguments . . . there is an element in this whole mess about the U.S. supporting the Israeli state. Right or wrong. For or against, it's there.

No I didn't stop and ask. They really didn't want to hear what I have to say anyhow. And they can march up and down Main Street until they are blue, for all I care. It is their right. As long as they are here, in this country.

And possibly less annoying than the dog sh*t, but only slightly.

Running -- Part Two

My family has a lot of private jokes . . . I assume all families do . . . and most of ours revolve around catch phrases. Someone will says something that will strike another of us funny and the joke then evolves until you cannot stop it. "I forgot I was holding it" is one of them . . . said whenever you have a really big brainfart or if someone thinks that you are not thinking straight. "Did you forget you were holding it?" My poor sister is responsible for that one. And it is a story for another time.

Another one is "Iiiii'mmmm . . . . sweaaaty" (or I'm sweaty, for those who prefer English) which has to be said in exactly the right intonation. It is a quote from one of my "cousins" (or my father's best friend's kids . . . who are actually closer to me than my cousins), said when she was maybe three, if that. The exact quote would be "Daddy . . . Iiii'mmmm. . . sweaaaty. . . " in a tone of utter frustration and disgust, as if being sweaty was the worst thing you could possibly be . . . as if she would rather be dead than sweaty and her daddy should fix it right now, by putting out the sun or making an air conditioner than could condition the air of the entire world. Our family uses it all the time . . . in the middle of moving someone in August . . . when lifting heavy things . . . heck, I even throw in the "Daddy" if my father is around.

So comment on running workout two . . . Iiiiii'mmmm . . . sweaaaaty . . .

Still like the little buzz afterward. Still really want new shoes. (and now a new watch. . . mine is too loose and makes marks because of the sweat) So I will run on Sunday. Ahhh, materialistic fitness . . . the best kind. Wait and see if I actually get fit . . . and then there will be new clothes to buy.

And Strike Three . . .

I've come to the conclusion (after the intervention last week) that I'm not sad . . . just terribly frustrated with human beings in general.

People consistently say things they don't mean, things they think others want to hear . . . is everything driven by fear?

So how do I overcome this frustration? How do I see light again in the human race? The only solution I see is to only talk to people I already know . . . I know they are a safe bet, because I still talk to them after all these years . . . and avoid interaction with anyone new unless it's on a purely superficial level.

It's like that sticker I modified and stuck on my jacket in college . . . "people suck". And I used to think it was the people I was seeking out . . . the broken toys . . . but I've just had the rather rude awakening that it may be across the board. No wonder we take such joy in blowing each other up.

Wait for the Endorphins to Kick in

I went for a run today.

I went for a run, without anyone chasing me, for the first time since, say . . . sixth grade.

And I didn't die. And I didn't think I was going to die while doing it (as in previous attempts to "run").

Helps that I've been walking three miles a day for a while. Helps that I've been walking for a year . . . even in the snow and the forty below.

The endorphins afterward are lovely. I can understand why people get obsessed. It makes you feel really, really good for about an hour or so. Of course, that may also be the lack of oxygen to my brain.

Plus, if I keep with it for more than a week, it's an excuse to buy more shoes.

Asking for Directions?

Once upon a time, I lived in Detroit. Now to some of you, especially my friends from the west side of the state, I have always lived in Detroit because the entire metro Detroit area is assumed to be "Detroit". But at one time, I lived in Detroit proper. Not the suburbs, where your trash is picked up on a weekly basis and no one steals your mail. The city, with it's lovely car fires, cultural institutions (I could walk to the DIA . . . very carefully), and Larry the crack dealer who sat next to the dumpster and always wanted to go through my trash. (and I always let him. Who was I to argue?)

While I was living in Detroit, I picked up a sense of caution about men who pulled up on the side of the road and rolled their windows down. In the suburbs, I would have assumed that the man wanted directions. In Detroit, I assumed that the man thought I was a hooker (not because I was dressed like a hooker . . . but a white woman walking in my neighborhood, well . . .).

So when the man slowed down on my street today (which is a pretty busy street) as I was walking to get coffee and rolled down his window, I made eye contact and then kept walking. There were four cars stuck behind him . . . so he probably wasn't going to kidnap me. There was a gas station about twenty feet up, so he could pull in there to ask directions. I just figured whatever this fifty year old man in his Honda wanted, it just wasn't going to be good.

So if you were really going to ask directions, I hope you figured out there was a Marathon to your right. Sorry to seem rude, but I don't talk to strangers who pull over and roll their windows down. Guess it's just the Detroit baggage I have.

Thank yous

Thank you to my mother, who called to check on me and gave me some good advice that I probably won't remember next time in that situation (because I am a blabber mouth and will tell people anything).

Thanks to E2, who was kind enough to come out with me last night, thus not wasting all the makeup that I had slathered on my face.

Thanks to M1 for all the support and research . . . I feel like I have a dating tech department.

Thank you to the Berkley Front, for still being a cool bar . . . despite harboring ghosts of my last breakup (never bring a boy to that bar again . . . my bar damnit).

Thanks to M3 (4?), my little IM friend who read my whining and wrote things to make me feel better.

Thank you to the public school system at large, for having summers off, even though we are not longer a agrarian society, so I can sleep until noon.

Boys Suck

"Coffee" has been cancelled. Other things to do. Strike two.

Do I really want to date someone that has other things to do? So many that it doesn't leave time for coffee?

I know it's not supposed to be easy. But now, it's Monday night . . . I have makeup on . . . and all I have to look forward to is that "The Closer" is going to be on in 15 minutes (I was sad about missing it for coffee). This sucks.

I know, I know . . . it should say Men Suck, as I'm not talking about anyone under the age of 29 . . . but they all act like boys.

And by the way . . .

Anyone want to go out tonight? I have my first "coffee" (coffee = blind, in the online dating world) date post RB. I might need a drink afterward . . . he sounds great on paper (not bad on the phone either), but they all sound great on paper.

New Feature

Because it's too hot and I already weeded my front yard . . . and I don't really want to heat gun on the hottest day yet of the year (though I will . . . eventually) . . . I made this pretty new feature on the blog. Witness, on your right, the photo stream.

I was going to go fancy, with the flash option that made the pictures move around, but sometimes simple is best. Unfortunately, now I will actually have to take photos to keep you entertained, instead of just writing this banter.

So let me know what you think . . . yes, mother, I left out the picture with the finger.

More Fun Than I Should Be Allowed

. . . to have in one afternoon.

As what I was supposed to do today did not work out, I decided to suit up in the haz-mat gear and try out the heat gun. Turns out it's more fun than $9.99 is supposed to be. It just melts stuff . . . and you all know how I like to melt stuff.

The trick is to not burn stuff (which I also like to do . . . ) and there is a fine line. Luckily, Harold and Alice (the previous homeowners) liked to paint frequently, so it all comes off in one big (and I'm sure deadly) chunk. But first, it bubbles up nicely. I don't know what I'm going to do if I ever finish the cabinet doors . . . I'm going to have to find other things to melt.

Perhaps I will paint paintings and then melt them as a statement about the disintegration of society as a whole. I'm sure to get a gallery show with that.

Or I could just get a $1.99 bag of army guys and maybe some 11 year old boys to hang out with . . . and a sandbox, so we don't burn down the house.

How Come No One Told Me

Before heat gun

After heat gun

To Pull Out and Have Silverware

Bottom of drawer before

Bottom of drawer after

Quote of the Day

As read in the manual to my new respirator (as if I had an old one):

!WARNING!
"This respirator provides LIMITED protection. It may help reduce exposure to airborne biological agents, including avian (bird) flu virus, other types of influenza, SARS, or other bacterial or viral biological agents, but will not eliminate the risk of exposure, infection, illness, or death."

