I went to Luna last night.
Intrigued by "free green beer" and the fact that I have never been there . . . plus there was the idea supplied by someone that old punk rockers hang out there, which of course is exactly what one looks for in a future husband . . . I dragged my poor friend H out on St. Patrick's Day.
We met there, so I had to walk in alone. And as I walked through the door, I was magically transported to the year 1988 or 1989 . . . and magically transported to what looked like someone's basement. And as much as I like Joy Division, it's amazing harder to dance to when you are not a depressed, mopey teenager.
Hell yes, I danced. Some sixty year old in Nikes, sweatpants and a baseball cap danced with me. It was very goth . . . or about as goth as it was in 1989 when he was dancing in City Club in less comfortable clothing. And dancing when you are in your thirties to music that you listened to as a teenager? Well, in some ways you are less self-conscious . . . it's your music, you know it inside and out. Your anthems. Rock on. And in some ways, as least I, was more self-conscious because I was well aware how dumb we all looked. My teenage students would have been mortified (and I guess since I am now old enough to be their mother, rightfully so).
We couldn't talk. It was smoky. And really loud. And very dark . . . except for the black lights. And I did not plan for black lights, did not lint brush appropriately. All of this made me long for the Front or the Emory, where I could sit down and have a conversation. Because I am old.
And there was no one that I remotely wanted to talk to, other than the people I was with . . . well, except for the guy in the homemade Ghostbusters costume, but only for these two questions: 1. What does the movie Ghostbusters have to do with St. Patrick's Day? (because the guy in the kilt, I get) And depending on the answer to one . . . 2. Why?
I know, I know, I want to dye my hair blue over the summer and therefore should not judge the man who carefully painted plastic plates and combined them with L.E.D.s to go out, complete with patches on his flight suit. But it's so hard not to.
So Luna . . . some goth kid's basement on steroids . . . with weird "I'm trying to be a suicide girl" bartenders, who don't quite make it (although everyone was incredibly nice) (despite the fact that they were almost naked, and therefore probably cold) some people wearing the same clothes (I did wear my leather jacket, circa 1991, so . . . guilty)
And if I wanna dance . . . well, I like my kitchen much better for the dancing.
And no, the free green beer did not pass by my lips . . . there was Guinness, though it was in a bottle.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Saturday, March 17, 2007
What I Learned Last Night
I learned that in the age of cell phones, one cannot give a false phone number. Because it's then really uncomfortable when the man of non-interest calls it immediately. And your phone doesn't ring.
So the best course of action is to just say "No".
Thank you, Nancy Reagan.
So the best course of action is to just say "No".
Thank you, Nancy Reagan.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Tide Envy
I religiously use two kinds of laundry detergent. Tide Coldwater for darks . . . and there are a lot of "darks" because otherwise my heart would have to be a different color . . . and Tide "Clean Breeze" for everything else. I do not trust the cold water stuff for everything, because whites, well, I just can't wash them in cold. Warm maybe, but not cold.
I was hooked on the "Clean Breeze" scent stuff by my sister, who proclaimed it's goodness a couple of years ago in the middle of the Target. Been using it ever since.
So last weekend, in a rare Target clearance browsing sister event (as she now lives in K-Zoo and I get speeding tickets going to K-Zoo) I mentioned that the clean breeze stuff was hard to find.
"Oh, I use the purple cap stuff." in a tone like she had used it forever.
"Purple cap stuff?"
"Yeah, the frebreze lavender stuff."
"You changed Tides?"
"I don't know. I picked it up one day. It smells good."
Now just to clarify, I don't think I'm the kind of girl that goes for persnickety detergents . . . I know that deep down (or maybe not so deep down) I am that kind of girl. But I don't like to admit it. So using a specific kind of Tide because my sister said it smelled better, somehow negated the fact that I couldn't just buy regular stuff. And we won't even go into my brand loyalty problems . . . that's from my mother. If they stop making Tide? Well, I'll just have to persistently buy new clothes.
"But you told me the clean breeze stuff smelled good . . . "
"Yeah, this stuff smells better."
"So purple cap kind? Cause I only bought clean breeze because you endorsed it."
"You buy Tide because I say so?"
"Well . . . yeah."
"That's so weird. I had no idea I had so much power . . . over your laundry choices."
I was hooked on the "Clean Breeze" scent stuff by my sister, who proclaimed it's goodness a couple of years ago in the middle of the Target. Been using it ever since.
So last weekend, in a rare Target clearance browsing sister event (as she now lives in K-Zoo and I get speeding tickets going to K-Zoo) I mentioned that the clean breeze stuff was hard to find.
"Oh, I use the purple cap stuff." in a tone like she had used it forever.