Protection against SARS? Even "limited" protection? I just bought the thing because of all the lead and asbestos that I'm going to have to secretly smuggle out of here. I may now have to wear it at all times. Especially to work . . . and on dates.

Yeah, First Thought, Best Thought

I'm sorry that I can't be your trained monkey . . . but I can't.

Slowing Down the Karma Downspin

There was a moment last night that I was utterly obnoxious. Princess worked the moment with grace . . . sometimes she is really our shining star (sorry, I couldn't help it and it WASN'T your fault) . . . I could step outside of myself and realize that I was behaving badly, I just couldn't stop it. Well, there were maybe two moments, because there was this lady who dropped her plate, I think because she hooked it on my purse . . . and I kept walking. (start of the karmic downturn)

Being a former restaurant/bar employee, I would have hated me. It wasn't his fault that someone decided to have a "list" party, so that the bar would look more "New York" or something. It wasn't his fault that he was "overcapacity". I was just being a bitch. For no reason whatsoever.

My fingernails now match. I deleted the weird hater comment that I arrived home to . . . and I will now try not to talk to anyone unless absolutely necessary . . . so "I'd like a grande soy latte, please" will be about it. I will try to smile at small children and puppies, but otherwise keep to myself. I need some quiet time . . . maybe some time out.

Psst . . . Hey . . . Over Here . . .

I just wanted the whole internet to know . . . my fingernail polish does not match my toenail polish . . . and . . . I'm going out in public anyway . . .

Whitney

Okay, Princess promised me . . . promised me . . . that we could go to the Whitney Garden party today. So I'm dyeing my hair and we are going to the garden party damnit. Because it is on the summer list and I have a strong urge to wear heels. (yes, I need a reason to wear high heels . . . I'm not just going to wear them around the house) I want to do full makeup (I haven't put anything on but mascara since middle June . . . again, yes, I need a reason for the goo) I want to sit outside with a girlie drink in my hand and share news other than what's happening at work. I want to go out . . .

Because I have news . . . maybe only five minutes worth of discussion, but news nonetheless.

As Seen on TV

Why can't I get a job making "how to" videos like this?

Standards

Dooce just said so much better than I ever do . . .

Langston and Chiquita

I know that it is summer and you have to let the little rascals out or they don't socially adjust but does everyone have to have a stroller the size of a Buick? Today I tripped over one that actually had the Jeep logo on it . . . I think because it was the size of a Wrangler and the company wanted to warn people. (Then how did you trip over it, you ask? I didn't. I was using the verb for effect.)

I was in downtown Royal Joke and these people had let their rugrats out of their "offroad devices" to wander around near traffic as they discussed important things, like how their lives were before they had the rugrats and the offroad Buick-like strollers.

"Langston, honey, Chiquita doesn't want to go that way, honey . . . so you can't make her."

I kid you not . . . Langston was forcing Chiquita to go in her not chosen direction by grabbing her head and pulling. Langston. Chiquita. Not related. Both Caucasian. Maybe it's the teacher in me but those kids have some fights on the playground ahead of them. Good thing Langston is training now.

No, really. I'm not making this up. Langston and Chiquita. Both about two years of age . . . with totally unrealistic parents.

For 9 Bucks, I Could Wear Them Once and . . .

Instead of cutting down the mass of foliage that is making my driveway look "Clampet"-y, yesterday I went shopping. The original goal of the shopping? My friend's birthday was on the fifth . . . and we all forgot. Now it's not unusual for me to forget . . . I ignore birthdays, including my own . . . but everyone forgot. So I went in search of something cute.

I went to downtown Berkley. Not a good idea, as it turns out that they are redoing Twelve Mile (again?) and all of the business owners decided to close until the 10th. The entire city of Berkley is on vaca until then . . . if I had known I would have left town . . . or started a burglary ring.

So I went to Ferndale, which keeps promising to be more "fabulous" than the last time you were there. Yeah, RB does some work with the downtown development people . . . so it's not any more "fabulous" than before, except maybe that you can eat there now. (yes, I'm saying that there was/is some false advertising) Still the same strange dollar stores, an few more arty stores . . . a lot more homeless than I remember . . . unless they were just loitering Ferndale residents that had homeless outfits on (with a good dose of the "I'm obviously mentally ill" look). Found only one store that I would go back to and bought nothing, not even at the Old Navy outlet. But suddenly more restaurants than you would want to shake a stick at . . . and most are upscale. (Yes, I would like my $10 a la carte salad on the patio so I can watch that half naked man yell about Jesus while I'm chewing on my watercress. But we would like to have our entree inside. Thank you.)

Before you get all uppity about my comments on the homeless . . . remember that I am commenting on the swanky restaurants that are eventually going to round them all up and relocate them to south of 8 Mile, if the "Downtown Development" organization doesn't do it first, right after they install that electrified fence on the border.

Depressed that I didn't find anything good from my local merchants, I then did what I do when I'm depressed . . . I went to Target. Thought about purchasing an $8 tube top (he,he, what would I do with a tube top?) but it didn't come in any colors and I've been told I can't purchase any more black. Bought a silly CD instead (Panic at the Disco . . . yep, me and the fourteen year old girls). Went to Kohl's and found some jeans in the juniors section . . . that's right, I said juniors section . . . and tried them on for giggles because they were $9. And I had to go get a smaller size. So Levi's jeans for $9. For that price, I'll wear them once (wearing them right now, as a matter of fact) and throw them away. I've been known to spend more than $9 on lunch.

Still have to find something for M2 for her birthday. I'm thinking slang flashcards. Maybe with some sparkly barrettes. That girl needs more sparkly barrettes.

The End of An Era

I cancelled my matchdotcom subscription today . . . it used to be $12 a month of amusement but it's not as entertaining anymore.

I started this blog when I started eharmony. Kept at it when I got kicked off of eharmony. Meant it as a record of the silliness of internet dating and it became a record of my life . . . which is really just silliness also. M1 will be disappointed at my giving up "the year of 'yes'" early but I just can't do it anymore. Not for a while. I can't look through 50 pages of the same guys who were there last August. I tire of email flirting. I'm tired of terrible pictures . . . of guys who say they're 36 when they are obviously in their 50s . . . of guys who put their kids' pictures on their profiles . . . tired of guys who spell "does", "dors" . . .

I've dated two men that seemed reasonable in print . . . one I could even handle in person everyday . . . who turned out to be so unreasonable, that I don't talk to them anymore . . . so perhaps my first entry in this blog is true.

Yes, I want to "share my life with someone" as sappy as that sounds. RB made me even more sure about that. Yes, I really want to have kids with someone. I just can't matchdotcom anymore. I know it took Princess' friend four years . . . but I'm exhausted.

Mouse House

As promised . . . see link here

Girlie-ness and the Art of Truck Maintenance

Having just completed an oil change on my truck (I am usually the assistant but Mr. CP had his accident and it's hard for him to make level changes), I now realize why chicks don't do car maintenance. There are too many nail breaking opportunities. And the oil, it's hard to get off your rings (just kidding, I didn't wear the diamond to change the oil).

I almost broke a nail on some pliers (to clean the mouse nest out of my frame . . . don't worry, next entry . . . with pictures!). I almost broke a nail putting the "green box" of wrenches away (special socket set . . . been in a metal green box for as long as I can remember . . . probably older than I am). I got hot dirty oil all over my manicure. It was icky.

Keep in mind that I come from a family that required you to be able to change your own oil before you could drive . . . so I have changed my oil before, once or twice. It's just that my father usually gets frustrated because I'm "not doing it right" or I'm too slow and then he just does it for me while I hand him the wrenches. I'm good at handing wrenches. I'm good at knowing how to change my own oil in theory.