"Purple cap stuff?"
"Yeah, the frebreze lavender stuff."
"You changed Tides?"
"I don't know. I picked it up one day. It smells good."
Now just to clarify, I don't think I'm the kind of girl that goes for persnickety detergents . . . I know that deep down (or maybe not so deep down) I am that kind of girl. But I don't like to admit it. So using a specific kind of Tide because my sister said it smelled better, somehow negated the fact that I couldn't just buy regular stuff. And we won't even go into my brand loyalty problems . . . that's from my mother. If they stop making Tide? Well, I'll just have to persistently buy new clothes.
"But you told me the clean breeze stuff smelled good . . . "
"Yeah, this stuff smells better."
"So purple cap kind? Cause I only bought clean breeze because you endorsed it."
"You buy Tide because I say so?"
"Well . . . yeah."
"That's so weird. I had no idea I had so much power . . . over your laundry choices."
Franny and Zooey
On Fridays we have silent reading and as a modeling activity I have been reading a lot of Salinger. Again, of course.
So I found this great quote to write about. But I didn't bring the school's copy of the book home and figured that I would be able to find it in my "library". I know I've bought the book at least once (I know I've bought Neuromancer more than once) and I also am realizing that I have forgotten to return one to a library (or two). But I have no copy of Franny and Zooey in the house. And the quote as long been forgotten in the trials of my never being able to leave high school life. (I keep telling the kids that someday I may graduate . . . someday)
Neuromancer is gone too.
So somewhere, with all of my lost socks are multiple copies of paperbacks. Damn those underwear gnomes.
So un-Salinger . . . the underwear gnomes. Either that, or very Salinger. I'm not sure which.
So I found this great quote to write about. But I didn't bring the school's copy of the book home and figured that I would be able to find it in my "library". I know I've bought the book at least once (I know I've bought Neuromancer more than once) and I also am realizing that I have forgotten to return one to a library (or two). But I have no copy of Franny and Zooey in the house. And the quote as long been forgotten in the trials of my never being able to leave high school life. (I keep telling the kids that someday I may graduate . . . someday)
Neuromancer is gone too.
So somewhere, with all of my lost socks are multiple copies of paperbacks. Damn those underwear gnomes.
So un-Salinger . . . the underwear gnomes. Either that, or very Salinger. I'm not sure which.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Not too Hard . . . Not too Soft
Today was one of those sneaky Michigan days. You stand outside and think to yourself . . . "yeah, maybe the weather isn't so bad." You almost convince yourself that it is nice to live here, that there are perks . . . the perks of spring . . . that certain smelliness, the feel of the air.
But having lived in Michigan for 34 years (I did a 2 year stint in Cleveland, but I don't remember it, so it's okay) I know it's all a sham. We still have at least a month of winter. Today, in it's seventy degree goodness, is just a test of our resolve. A trick. By Friday, it will be all snowy. Or worse, just cold and gray.
I walked to the YMCA tonight. In a light jacket. With sunglasses on. And it was extremely pleasant . . . I wasn't too hot . . . I wasn't too cold . . .
Today, was the Goldilocks of Michigan weather.
But having lived in Michigan for 34 years (I did a 2 year stint in Cleveland, but I don't remember it, so it's okay) I know it's all a sham. We still have at least a month of winter. Today, in it's seventy degree goodness, is just a test of our resolve. A trick. By Friday, it will be all snowy. Or worse, just cold and gray.
I walked to the YMCA tonight. In a light jacket. With sunglasses on. And it was extremely pleasant . . . I wasn't too hot . . . I wasn't too cold . . .
Today, was the Goldilocks of Michigan weather.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Not So Fabulous Anymore
Whenever my father gets bad service, or is unsatisfied with something, he will proclaim that the establishment is "off the list".
(I don't know where the list is . . . in his head? written on some piece of paper on his desk? which looks exactly like mine, by the way. I come by my organizational patterns honestly and directly through genetics)
Well, the city of Ferndale . . . it is off the list.
It seems when I was in attendance at bad blind date no. 423 (the "oh no, you're skinny enough to date" guy) I received a parking ticket for having an expired meter. I did not have enough quarters on the night in question and figured I would "chance" the last half hour before 9 p.m. When I arrived at my car at the end of the awkwardness, I found a parking ticket which informed me that I had a week to pay $6.00. Seems reasonable to me. I did play parking roulette.
As an aside, or perhaps more accurately, another aside, I have never, ever paid a parking ticket on time in my life. Maybe it's my desk organization style . . . or my life organization style. But I always pay those suckers late, and happily pay the extra money . . . because I was late.