Today I got under the truck and did it myself, while my father complained. At one point, while screaming obscenities at the oil filter (because it was f-ing hot), my father decided to critique and I just glared at him and said "SHHHHH" and then went back to swearing . . . because oil was dripping from some thingy they put in the way (almost on my head).

And while you are under there, you only find problems . . . like the mouse house in my frame. But I didn't drive the truck over the ramps (I have previously) and the oil is changed . . . and I probably got the filter "hand tight" enough that it won't leak. Probably.

Oh, and that soap "they" use . . . the stuff you use without water? To get the oil off your hands . . . it smells like a$$.

Marathon of "Made"

On a happier note (to please my mother and the Princess), MTV had a marathon of their show "Made" on all day. I know that it's staged, as they always "get" the fact that they just have to be confident about three-fourths into every show and they always really "appreciate" the experience if they don't get to be the prom queen (just once I'd like them to be f#$kin' pissed). But it's just so nice to get a glimpse into these teenagers' lives and think -- THANK GOD, at least I don't have to be a teenager again . . . ever.

The overwhelming theme of the show is: if you think it, you'll be it . . .

And that is a helpful theme, because it is mostly true . . . even if it is evil MTV.

The Double-Edged Sword of Sex and the City

In one way, I find watching "Sex in the City" comforting. It's a show about dating . . . and therefore, a show about breaking up . . . or not dating . . . or just the hassle of relationships.

And I'm okay that we used to watch it together . . . partially because I watched it before and partially because a guy who admits that he loves "Sex in the City" . . . the edited version without the nudity . . . well, there's a little suspicion there.

But last night, with my mojito in hand, I watched Carrie break up with Big for the second time . . . okay, I can totally relate . . . but then Big shows up at her apartment. Big comes back. To her credit, Carrie then breaks up with Big again. But only after they shag. And remembering the series, she ends up with Big in the end. That didn't help. In fact, they all end up with someone in the end. And right now that isn't helping at all.

And I know it's just a show and they had to end it that way, or we'd all throw a fit. And I suppose I could just shoot for the younger man like Samantha. But when Carrie broke up with Big, well, in real life they don't come back knocking on your apartment door.

Vampire Time and Signs from God

or the fates . . . or whatever is up there . . . or around here . . . anyway . . .

I am working toward vampire time again, it being 3 p.m. and me not yet starting the day. Slept until noon . . . well, the alarm got me up at 7 a.m. and I hit it, rolled over and slept until noon. Hard when you only planned activities are so easily put off . . . so what if the cabinet fronts aren't stripped? They can be stripped tomorrow. And the lawn isn't really that long and the weeds look like they are supposed to be there, really. Plus paint can be applied in the dead of night . . . it won't be, be it can.

Okay, so tomorrow I'll get up at a decent hour and go visit Cranbrook . . . or C-Pop, or something.

As for the signs from God. I signed up for myspace. Lame, I know but you gotta have the vocab and the knowledge to keep up with the kidlits. Don't worry, my skull x-ray is my only picture and there is nothing identifiable (except admitting to an affection for Matthew Good). Wanted to get a hold of someone who I knew was on myspace . . . so did a search . . . found a couple of people I hadn't been in touch with, which was nice and then . . . came across RB and had to call the whole thing off. So turns out that I didn't really want to use myspace anyhow. (It is so five minutes ago) Other sign . . . Blockbuster is sending out coupons, so the fates must want me to rent a movie this afternoon. And the horoscopes in the freep keep telling me to not live in the past.

Off to shower and then Starbucks. Oh, and Blockbuster.

Comes with a Complimentary CD Rom

Evidently, if you pay the gazillion dollars for a CAT scan, they give you the CD for free! (Yes, these are really my head)

I now have 170 different images of slices of my skull. There is one that is particularly disturbing that shows that my jaw is very assymetrical . . . it's amazing that I look as good as I do in person. Of course these were all taken before the septoplasty . . . so the inside of my nose is currently straighter. Looking at the scan, it was amazing that I could breathe at all.

Turns out I can print them and make wallpaper. Neato!

Because You All Wanted to See What's in My Head

And you all thought it was just stuffing.

Elvis Black

It's hard to find a good hairstylist . . . ask any woman and she'll confirm this fact. And I love Jen . . . but my hair is currently a color I would describe as "Ronald McDonald" red and the dyke spikes (my apologies ladies . . . but what else would you have me call them?) now have a separate zip code instead of "blending in". "I'm going to separate these out" says Jen as she flicks a straight-edge razor around my head. Who am I to argue?

Now it will all be fixed by tomorrow . . . and amazingly, no matter how much I abuse them, the hairs, they still grow. Shampoo will take care of the dyke spike problem and I'm thinking "atomic red" since it's summer . . . a bit brighter than I could pull off at school.

Now Princess (and my male reader base) (he, he, I just assumed that I have a "reader base") will question why I pay a person to cut and dye my hair . . . and then the next day spend my own time fixing my hair.

First off, I refuse to spend as much as Princess spends on her hair (yes, I know how much you spend) . . . Honey, your hair looks awesome but Salon 6, it's just too much, in so many ways . . . not just monetarily.

Second, I love Jen. So it's worth coming to Milford to see her and she's doing the best she can with what she's working with. And she cuts it just a little too short, so it will look really good in three weeks . . . which is how a haircut is supposed to work, I think.

Third, permanent dyes don't come in as bright a color as I want. And dyeing my hair is becoming sort of a meditative exercise. Plus, I figured out that if you Saran Wrap everything you don't make as much of a mess. Plus I get to spend $10 at Noir to keep the place afloat . . . because there just aren't enough people making liquid latex purchases anymore. (actually, they raised the price on hair dye - $11.60) (and there was someone purchasing liquid latex last time I was there . . . he was in a business suit and tie, and the sales girl was talking him out of purchasing two containers, informing him that one would last for "a while")

The fall hair plan is to dye everything black . . . I described it as "blue-black", to which Jen then said, "oooh, Elvis black . . . yeah, that'll look good". I was hoping for more of a "Trent Reznor" black but I suppose the two are possibly one and the same color (probably Nice-n-Easy no. 67, or something). I'm pretty sure that the new dress code will have an "Emily hair" rule in it, in addition to the forbidding of open toed shoes. If it doesn't have an "Emily hair" rule, we may do some streaks of some color mixed in with the Elvis black.

Is there a Elvis hair colored muppet? Or am I going to have to change all my usernames?

And the Lady in Front of Me Left Her Eggs

I purchased the following today:

One scarf kit from Japan . . . to knit out of stainless steel thread (yes, stainless steel thread!) . . . should be here in two weeks

a rubber mallet from Target . . . it was in the dollar bin and when can you get a rubber mallet for a dollar? Only problem: I had to walk through the store with a significant urge to hit people and things with the rubber mallet. Managed to suppress it.

Meijers: 12 pack of Rolling Rock, 12 of Corona, some rum, mint, bag of limes, tomatoes, one cucumber, fresh mozzarella, five cups of Dannon vanilla yogurt, two different kinds of organic mac and cheese, four two-liters of Coke Zero, pasta sauce, very vanilla soymilk, pound of hot sausage, pound of ground sirloin, 2 avocados, 10 tortillas, tiny container of sour cream, cranberry juice (with splenda! so it says on the package), 4 lean cuisines, and three containers of strawberries

So basically, all I consume are strawberries and beer. Oh, and Coke Zero . . . but I'm sure it will have some rum in it. Total spent: $125.45
Mojitos on the porch watching the world go by: priceless

If I had Known, I Would Have Brought Better Stuff to the Movie Theater

I suppose I should start with the last concert I went to alone . . . to explain why I missed Ministry last night.

His Name is Alive was playing at the Magic Stick. "Late Show" it said on the internet listing, with the time listed at 10 p.m. . . . doors at 8 p.m. was the last part of the blurb. Hmmm, His Name is Alive was big when I was in college. I didn't hate them, but wasn't super in to them either. But, chances are, no one over the age of 30 has even heard of them . . . seemed like a good place to meet people or see people that I hadn't seen in a while. The guy's from Livonia, the quirky scene on the west side wasn't that big.

I don't want to see the opening band, so I show up at 9:30 . . . giving the opening band time to set up and be halfway through their set. Pay for parking, smile at the parking guy, walk through the bowling alley and practically run into the bouncer/doorguy. He pays little attention to me, so I start walking upstairs . . . "hey wait" bouncer points at handwritten sign, "doors at 10."

"Ten?" I start to argue but catch myself. It does me no good to annoy the door guy about how the web said 8 p.m. I've already paid for parking . . . so I go check to see if C-Pop is open (it's not). I decide to walk around the old neighborhood to see what they have done with the place. Same guys that need a $1.50 at the party store on Woodward. Avalon is still open (good for them!). A guy at the VA told me to "shake it, baby" repeatedly as I walked past him. The townhouse looks the same . . . they replaced the basement windows with glass block and the current tenant bought wood blinds and is evidently using the third floor (I just ignored the third floor, or painted it awful colors). The Tomboy has new signs about police orders. Still two people smoking "something" behind the dumpster. Had someone follow me back to Woodward (I'm sure he was just walking too) . . . and somehow got a bee in my hair.

All that took about ten minutes . . . leaving me twenty minutes to stand outside the Majestic and call people at random to tell them how bored I was.

Finally, I can go in and sit around until the opening band sets up. They have audio problems . . . so an hour of "check . . . check" and then fiddling . . . and more "check . . . check" until I give myself an ultimatum . . . five more minutes and I'm out. I don't care that I'm into this for $14 dollars, I'll just be out of here in five. Three minutes later and Nomo takes the stage. And they are pretty good. If marching band geeks started a rhythm band, it would sound like Nomo. Very little singing (good), lots of horns (good) . . . but you would really have to be a former band geek to appreciate them (but I am a former band geek).

I still have talked to no one, except the bartender and the door man.

Nomo finishes. I see a girl that I vaguely knew in high school . . . talking to the His Name is Alive guy . . . but it couldn't be her because she is wearing exactly the same clothes that she wore in high school. And then she pulls out two Red Stripe from her purse and hands her boyfriend an opener . . . she's carrying beer in her purse, like I carry candy to a movie theater? Do people do that? When they're in their 30's? And do you want to go up and say "hello" to those people?

When His Name is Alive finally set up . . . I got a better look at the woman and I'm pretty sure I went to high school with her and that my friend Stu had a huge crush on her. I got to the third song of the set and realized that I didn't really like His Name is Alive and that the more they played . . . the more I remembered I didn't like them. They did have a "tamborine contest" . . . which is so not my speed. I went to the restroom for the second song and had left by the third. But I did it, damn it.

So when K. backed out on Ministry yesterday afternoon and then I hit the traffic jam on 96, I figured it was the fates (or God's) way of telling me that I just shouldn't go to Harpo's alone. I was already 2 hours late and my truck would have just been broken into or something.

So on the summer list . . . find someone who lives on this side of town to go to the bar with (cause no, I don't want to go to the bar in the Shores) AND find someone to go to shows with . . . so I can at least talk to someone about how lame the show is . . .

Over the Fascination

After staying up to an ungodly hour in the morning, I am over my fascination with YouTube.com. Short lived, I know . . . I'm sure I could revisit in a month or two. Who knew that something mentioned on NPR could actually be as cool as they said it would be . . .

Woke up late (if 7:30 a.m. can be considered late) and despite this, my truck was still fixed by 1 p.m. AND it was returned with a hook-up for my MP3 player . . . I may never drive my Neon again. I may never leave the inside of my truck. Now if only it didn't use gas but ran on magical (and cheap) fairy dust. And my brother is the most wonderful person in the world for making all this happen, even though I was an hour late in getting there. (I did buy him frozen Swedish meatballs at IKEA in return . . . mmmm, Swedish meatballs.)

Z. and I lunched at the giant blue building of hellish coupleness and I was amazed at how many people don't "get" that the restaurant is a cafeteria . . . the old couple behind me kept asking "What's going on? Why are we standing here? You have to get a tray?" IKEA was crazy before . . . now it's still crazy busy, but the rude people have decided to crawl out and visit. "I don't believe we have to stand in this line to go to another line . . ." Well, lady, lots of people want Swedish meatballs and you'll just have to wait your turn.

Z. has decided that he LOVES IKEA, especially the section where you get to try out all the beds (which we skipped today). He also discovered that he likes lingonberry cheesecake. So good that I am expanding his world of desserts. He was also very excited that "he gets to come too" to move my sister to Kalamazoo. I didn't have the heart to tell him that moving Mere will involve lots of yelling, carrying heavy things, sitting in the car for three hours, carrying heavy things again, and then more yelling. We'll let him discover that for himself.

Matthew Good Band - Anti-Pop

Last one, I swear . . . but you know how I LOVE him and there are gnomes.

Plea from a cat named Virtue -- The Weakerthans

This is cool as f#$k.

Sam Roberts Brother Down

Learnin' how to use You Tube.

That's it, I'm Hiding

Remember that post about being "transition" girl? . . . well, today was the day to run into everyone. Ran into K. at the bookstore . . . did the whole "we should really get together sometime" . . . "yeah, we really should" with the unspoken "We're never going to get together and I'll never call you, bye!" between it.

Then, just for kicks, Princess wanted to go to the restaurant that Alfie manages . . . and because I'm a total masochist, I went up and said hello and got to hear all about his baby daughter. Fabulous! (actually, I really am happy for Alfie and glad that he has a daughter . . . but still)

Then while walking home got to wave at the ex's best friend on Woodward. Hey, Robbie! So sorry that I can't sell T-shirts on your tour . . . but I'm not allowed to talk to you. Then got to imagine the imaginary conversation that didn't happen once Robbie got home. "Hey, so I saw Emily walking on Woodward when I was driving home . . . whatever happened with her?"

So now I'm hiding in my house . . . lest I run into anyone else that I don't want to deal with or talk to . . . I mean John 1, 2, or 3 could be hiding in my bushes right now, waiting to have an awkward conversation with me.

Even My Feral Pets Are Damaged

I have a rabbit in my backyard . . . he is not as good as the mystery guest cats, who would come for Halloween and Summer Solstice, because he digs big holes in the yard. But mostly, he eats the lawn and keeps to himself.

Today, for some reason he decided to walk up to me . . . as if I had some carrots . . . and I noticed that he has been only showing me his "good" side for some time now. Straight on, the backyard rabbit, who we will now call Bongo, only has one eye. On his good side, which I assume I always see because then he can see me, he looks perfectly normal . . . a rather large, good-looking backyard rabbit, as rabbits go. His other eye, however, is non-functional with a large white cataract . . . making him look like a devil rabbit from hell, that is, if it glowed.

I'm pretty sure it doesn't glow . . . or I would have seen it at night when he hops around the backyard. Plus, he just doesn't give off the "devil bunny" vibe. But yeah, even the wildlife in my backyard is damaged.

That's Going to Be How Much? Just To See?

Today I spent $408.00 on contacts . . . four hundred dollars for little formed pieces of plastic to put in my eyes. Granted, they are lovely little pieces of plastic that let me see the world beyond my nose clearly . . . but still. A hundred of that was for my eye doctor "Andy" to diagnose that I am still blind as a bat, in fact, more so than last time. I love that I have an eye doctor named "Andy". And the little pieces of plastic he gave me today feel so much better than the little pieces of plastic that I have been wearing entirely too long.