But this time, for the first time in my life, maybe because I'm getting things more under control, maybe because I'm more grown up, maybe because I didn't want to pay the outrageous late fee; I paid this ticket ON TIME. Quite the turning point. I dropped my six dollar check in the drop box. I even made sure that the check cashed. A new high point. And all was forgotten.
Yesterday, I received a letter from the "City of Ferndale Bureau of Parking Enforcement". Hmm . . . did I forget about a ticket? No. The nasty letter and bill contained in the envelope says that I now owe $42.00 for a ticket received in November and then proceeds to tell me all the awful things they are going to do if I do not pay $42.00 right now, right now, RIGHT NOW. But I paid the ticket. So I call the number on the nasty letter, which leads me through a maze of automated voices, none of which will help me or direct me to a human. Then I call the City of Ferndale police department . . . because they are the people who wrote the ticket, right? Nope, I have to call the court but the court is not open. Says I should call during "normal business hours" . . . and I don't know about them, but I work during "normal business hours" and I work far away from the City of Ferndale and their money-hungry parking violation department. So now, I have to go to the court building, in the currently non-fabulous city of Ferndale, during "normal" business hours to contest an obvious clerical error, because I have a printout of the cancelled check. And frankly, paying $42.00 would be easier, and cheaper in the long run, than doing the badgering that I'm going to have to do to get this fixed.
But I won't. I paid the damn ticket. On time, no less. So I will go. I will get a sub. I will drive to Ferndale during "normal" business hours. And I will be polite as possible. And I will stare lovingly into their eyes, as I slide the copy of the cancelled check through the slot in the safety glass. And I will smile at my reflection, as I muse about how this may be why municipalities need safety glass . . . to keep me from throttling someone. I will nod with mock concern and sympathy as they tell me there is nothing they can do and I must fill out form 5623A in triplicate and turn it in with copies of my license plate, driver license and a pint of blood gathered during the new moon on a Tuesday.
Because it's the principal of the thing, damn it.
And Ferndale. The whole city of Ferndale. They are sooooo off the list. At least before 9 p.m..
(I don't know where the list is . . . in his head? written on some piece of paper on his desk? which looks exactly like mine, by the way. I come by my organizational patterns honestly and directly through genetics)
Well, the city of Ferndale . . . it is off the list.
It seems when I was in attendance at bad blind date no. 423 (the "oh no, you're skinny enough to date" guy) I received a parking ticket for having an expired meter. I did not have enough quarters on the night in question and figured I would "chance" the last half hour before 9 p.m. When I arrived at my car at the end of the awkwardness, I found a parking ticket which informed me that I had a week to pay $6.00. Seems reasonable to me. I did play parking roulette.
As an aside, or perhaps more accurately, another aside, I have never, ever paid a parking ticket on time in my life. Maybe it's my desk organization style . . . or my life organization style. But I always pay those suckers late, and happily pay the extra money . . . because I was late.
But this time, for the first time in my life, maybe because I'm getting things more under control, maybe because I'm more grown up, maybe because I didn't want to pay the outrageous late fee; I paid this ticket ON TIME. Quite the turning point. I dropped my six dollar check in the drop box. I even made sure that the check cashed. A new high point. And all was forgotten.
Yesterday, I received a letter from the "City of Ferndale Bureau of Parking Enforcement". Hmm . . . did I forget about a ticket? No. The nasty letter and bill contained in the envelope says that I now owe $42.00 for a ticket received in November and then proceeds to tell me all the awful things they are going to do if I do not pay $42.00 right now, right now, RIGHT NOW. But I paid the ticket. So I call the number on the nasty letter, which leads me through a maze of automated voices, none of which will help me or direct me to a human. Then I call the City of Ferndale police department . . . because they are the people who wrote the ticket, right? Nope, I have to call the court but the court is not open. Says I should call during "normal business hours" . . . and I don't know about them, but I work during "normal business hours" and I work far away from the City of Ferndale and their money-hungry parking violation department. So now, I have to go to the court building, in the currently non-fabulous city of Ferndale, during "normal" business hours to contest an obvious clerical error, because I have a printout of the cancelled check. And frankly, paying $42.00 would be easier, and cheaper in the long run, than doing the badgering that I'm going to have to do to get this fixed.
But I won't. I paid the damn ticket. On time, no less. So I will go. I will get a sub. I will drive to Ferndale during "normal" business hours. And I will be polite as possible. And I will stare lovingly into their eyes, as I slide the copy of the cancelled check through the slot in the safety glass. And I will smile at my reflection, as I muse about how this may be why municipalities need safety glass . . . to keep me from throttling someone. I will nod with mock concern and sympathy as they tell me there is nothing they can do and I must fill out form 5623A in triplicate and turn it in with copies of my license plate, driver license and a pint of blood gathered during the new moon on a Tuesday.