Ahh, the myth of contacts. They say they are good for a week . . . and yet, I cannot help wearing them until they rip or disappear into my cleavage. Because they cost $400.

On another doctor front . . . I went to the dermatologist for the first time in ages. Picked a new one, close to home. Says my skin is "good, not much sun damage" . . . thus making all those times I was grounded the summers of my teenage years and my mother forcing me to go to the beach, wrong . . . so very wrong. Luckily, I just moped around looking like Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice. See, my underage angst did have some benefits, after all.

Did have an amusing interaction where, in my usual Dark Princess style, I told my doctor what to do.
"So you see there's really nothing we can do . . ."
"Really? Well, my other doctor just used liquid nitrogen."
"Oh yeah . . . well . . . that could work . . ."

Nothing like self-diagnosis and self-suggested treatment to establish and healthy doctor-patient relationship. And that's probably going to cost me, like, $600.00.

T.V. Will Eventually Solve All Your Problems

My mother was watching television again . . . not hard at Stately Wayne Manor, as they have a T.V. in every room including the bathrooms. And for rooms that there is no television? There is a plan for a television, cause the kitchen T.V. is too small to watch from the dining area. (so the flat panel with make the kitchen a two television room) (but there are no televisions on the screen porch yet, so it all evens out)

Evidently, there was a show on internet dating on ABC last night, so my mother emails me (to tell me to turn on my T.V. to channel seven) and wants me to check out engage.com. This is a violation of the new "talking only about the weather and air" policy that I have recently put in place and my mother is not abiding by, at all. She wants me to get out there and date some engineers . . . because that will make it all better. Sitting in the coffee shop across from a guy with a pen in his pocket and pleats in his pants, trying to come up with pleasant conversation about . . . well . . . engineering. Or his train collection. Or better yet, his mother. Yes! That will make it all better. Let me get right on that.

So, anyhoo, engage.com does not work right now because everyone's mother is logging onto it this second. Interesting concept . . . your mother gets to search the web and match you up with people, which is indeed her dream. Now if I could just get her to go out with the engineer for the actual coffee, it would be perfect.

Cause you see . . . I want to go out with someone exactly like C. (only without all the baggage), or exactly opposite C. or, when I really think about it, NO ONE AT ALL. Because it all ends in heartbreak . . . and I used to be a superhero. And I will be a superhero again . . . perhaps, unfortunately sitting with my cape and a paper cup listening to a guy in pleated pants with a pen in his pocket talk about how he had this amazing pez collection but he sold it for less than it was really worth.

Oh, well, it only took me a year to find C. . . . maybe it's just another year before I find someone cooler. Plus, my mother is working for me. And so, evidently, is television.

Oh, and It's Father's Day

It being Father's Day . . .

I just wanted to let everyone know, despite the nickname I have for him, my father is the smartest, kindest, and coolest guy anyone could ever meet. He has integrity (which many people don't have), he always tries to do his best in anything he does, and has, in the great adversity of the world we live in, raised four wonderful, strong human beings. (Okay, my mom helped . . . but still.) And he pretty much knows everything . . . or will look it up if he doesn't.

Thank you for being my father.

The Next One You Meet

When you have a "life crisis", at least when I do, in the middle of all the obsessing you start to look for patterns. And I have found it . . . and have been forever the "transition girlfriend". From the start . . .

(I'm naming names on this one . . . my apologies)

I am the girl you date just before you find "the one" and live happily (some somewhat unhappily) ever after. Let's look at the history, shall we?

Jeff - my high school love interest
Dated me. Cheated on me. Met Jill shortly after. Was with Jill for three years. Broke up with Jill, and dated me. Married Jill.

John - college love interest
starting dating John to get over Jeff . . . John was dating me to get over someone (the greatest girl in the world as I remember). Tortured each other for three or four years. He met someone in Chicago. Emailed me ten years later to let me know that he was marrying her . . . I think to because he wanted a gift.

John (Weasel) - college love interest
Okay, he was a bad idea from the start but . . . went out with me, went to Guam, found the "accountant", moved to Connecticut with the "accountant". He did stop back in town on the way to Connecticut to let me know that I was a really good girlfriend and a good person . . . and that he was still moving to Connecticut.

Kevin - the gay boyfriend
Went "out" with Kevin because there was no pressure and I had really bad taste in men and had figured out that I had bad taste in men. Had a lovely platonic "spend time together he pays for dinner" thing. We stop talking. He finds Kurt, the love of his life.

Al - a "thing" I had at the restaurant
Makes out with me. I swear a week later he meets Kelly, who I went to high school with, and they are married a year later.

Now I'll skip all the guys that I just went on a few dates with . . . but there seems to be a pattern. Oh, there's Mark, who I was in love with for years as an idea, who wasn't over that blond girl . . .

So what I have to fix is being attracted to guys who are pining for other women . . . I think. How do you stop being transition girlfriend? How do I stop being the "yeah, you're really great but . . . " girl? Because I took all that time "off" to find myself because I had figured out that I was doing something wrong, because I felt like shit all the time when it came to guys. And when I jump back into the dating pool? I swim over to the guy who isn't over his ex-wife OR his ex-girlfriend. I mean how could he even see me through all of that?

So I am doomed to be the transition fairy? I'll just make it my mission to go out with guys so that the next one after me will be "the one"? Because the "He's Just Not That Into You" book is right . . . guys will go through hell and high water for what they think is the one. I've seen it happen with all of my exs. Maybe I should add that to my profile - go with me for a beer and next week meet the love of your life.

I Suppose I Could Just Buy One at IKEA

My mother's new rule is that I am not allowed to talk about "the breakup" . . . it was over weeks ago in her head (though at one time she thought he was cute and encouraged me to talk to him) and therefore I should just be over it. Fine.

(and that fine is said in the same tone as when I was fourteen . . . yes, the "fine" that drove you insane and made you feel like you had to get the last word in, only to be given another "fine" to deal with as soon as you stopped talking. That "fine".)

So to get over my life crisis (which is bigger than "the breakup" as I have now added some damage to it . . . damage that has nothing to do with the actual person I was going out with, therefore, now life crisis) I decide to go with my parents to IKEA. This is (and was) an enormously bad plan because there is nothing at IKEA except:

1. cute couples with cute children
2. cute couples who are pregnant
3. old ladies in packs (if they could have brought their cats, they would have)
4. gay men (also in couples, damnit)
5. Mr. and Mrs. Crabbypants yelling at each other in amongst 3 million people
6. Swedish meatballs

While the Swedish meatballs were good, and I am used to the Crabbypants show after 35 years . . . the couple-ness of IKEA, coupled with my mother's new fascination with talking about all her friends' kids who are dating, or getting married, or the cute baby over there . . . isn't that the cutest baby? Who do you think it belongs to? AGGHHHHGH!

At one point I prayed to spontaneously combust . . . but evidently you can never spontaneously combust when you just want to . . . it's not mysterious enough or something, too explainable.

So the new rule for my mother . . . since I'm not allowed to talk about "the breakup" . . . she is not allowed to talk about babies, because I do not have one and I do not foresee getting one in the next four years (which would make me 40). So now we have nothing to talk about, except maybe the weather . . . and air.

First Day Off

Woke up at 7:30 . . . woke up again at 10:30 . . . managed to shower by 11:30 or so . . . walked downtown . . . sat in the sun at Starbucks, annoyed that phone guy and his assistant (?) were taking up the shady table without actually ordering anything . . . read the paper . . . found out Ministry is playing on the 24th (another concert to go to ALONE . . . sigh) . . . walked to the cool record store . . . found out the cool record store went out of business . . . walked back to corporate bookstore . . . read a Matt Groening book . . . thought about Matt Groening selling out . . .walked to the yarn store . . . broke my sunglasses (the red ones . . . my favorites) . . . did a "my shitty life/luck" spiral . . . decided to get over it, as the sunglasses cost $3.90 . . . had two African-American men tell me in their "special" way that they thought I was attractive, near the bus stop . . . bought a diet coke at McDonalds . . . walked home . . .

So that's been the first day of summer so far.

Can't Listen to the Radio

Anyone ever notice that all the songs on the radio are about breaking up? or getting back together? or being "lost without you"? All of them. I just bought Deathcab for Cutie's Plans (to avoid the radio) and all the songs are about breaking up . . . or getting back together . . . or being lost without someone . . .

Gaahhhhghh!

Luckily, my brother made this punk/ska CD for me a year ago and it is less about breaking up/getting back together/being lost without someone and more about PUNCHING PEOPLE IN THE FACE . . . which somehow makes me smile. So I'm smiling again.

The Weakerthans (see sidebar) are touring. The closest they come to Detroit is Cleveland on July 9. So anyone want to go to Cleveland? Cause I'm goin' . . . with or without you.

Compared to Sylvia

Princess has now compared me to Sylvia Plath all day . . . and while I secretly treasure the literary comparision (as I think I am a terrible poet), I don't think she was comparing me to her in a literary sense.

"If I read one more sad entry on your blog, I'll slit my wrists . . ." said Princess this morning. So no more sad entries, folks, cause Princess is threatening to harm herself. From now on only bunnies and kittens and daisies and frolicking.

There is a piece of salami on my porch. I think the squirrels brought it as an offering. Either that or Pam is back and wants to feed Angel salami. Not sure. But there is definitely a lone piece of salami on my porch . . . slightly petrified, some chew marks, so a bit used.

How's that for happy thoughts?

Sorry, Feeling Poetic (Two Days in a Row)

I have exactly what I had before I met you . . .
same eyes, same smile, same skill sets,
same smart-ass mouth that gets me in trouble.

And I am now to thinking
about what annoyed me.
And I can place it in front of
my thoughts of the good.
And that makes things easier.
And the patch of loneliness
left by you is tended . . .

I have exactly what I had before I met you.
Same likes and dislikes,
same goals and dreams.
You just opened a door on
a dream I already had.
What hurt was the slamming shut.

I have exactly what I had before I met you.
I don't know why it felt like
you took something away.
There was nothing to take.
That I didn't have more of, anyhow.

I have exactly what I had before I met you,
and now that I don't know you.

Shaking the Etch-O-Sketch

Ah, Summer Nostalgia . . .
My students all have it.
Suddenly, I'm the coolest.
They all want me as a teacher next year.
All the trials of this year forgotten.
Sliding the bar of the magna-doodle in their minds.
Shaking the Etch-O-Sketch.
The pleasure of revisionist history.

Yet, the silver powder is
still scraped off on my Etch-O-Sketch
like when I kept making lines,
over and over,
to see the inner workings.
And I want revisionist history
but cannot obtain it.
Looping, over and over,
like an 8mm family film.

Quote of the Day

"You don't understand . . . what Emily is saying is that her flesh is burning and she needs to get back to her coffin." -- M2 translation of what I said a moment earlier in the conversation. (I was excusing myself because my flesh was burning and I did feel a need to get back to my coffin)

M2 is such a good Emily translator . . . I should hire her to be with me at all times . . . perhaps in a little box off to the right of my head.

Let the Voting Begin

After some tutorials and some just messing around, I figured out how to "color replace" in Photoshop this afternoon (after work . . . I do still teach sorta).

So here are the contenders for next week's hair choice. I'm a little fearful . . . I do still like the red, but I want to go with something fun for the summer. If they don't look as good as the red, say so and I'll stick with it. Plus, something in my gut tells me I'm too old for blue hair.

Stages of Grief

According to Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, there are four stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining and acceptance. She was taking about the process of death but the death of a relationship applies.

I think I may have slipped toward the anger stage.

No Matter How Much Mayo You Use

"No matter how much mayonaise you use, you still cannot make chicken salad out of chicken shit."

Kinda describing my week.

Even if you use shit from "family chickens".

Not My Words

One foot in front of the other. One foot back to counter it. Days like these, you've got to find it in some other way. It's all or nothing baby. Avalanche, start inside of me. Avalanche, down through the trees. Avalanche, start inside of me. Avalanche, hell down through the trees. If everyone's a casualty. Then take your time, there ain't no trouble. If the weather's fine and we're feeling crazy. There's always drinks and dancing in the rubble. I'm spinning and you're spinning. And the world's spinning and we're laughing. And I'm charming, the devil's charming. And we're ruined but we're building. And I'm selling and you're counting. The world's stopping but we keep going. And we're ruthless and we're cunning. And I'm heir to it all. Days like these you've got to find it in some other way. It's all or nothing baby. This key to your kingdom. This key to your heart. Neither one a doorway. But both of them a part. So one foot in front of the other.

Somehow it makes me feel better . . . Thank you, Matthew Good.

Focus and a Sunny Afternoon

Okay, back to center.
Thank you for the reality therapy, mother . . . I'm lucky to have you.
Thank you for the hockey-like hip check, Princess . . .

No sense in being over eager for what is going to happen in life. It will either happen or it will not happen. I have a great job, great friends (who put up with all this bullhockey), and a great family (though brutal at times). All of that has happened.

School is over in a week and a half. My sister bought a great new house. The IKEA in Canton opens tomorrow. Alittle retail therapy and I don't have CD's all over my house (though I have yet to alphabetize them) and I realized that you could probably buy 7 different versions of the song "Suck" on Napster or something.

And despite what my mother says, I have really great hair . . . just ask the girl at the gas station.

Break up the Pity Party

Part of this is being pissed at myself for being such an jerk in my twenties, for not having the self-esteem to date "nice" guys. Wasting so much time. Not figuring out how cool I was until now.

Part of this is grieving for a friendship that is now a vacuum.

Part of this is that I thought someone thought I was special . . . and I wasn't wrong. But now I have to jump back into the pool. And I'm cold and tired. I'm thirty-five. And let's face it, there aren't that many people in the pool anymore.

Rest assured, I'll jump back in. I'm tired of being alone. But I have to hurt. Sorry. Have to. I'm giving myself a week.

When you find someone who respects you, makes you feel special, thinks you're cool, looks at you with a smile that makes you feel like you are someone . . . hell, I don't care if it was all pretend. It was worth every minute. And as much as I hate to say it, every minute of the pain.

I learned a lot about what I want. Thank you.

This Morning

I swear to god I was coming to grips last night . . . and now there is this morning. And tomorrow morning will be better and the next . . . until it is all a fond memory. But right at this moment, a piece of my soul is missing. And I don't know where to find it to put it back.

And I want to know which morning I can roll over and go back to sleep.

I keep telling myself that I was love with the idea of him . . . but in the abstract, the idea of him was pretty much a mess, so pretty much I actually loved him. I let myself fall in love with him. And now that's gone. And it will never be the same.

There is an Ani DiFranco song, "I used to be a Superhero, no one could touch me . . . no not even myself. But you were like a phone booth, that I somehow stumbled into . . . now look at me . . . I am just like everybody else."

How I long for the day that I'll just roll over and go back to sleep . . . or maybe not wake up at all and yet, how I hate that someday I'll just roll over and go back to sleep.

He didn't feel the same. I get it. Doesn't make this moment in time any easier. But I almost hate the fact I that I know that it will get easier.