Because it's the principal of the thing, damn it.
And Ferndale. The whole city of Ferndale. They are sooooo off the list. At least before 9 p.m..
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Monday, March 05, 2007
Crap, I'm Old
So I'm chatting with my jewelry class instructor and somehow high school comes up . . . because I teach high school. He was talking about how dumb his high school yearbook was, I think.
"So what high school did you go to?"
"Blankity Blank High School"
"Really, what year did you graduate? I did my student teaching there."
"Oh my God, I knew you looked familar."
Yes, I taught my jewelry instructor in art class his junior year of high school. And don't feel a bit old . . . shit.
"So what high school did you go to?"
"Blankity Blank High School"
"Really, what year did you graduate? I did my student teaching there."
"Oh my God, I knew you looked familar."
Yes, I taught my jewelry instructor in art class his junior year of high school. And don't feel a bit old . . . shit.
Love Song
My life has disintegrated into The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock . . .
and the boys, they come and go, talking of Michelangelo
Yeah, maybe the month of March is off too.
At least I don't have to think about work.
and the boys, they come and go, talking of Michelangelo
Yeah, maybe the month of March is off too.
At least I don't have to think about work.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Do for Me
"So what do you want a man to do for you?"
I was asked this yesterday by a very sincere, earnest boy, who is dating my best friend. He is in love. Totally, unbashedly, in love. And like most people in love . . . he wants everyone else to feel like he's feeling. So he is trying to set me up.
And I was totally taken aback by the question. Do for me? I don't want anyone to do anything for me. Maybe that's my problem? Or his slip of the tongue . . . he really just wanted my list, the list of what I am looking for. And I have forgotten all about my list. Seems it only takes a month off to forget totally and be at a loss for words.
When I was in my twenties, I thought I had men all figured out . . . I worked at an all boys' school, with primarily male teachers. My thought was that the male brain was simple. Linear. There were clear established patterns. Food. Sex. Money. Power. But now, after this week, not so sure that I have it figured out. Well, actually, I know that I attribute more emotion and thought to what is there. But it never occured to me . . . men like to do things. They are doers.
Hmmm. . . so what do I want a man to do for me? Sounds so . . . put on your loincloth and get go me some bison.
I was asked this yesterday by a very sincere, earnest boy, who is dating my best friend. He is in love. Totally, unbashedly, in love. And like most people in love . . . he wants everyone else to feel like he's feeling. So he is trying to set me up.
And I was totally taken aback by the question. Do for me? I don't want anyone to do anything for me. Maybe that's my problem? Or his slip of the tongue . . . he really just wanted my list, the list of what I am looking for. And I have forgotten all about my list. Seems it only takes a month off to forget totally and be at a loss for words.
When I was in my twenties, I thought I had men all figured out . . . I worked at an all boys' school, with primarily male teachers. My thought was that the male brain was simple. Linear. There were clear established patterns. Food. Sex. Money. Power. But now, after this week, not so sure that I have it figured out. Well, actually, I know that I attribute more emotion and thought to what is there. But it never occured to me . . . men like to do things. They are doers.
Hmmm. . . so what do I want a man to do for me? Sounds so . . . put on your loincloth and get go me some bison.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Same Place, Year Later
Amazing how things come full circle . . .
Scanning pictures. Talking on im. Emails about me always wanting the last word. Making mixed CDs for M1.
And it's March. Must decide if I'm taking this month off too.
Oh, and I must do my nails tomorrow. And call my ratfink brother to see if he sent the gift for the other brother.
Scanning pictures. Talking on im. Emails about me always wanting the last word. Making mixed CDs for M1.
And it's March. Must decide if I'm taking this month off too.
Oh, and I must do my nails tomorrow. And call my ratfink brother to see if he sent the gift for the other brother.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
I Still Like to Touch It
Oh, and it's the end of an era . . . I bought my first album on itunes. Takes forever to download though. Might take less time to drive to Recordtime.
It was the Neverending White Lights -- goodbye friends of the heavenly bodies . . . for those who were interested.
It was the Neverending White Lights -- goodbye friends of the heavenly bodies . . . for those who were interested.
Speaking of Reputation
"Emily's heart is as black as her pants."
A colleague said this on his way out of the building, just loud enough so I could hear it as I walked out of my classroom (so loud, because that's a really long way down the hallway).
Now I've done nothing to this guy. He is on the periphery of my work friends . . . a friend of a friend. He is rude to waitstaff, which bothers me tremendously. Maybe it's that I call him on it.
So, yeah, trying to not take that personally.
A colleague said this on his way out of the building, just loud enough so I could hear it as I walked out of my classroom (so loud, because that's a really long way down the hallway).
Now I've done nothing to this guy. He is on the periphery of my work friends . . . a friend of a friend. He is rude to waitstaff, which bothers me tremendously. Maybe it's that I call him on it.
So, yeah, trying to not take that personally.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Icy
My father, Mr. Crabbypants, suffers from what we call "White Panic". The white panic is an obsession with sidewalk cleanliness in the winter. It means shoveling when there are just flurries on the ground and salt. A tremendous amount of salt. Because where there is salt, there can be no ice.
Evidently, Berkley had an ice storm this morning. I woke up to a thick layer of ice on my cars and driveway. The sidewalk? Well, because of the construction and diggers, there is a bigger lake than usual. Iced over, of course. And my reaction to this? I went back to bed. No white panic here.
This evening, it occurred to me that I should do something about the iciness, lest the mail person slip, fall and die on my porch. I don't do well with guilt . . . and slaying the mail person with ice negligence? I think there would be some guilt. So while spending my bi-weekly $100 at Meijers on liquids and yogurt, I picked up some salt. Because I've been taught that salt will fix it.
It was treacherous, taking the liquids and yogurt into the house. And then I started with the salt. I have a very nice scoop, made from a wiper fluid bottle, as all the scoops are made in my family, for everything. And you know what? The salt has done nothing. A bit more traction, that's it. It's just sitting there.
Let's hope that it's sunny and warm tomorrow. And that the mail person is careful, with spikes on their shoes. And my apologies to Mr. Crabbypants. Because if he saw my walk, he would disown me.
Evidently, Berkley had an ice storm this morning. I woke up to a thick layer of ice on my cars and driveway. The sidewalk? Well, because of the construction and diggers, there is a bigger lake than usual. Iced over, of course. And my reaction to this? I went back to bed. No white panic here.
This evening, it occurred to me that I should do something about the iciness, lest the mail person slip, fall and die on my porch. I don't do well with guilt . . . and slaying the mail person with ice negligence? I think there would be some guilt. So while spending my bi-weekly $100 at Meijers on liquids and yogurt, I picked up some salt. Because I've been taught that salt will fix it.
It was treacherous, taking the liquids and yogurt into the house. And then I started with the salt. I have a very nice scoop, made from a wiper fluid bottle, as all the scoops are made in my family, for everything. And you know what? The salt has done nothing. A bit more traction, that's it. It's just sitting there.
Let's hope that it's sunny and warm tomorrow. And that the mail person is careful, with spikes on their shoes. And my apologies to Mr. Crabbypants. Because if he saw my walk, he would disown me.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
"I'm Drafty"
I went out with the girls last night. While at this East Side bar . . . because God forbid we leave the confinds of that town that they live in . . . and they all live there . . . there was an awful band, very much like the SNL skit with the music teachers who play everywhere. So it was hard to hear over the third round of Jimmy Buffett but . . .
" . . . and I was drafty. So my father said to just get up and we left."
"You were what?"
"You know. Drafty."
"Like 'the room had a draft'?"
"Yes, I was drafty, so they moved us in the restaurant."
"You can't describe yourself as having drafts."
"I don't have drafts. I was cold."
"Drafty?"
So folks, drafty now also means "being affected, or persecuted by drafts" and therefore a person can actually be drafty. According to Princess. And since she is a high mucky, muck in the Language Arts community (there's a Language Arts community?), it sticks.
Also, if people are upset with you . . .
M2: "You better watch it. You're going to get a horse's head thrown at your house."
Princess: "Or fish. Dead fish on your lawn."
"There were no dead fish in The Godfather."
Princess: "What? No, there were dead fish. And they're are going to be thrown on your lawn."
" . . . and I was drafty. So my father said to just get up and we left."
"You were what?"
"You know. Drafty."
"Like 'the room had a draft'?"
"Yes, I was drafty, so they moved us in the restaurant."
"You can't describe yourself as having drafts."
"I don't have drafts. I was cold."
"Drafty?"
So folks, drafty now also means "being affected, or persecuted by drafts" and therefore a person can actually be drafty. According to Princess. And since she is a high mucky, muck in the Language Arts community (there's a Language Arts community?), it sticks.
Also, if people are upset with you . . .
M2: "You better watch it. You're going to get a horse's head thrown at your house."
Princess: "Or fish. Dead fish on your lawn."
"There were no dead fish in The Godfather."
Princess: "What? No, there were dead fish. And they're are going to be thrown on your lawn."