I Hate

I hate that I had to wear sunglasses on a walk . . . in the twilight . . . because I am spontaneously crying.
I hate that I was sitting on my parents' porch this morning at 6:30 because I couldn't be in my house.
I hate that I threw all my refrigerator magnets on the floor because he was the last to spell something out with them.
I hate that I don't know whether I can't eat because I'm upset or because of the stomach flu.
I hate that he gave me the stomach flu.
I hate that I want to crawl back into my hard exterior shell that I'm so good at wearing.
I hate that I'm going to have to get back on the "playing field" of a game that I don't like playing anymore.
I hate thinking that I will die alone.
I hate that we broke up because I liked him more than he liked me.
I hate that I let my guard down and liked him in the first place.
I hate that the center of my body just aches . . . and again I don't know if it's the damn flu.
I hate that no one (not even him now) can do anything about how I feel . . . that it's just going to have to be time.
I hate that I can't hate him, because he is really a good guy. (but trust me, I'll work at it)
I hate that we had what could be described as a "good" breakup . . . if there is such a thing.
I hate that my heart feels like tinfoil that's been crumpled up and stomped on.
I hate that I feel like I am wasting time being upset . . . but yet am still upset.
I hate that despite the fact that I projectile vomited and broke up with my boyfriend (yes, I said boyfriend), I still have papers to grade.
I hate the fact that someday I'll have to run into him and I'll have to act blase.
I hate that I had to say, "Then this has to end."
I hate that my mother said "You just tried too hard." and "It was only a matter of time."
I hate the fact that my mother may have been right on both counts.
I hate thinking that she was right.
I hate the "what ifs" and the self-doubt that I have right now.
I hate the fact that I'm considering that maybe being the "crazy cat lady" is easier than going through this ever again.
I hate that I have to consciously remind myself of what a great life I have and what fabulous friends and family I have.

I hate that I feel so alone.

It's Called a Breakup Because It's Broken

Just have to remember that . . .

Still really hard though.
He is/was really cool. I'll miss him.

Final After Effects

My brother seemed to think that it worked well with the sunglasses.

Plymouth-Canton elementary schools have "fun fairs" as fundraisers every year. Being a child of the former President of the Gallimore Elementary PTA, we went to the fun fair (heck, we worked the fun fair) every year. I remember it as a highlight in my elementary school education.

Now as an adult, I may like the fun fair even more (despite the illness this year) than when I was a child. I don't have to work at any games. I can buy all the tickets I want. And, as an extra added bonus, I can leave whenever I want, too. Sure there isn't as much running and leaping . . . and they won't let me on the Moonwalk.

I think there should be an adult time at the fun fair . . . serve alcohol and let the adults play on the moonwalk. Throw it from 10 p.m. to 4 a.m. They would make way more money.

Trip to Mad Scientist's Lab

He definitely had a "vision" with the blood.

Bugs in my Stomach

When my friend had the stomach flu this week, I was sympathetic . . . I offered oatmeal, I offered to go get stuff. I had no idea what all the moaning was about.

Now that I have left the fun fair early and spent the last 3 hours of my Friday night balled up in a heap in the middle of my bed, I have some appreciation. The fact that I just hurled my guts out with NO warning . . . made me really have an appreciation for how sick he felt.

A temporary thought . . . death probably feels better than this, right?

I think it only lasts 24-36 hours. If you don't hear from me after that, send the calvary.

Must go lie down now.

Dyke Spikes and a Death Spiral

I am death spiraling currently . . . looping on a line of text I read yesterday, which caused me to delete things and wait to return phone calls. Trust me, you didn't want me to return the phone call.

On a lighter note, it turns out that my haircut (at least when I stick it up) has a name. "Dyke Spikes" is what it is called by my students. Before you think I was offended in class or embarassed by a teenager, the teens were actually describing another student's hair, when I caught the word "dyke" which is not appropriate for my room. A conversation ensued about how they were really talking about "dikes", you know, the kind that hold back water and you stick your finger into . . . yeah, right. Anyhow, the boy's haircut is very similar to mine. (the students were so kind. they wouldn't admit that his hair was like mine . . . no, not at all)

So I have a dyke spike haircut . . . wonderful.

A Touch of Oompa Loompa

So every so often I am overcome by the girlyness . . . and do something totally insane that I KNOW is insane. This week one of the insane acts was to succumb to that combination of marketing and moisturizer called "Healthy Glow", which I will henceforth call "A touch of Oompa-Loompa".

The whole premise is that you put self-tanner in moisturizer . . . a "touch" of it, and over what is supposed to be several days, you overcome the pallor. Relieved of the pallor is actually what the advertisers want you to think (and Princess . . . who hates pallor. Hates it.) As I cannot tan; for two main reasons, being a. I go from white to lobster to white again . . . no matter how many times I repeat and b. my father just had a huge chunk of skin cancer dug out of this face; I figured that I might try "the touch of Oompa-Loompa" lotion.

While I do not currently look anything like an Oompa-Loompa (though I might get closer if I dye the muppet hair green), I could see where it could go in that direction. There are streaks of what look like sorta tan . . . which I'm sure are supposed to blend in with whatever streaks I add tonight. I guess if you get enough streaks, they blend together in an Oompa-Loompa like glow (a light-skinned Oompa-Loompa anyhow) . . . but that may be too much maintenance for me. So much for my adventure in girlyness for this week.

Thank god I went with the "touch of Oompa-Loompa" and not with the fake eyelashes . . . I could have put my eye out by now.

Re: Dear FBI

My Mom's blog is hilarious today.

Crocs

"So Dad, what do you think about Crocs?" my sister asked my father, after a conversation about his loafers.
"I don't like them."

"Do you think he knew I was talking about shoes?" my sister asked my mother as my father walked away.
"No, he thought you were talking about animals . . . your father, he doesn't like crocodiles."

"So Dad, you're morally opposed to crocodiles? What have crocodiles done to you? Have you even been in contact with a crocodile?"
"Crocodiles? Oh, I thought you were talking about crocks . . . you know, the ceramic kind? Your mother keeps buying them and they keep breaking all over the place . . . big mess."

So my father is getting two pairs of Crocs for father's day . . . a pair with holes and a pair without holes . . . so he can wear them to the Wal-mart instead of his loafers w/o socks. It will be better that way. Mere will not get him any crocks or crocodiles, honoring his dislikes.

Evil Bunny Barrette

Suggestive Bunny Barrettes

In getting ready to go out yesterday . . . I found the correct bunny barrette. The one that would be right side up. It took some digging in the "hair accessory" basket, but I found it. And I found it because I knew that it would annoy Princess. I spiked up the hair. I put on a fishnet shirt under my tank top (too much skin with just the tank). I put on Birkenstocks . . . because I just couldn't do heels for Gilbert's and a Piston's game. All would be annoying to Princess though.

Evidently the shirt and Birks were all good. The barrette, of course, got comments. First there was the questioning about where I got the barrette (Target, hair accessory aisle) (Troy Target . . . all Targets have slightly different stock, according to their markets). Then there was the questioning about what I was trying to "say" with the barrette. (that I'm weird enough to wear a bunny barrette at age 35?) Princess insisted that the bunny was suggestive . . . bunny ranch, Playboy bunnies, the fact that bunnies have sex all the time (I added the last one, Princess would never say that) . . . that someone wearing the bunny barrette was a secret symbol to the world that I wanted to get laid. There was questioning about what other animal barrette came in the package (Princess already knows the answer, everyone had the same barrettes in the seventies). How the butterfly would be much less suggestive . . . (I'm not sure about that).

We didn't talk to anyone but the waiter, who wasn't particularly interested in serving us, let alone flirting with us. So evidently, the bunny barrette is more subtle than a neon sign, despite what Princess says. And I was in bed, by myself, by 11 p.m. on a Saturday.

It's Official

They say that Memorial Day marks the beginning of the summer season . . . you can break out the white pants and shoes (but who would want to?), it stays light until 9 p.m., there's a bonfire in my parent backyard with smores. But really the mark of the start of summer was this morning, on the way to Lowe's to buy some flowers.