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Another Day
I lived through class tonight. Did my quiz. Received another annoying assignment. Ahh, to see the other side . . . doing art for the man. I just want to take pictures . . . I don't want them to mean anything. I don't want to question "the reality" of my photography. But I'll suck it up and do it. Still haven't finished the other assignment. Hell, still haven't come up with a plan for the other assignment. Really glad I didn't decide to become a photo major way back when. Evidently, what I'm doing is much more my calling.
I need to get some sleep. I remembered to eat tonight. One more day and it will be Saturday.
I need to get some sleep. I remembered to eat tonight. One more day and it will be Saturday.
Buttons I Do Not Want Pushed
Once upon a time, not all that long ago, I was in love. A visceral "I can't explain it but somehow we are meant to be together" kind of love. And there were extreme differences. And different expectations. And hurt getting in the way.
And now I am not in love. I have a crush on a know it all that I'm currently suppressing. But it's just a crush. And he is not available anyhow. And I'm taking the month off.
Yesterday, I went out with a friend and the thing that caused my limbic storm last week . . . happened. I didn't recognize him at first. We sat four feet from each other. We pleasantly ignored each other. I was working under the "I never want to speak to you again" paradigm. Things were okay. I did not spontaneously combust. It had to happen sooner or later. We like some of the same things, the same places. We did not speak. We avoided eye contact. It was fine. Funny.
I arrived home to find an email. An apologetic email. An olive branch, when I didn't think that would ever be a possibility. And now, I don't know if I want it to be a possibility.
And now I sit, picking at scabs . . . reading what I wrote at the time to remember the pain, the loss. To remember that I don't want to do that again. To go there. And photos that I took during a better time are suddenly posted as icons. And the wounds open again. Wounds that I had stitched carefully. And again, I have no words for what I feel. It is simply felt . . . a connection that cannot be explained.
So I will tell myself that he is simply lonely. He saw me, therefore thought of me, and found the pictures (they are good pictures). He doesn't know that they would bring me back to the moment that I took them. That the pictures are a more effective button pushing mechanism than anything he could write in a "I'm trying to be breezy" email.
And I will do nothing. Remain paralyzed for the moment. I do not want the buttons to be pushed.
And now I am not in love. I have a crush on a know it all that I'm currently suppressing. But it's just a crush. And he is not available anyhow. And I'm taking the month off.
Yesterday, I went out with a friend and the thing that caused my limbic storm last week . . . happened. I didn't recognize him at first. We sat four feet from each other. We pleasantly ignored each other. I was working under the "I never want to speak to you again" paradigm. Things were okay. I did not spontaneously combust. It had to happen sooner or later. We like some of the same things, the same places. We did not speak. We avoided eye contact. It was fine. Funny.
I arrived home to find an email. An apologetic email. An olive branch, when I didn't think that would ever be a possibility. And now, I don't know if I want it to be a possibility.
And now I sit, picking at scabs . . . reading what I wrote at the time to remember the pain, the loss. To remember that I don't want to do that again. To go there. And photos that I took during a better time are suddenly posted as icons. And the wounds open again. Wounds that I had stitched carefully. And again, I have no words for what I feel. It is simply felt . . . a connection that cannot be explained.
So I will tell myself that he is simply lonely. He saw me, therefore thought of me, and found the pictures (they are good pictures). He doesn't know that they would bring me back to the moment that I took them. That the pictures are a more effective button pushing mechanism than anything he could write in a "I'm trying to be breezy" email.
And I will do nothing. Remain paralyzed for the moment. I do not want the buttons to be pushed.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Careful
Oh, how I love it when life (or the fates) kicks you in the teeth.
I'll be spitting out blood and sticking my tongue to the wounds, distractedly, for days. Metaphorically, of course.
I'll be spitting out blood and sticking my tongue to the wounds, distractedly, for days. Metaphorically, of course.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
What I Have Learned Today . . . So Far
How to download podcasts . . . am now "subscribed" to This American Life -- I hope it's not like my Free Press subscription.
How to make playlists . . . okay, kinda cheating . . . I've done it before on other applications. But unlike previous attempts, these playlist actually worked. I made one for cardio and one for weights. There's nothing worse than being stuck on "Sampson" by Regina Specktor while trying to keep your heart rate up, ditto for the other way around. And yes, I'm now so geeky about working out that I have playlists for it. Perhaps I will make one for photo class too.
That when questioning what to wear . . . I will ultimately go with the black cashmere sweater and jeans. I probably should invest in more black cashmere at this point. (Going with the gray one today)
That every so often, you need to blast an old classic . . . say Sisters of Mercy . . . "I Was Wrong" . . . just cause it's fun . . .
That I really need to keep a list of the music (remember? The right brainers HAVE to make lists . . . and don't like to . . . I keep losing them, actually) that I want to buy. Going to the good "record" store tonight -- have an engagement in Ferndale. Engagement? Meeting? Occasion? Hmmm . . . meeting a friend for coffee in Ferndale tonight, which means a quick look through the Old Navy and CD shopping.
Oh, and I have too many size 7 16 inch circular needles and nothing else . . . meaning I will have to buy two pairs of needles in the next week.
DON'T listen to the eighteen year old Nordstrom salesgirl when she says that the jeans will just shrink "up". Although I still love them and they still make my butt look good . . . they aren't any shorter, and they are going to have to "warm up" on my body for a while. They are no longer put in the dryer jeans.
And it has occurred to me that I'm being a Wembler . . . need to stop that.
How to make playlists . . . okay, kinda cheating . . . I've done it before on other applications. But unlike previous attempts, these playlist actually worked. I made one for cardio and one for weights. There's nothing worse than being stuck on "Sampson" by Regina Specktor while trying to keep your heart rate up, ditto for the other way around. And yes, I'm now so geeky about working out that I have playlists for it. Perhaps I will make one for photo class too.
That when questioning what to wear . . . I will ultimately go with the black cashmere sweater and jeans. I probably should invest in more black cashmere at this point. (Going with the gray one today)
That every so often, you need to blast an old classic . . . say Sisters of Mercy . . . "I Was Wrong" . . . just cause it's fun . . .
That I really need to keep a list of the music (remember? The right brainers HAVE to make lists . . . and don't like to . . . I keep losing them, actually) that I want to buy. Going to the good "record" store tonight -- have an engagement in Ferndale. Engagement? Meeting? Occasion? Hmmm . . . meeting a friend for coffee in Ferndale tonight, which means a quick look through the Old Navy and CD shopping.
Oh, and I have too many size 7 16 inch circular needles and nothing else . . . meaning I will have to buy two pairs of needles in the next week.
DON'T listen to the eighteen year old Nordstrom salesgirl when she says that the jeans will just shrink "up". Although I still love them and they still make my butt look good . . . they aren't any shorter, and they are going to have to "warm up" on my body for a while. They are no longer put in the dryer jeans.
And it has occurred to me that I'm being a Wembler . . . need to stop that.
Monday, February 19, 2007
I'll Just Knit Instead
My headache is finally gone . . . after 48 hours of lingering. Needless to say, I did not go snowboarding, although today would have been an excellent day for it. But snowboarding with a migraine just didn't sound like fun.
And snowboarding alone just doesn't sound like fun, either. I want to learn to do it . . . and I can't seem to find someone to go with me . . . but there seem to be "hot chocolate kiosks" according to my mother, so that seems comforting. (I've never been skiing, so there is a black void in my brain as to what to expect. My mental image is a kinda surreal Sound of Music movie set kind of thing, which is wrong, I'm sure.) I do have wrist guards. And knee pads. I found some at Target for $3.74. Best bargin find all month.
The Lily Allen CD is good angry girl music. I suggest it. Kinda dirty and some f-bombs . . . but bouncy.
Let's see . . . I sliced my fingers three times in class tonight. Was introduced to the band-aid storage, as I was bleeding all over. There is a paramedic in the class, who offered to give me stitches. Invested (covered in plaster) a pretty cool skully ring and some hemlock pinecones (itty-bitty pinecones), so if everything works out Mere, Mom and I will have matching necklaces. The dragon ring is cleaning up nicely, but I need to make sure my wax models are cleaner. I get impatient and then have to file and sand the metal, which is harder to do. In metal the imperfections are easier to see however. (I'll end up using five different colors of wax and the prof doesn't like alcohol burners, so uses candles instead. This causes lots of burnt wax and ash in your wax.) I might want to cast the hemlock in white gold . . . the instructors eyes lit up when I asked about it. 90 grams though. Expensive.
Am toying with the idea of going to the D to take pictures tonight but again, with the alone. So will stay in the house. I guess I can go tomorrow in the daylight. If I was a really good student, I would get up at sunrise. (so not going to happen)
And snowboarding alone just doesn't sound like fun, either. I want to learn to do it . . . and I can't seem to find someone to go with me . . . but there seem to be "hot chocolate kiosks" according to my mother, so that seems comforting. (I've never been skiing, so there is a black void in my brain as to what to expect. My mental image is a kinda surreal Sound of Music movie set kind of thing, which is wrong, I'm sure.) I do have wrist guards. And knee pads. I found some at Target for $3.74. Best bargin find all month.