"So drive the Milford road way, so we can go to Dairy Queen and have flurries for breakfast." my mother says.

The real start of summer is when you can have a nerd flurry (or as the Dairy Queen lady corrected us: Blizzard) for breakfast.

The problem is I don't really want a whole nerd flurry . . . ever. Even for breakfast, when I have the rest of the day to burn off all the calories (176 million, I'm sure). I only really want half a small nerd flurry at any given time. But you can't share a nerd flurry . . . because no one (except me) likes ice cream whipped with nerd candy, unless they are maybe under the age of, say, four and a half. And I don't hang out with a lot of four year olds. I suppose I could just throw half of the nerd flurry away, but that seems wasteful of the nerds and flurry. And Dairy Queen just doesn't make a "snow shower", they only make blizzards, which are way too big.

But on the plus side, I don't have to think about eating for the rest of the day. And I found some black flowers at the Lowe's for my backyard. There are black flowers, who knew? So Addam's family. I can hardly stand it.

So summer is here.

They Even Have Cupcakes

So I'm out in the land that is suddenly on the map . . . due to all the news coverage and a now destroyed horse barn. Figured I'd come back tomorrow and troll the bars, hoping to pick up some F.B.I. guys. Maybe at the Dairy Queen.

No one at Stately Wayne Manor knows exactly where the farm is, that is being dug up in search of bones that are probably not there . . . but as we recall, there are bones everywhere here. Perhaps Z. and I were actually playing with the bones they are looking for. Deer bones, Hoffa bones, who can tell? Oh well, Z.'s mom threw out the bag of bones ages ago. Destined for the landfill off of Five Mile, I'm sure.

Quiet night with the 'rents. On a Friday night . . . I'm so lame, but I haven't seen them in a while and I missed them (and the yelling . . sorry Dad).

It has been brought up that it is strange to call your father "Mr. Crabbypants", especially to his face. But it must be understood that it is said with the upmost respect and love. And he is a crabbypants . . . sometimes. And sometimes, being called a Crabbypants will knock you down a notch when a person is being crabby. Just sayin'. He does the same for me. Honest.

Finally, Someone Loves Me!

Thanks to the tech guy at work, I have a gmail account!

iamthanu@gmail.com

I've been waiting forever for someone to invite me. Gmail is like a good street address . . . you'd must rather say that you live on say . . . Cranbrook Road, rather than 14 Mile. I feel so included in the cult of google. I feel so loved.

Scary Movies

I watched a really dumb horror movie last night. And not as in the parody, Evil Dead like genre, but a horror movie that took itself seriously. "The Hills Have Eyes" They must have bought out all the corn syrup and red food coloring in the state of California. A lot of it seemed to be gross for the sake of just being gross, shocking for the sake of being shocking. And there was this whole "Democrat gets mad and kicks a**" theme, where a pacifist main character is so overwrought by the killing of his wife and the stealing of his baby that he becomes a killing machine. I suppose it could happen . . . evidently it is curiously common in bad horror movies. But I never watch horror movies, so I don’t know this.

The reason I never watch horror movies? Because I am a wimp. I startle easily. I have to close my eyes through most of the scary parts, or what I think are going to be the scary parts (I don’t know, I have my eyes closed) which I judge by the music. I’m kind of okay with the gore . . . I can conceptualize special effects (I know they’re not real) but then whenever I close my eyes for the rest of the day (or worse night, when it’s dark) I will see certain scenes in my head.

After the scary movie (or book for that matter), I have to lock all the doors and check them, and then check them again and check all the windows and check the basement and then sit in bed with the four D cell mag light in my head so I can beat anyone up side the head who might come to get me.

Last night, I screamed three times (a least), hid my eyes for about a third of the movie and it must have hurt when I squeezed C. when that guy jumped on that other bloody guy without the finger (guess you had to be there). Yeah, so I’m a wimp. But it was really fun and I would have never gone on my own.

Well worth having to picture the geeky guy in a freezer full of body parts, every time I close my eyes.

. . . but Mercutio started it . . .

I was asked the age old question today, while reenacting Act III, Scene I of Romeo and Juliet. "Why do we have to learn this?"

"You have to admit that it is a good story . . . "
"Yeah, but in twenty years I won't need to know this."

I went on to say that we were analyzing great literature, which is a skill that everyone needs, and that it was about the process of that analysis, rather than the story or the analysis itself.

"Plus, we get to play with these plastic swords . . . " and that seemed to make more sense to them. (My mother buys me presents for my classroom at the dollar store . . . one day they had play swords . . . priceless for death scenes)

I get really into teaching Romeo and Juliet, but I have to admit that I understand it much more being through adolescence rather than in adolescence. It is different looking back at the implusiveness of youth, rather than trying to reflect while in the middle of it. Plus there are all those raunchy parts . . . which I so didn't get in ninth grade. And so I stand, with plastic sword in hand, trying to get across that Romeo and Juliet marry nineteen hours after laying eyes on each other because Shakespeare wanted to explore that teenagers just don't think, about consequences, etc. in a room full of teenagers who just don't think about consequences, etc. Kind of ironic.

What I've learned? They pay more attention with the plastic swords and death scenes.

There was NO way . . .

I was doin' ninety. I drive like a grandmother (E2 shouts this from the rooftops). And yet, as the cop pulled me over and walked over with her very short hair and regulation hat (on correctly) . . . I knew I was going to get a ticket. For some reason, female policepersons do not like me. Do not like me at all. I would like to blame it on the hair . . . but it was before the hair. Maybe it's how I smell, but probably it's my attitude. Well, definitely it's my attitude.

"Do you know how fast you were going?" Of course I knew how fast I was going . . . well, that's not true, I don't actually know exactly how fast . . . but I slowed down when I saw your blue car with the flashers, didn't I? Which is what got me in trouble. The car in front of me was going faster, but didn't slow down as fast, or as obviously. In my guilt (at going 72 mph), I slowed down and changed lanes behind a truck. I really had to slow down to get behind the truck, which Ms. Policewoman took to mean that I was going really, really fast. As E2, ask my brothers . . . I never go really fast.

So I was written up for ten over. I have to go to court three hours away. I think it's two points. All for going to Kalamazoo on a Saturday morning. I really should have stayed in bed.

My sister's house it cute though . . . so well, worth the trip. The trip that will now be called the "$1000 trip to Kalamazoo" (by the time the insurance company gets done with me).

Being of the Crabbypants

I just had to sign something that basically said that I wouldn't be crabby anymore . . . it was symbolic and some sort of "team building" romantic "can't we just all get along" thing. The latest mantra is "if we're just more positive, things will be great!"

While I'm sure this worked for many, many organizations . . . Enron for example and (I know, I never thought it would come out of my mouth) the Bush administration (sorry, George, really) . . . it really just brings out my oppositionally defiant streak. I now want a T-shirt that says "I'm not feeling positive" (this was a note written to me in a meeting today) so I can close my door and people will just leave me alone. So I won't get lectured about the power of positive thinking. Give me something positive to think about instead . . .

Oh, and people touched me today. Put their hands on my shoulders from behind. I wish I had a picture of the look on my face, because I'm sure it was priceless. I'm sure it was something between shock, horror and the visible plan painted across my face that I would soon punch someone.

Description of my Dysfunctionalness

"So let me get this straight . . . you're like . . . you're too far away, come closer . . . no wait, you're too close . . . now you're too far away . . . no, too close . . . nope, too far . . . "

Even though the poor guy is standing still . . . metaphorically at least?

Yup, that's pretty much it. Ack, too close . . . but wait, no, too far. I'm going to start carrying a paper bag in my purse, for all the hyperventilation.

Better than some things I could carry, I guess.