The Lily Allen CD is good angry girl music. I suggest it. Kinda dirty and some f-bombs . . . but bouncy.
Let's see . . . I sliced my fingers three times in class tonight. Was introduced to the band-aid storage, as I was bleeding all over. There is a paramedic in the class, who offered to give me stitches. Invested (covered in plaster) a pretty cool skully ring and some hemlock pinecones (itty-bitty pinecones), so if everything works out Mere, Mom and I will have matching necklaces. The dragon ring is cleaning up nicely, but I need to make sure my wax models are cleaner. I get impatient and then have to file and sand the metal, which is harder to do. In metal the imperfections are easier to see however. (I'll end up using five different colors of wax and the prof doesn't like alcohol burners, so uses candles instead. This causes lots of burnt wax and ash in your wax.) I might want to cast the hemlock in white gold . . . the instructors eyes lit up when I asked about it. 90 grams though. Expensive.
Am toying with the idea of going to the D to take pictures tonight but again, with the alone. So will stay in the house. I guess I can go tomorrow in the daylight. If I was a really good student, I would get up at sunrise. (so not going to happen)
Saturday, February 17, 2007
New Must Have Music -- Brit Chick Edition
Have I been under a rock? Or has anyone else heard of Amy Winehouse?
Love "I'm no good". So sixties bad girl . . . and every song sounds like it should be a Bond theme.
I also like another Brit girl . . . Lila somebody . . . Lily Allen . . . cute as a button, she is . . . "have a lit'le whine an' a moan"
Love "I'm no good". So sixties bad girl . . . and every song sounds like it should be a Bond theme.
I also like another Brit girl . . . Lila somebody . . . Lily Allen . . . cute as a button, she is . . . "have a lit'le whine an' a moan"
Limbic Storm
I'm beginning to believe that I'm just wired funny.
The "fight or flight" response has been on all day and I can't figure out why. Maybe it's the snowboarding? Or reading "graysontrays" description of how to snowboard, which made my head hurt in the detail, but I just kept reading?
Had a lovely coffee, rice krispie treat, newspaper reading thing going but was all bouncy. Went to work out, still bouncy. Went and had some french toast . . . yummm, french toast . . . now feeling all nervous stomach. Hope I don't throw up.
Didn't help that I saw a Colorado LS with an apple sticker and so freaked out about running into RB while craving bacon, after a workout. Ahhhh. I was shaking until I talked myself down. RB doesn't eat coney island. Bacon has preservatives. And there have to be tons of apple geeks that drive small GM POS trucks. Plus, there was an errant bungee cord . . . and nothing in RB's life would be errant . . . well, in the physical world anyhow.
I made sure not to give the truck a closer inspection and drove away wondering why that made me keyed up. I have run into him before and didn't turn to dust. I still talk to his roommate. (Princess may insert two beer joke here) And I have lived for thirty-five years without running into him before, despite being at the same concerts, living in the same general town and having some of the same interests. Plus I found someone I had the same gut feeling about, who had a job this time (and okay, he was kidnapped by pirates . . . but the point being there are others that I could be fond of, for, whatever). . . and have had a major crush on someone else. Have gotten my head around the fact that there are so many other fish in the tank. So it should be fine to run into him. But at a purely emotional level, it so isn't okay. And my limbic system is overcharged.
And not that any of you would understand this (the boys who read this especially . . . after they get over me calling them "boys") . . . but yeah, sometimes my emotional system just goes into overdrive and there is nothing I can do about it, there is no reasoning with it. And I can think rationally all I want, but my body is still on "fight or flight" all the time. It's exhausting. And talking yourself down, every hour or so, gets tedious. "No really, it's okay that the sink isn't draining as fast as you'd like . . . no, probably shouldn't take it apart RIGHT NOW because then we would have to put it back together . . . and it's okay that you don't have a slip that fits for that outfit . . . and no, you do not have to go buy one RIGHT NOW . . . " My limbic system is on RIGHT NOW mode.
There was this completely appropriate line on This American Life, this afternoon: "So you assumed that everyone thinks just like you, which is how most disasters happen" or something to that effect. But I'm beginning to think that most people don't think like me.
The "fight or flight" response has been on all day and I can't figure out why. Maybe it's the snowboarding? Or reading "graysontrays" description of how to snowboard, which made my head hurt in the detail, but I just kept reading?
Had a lovely coffee, rice krispie treat, newspaper reading thing going but was all bouncy. Went to work out, still bouncy. Went and had some french toast . . . yummm, french toast . . . now feeling all nervous stomach. Hope I don't throw up.
Didn't help that I saw a Colorado LS with an apple sticker and so freaked out about running into RB while craving bacon, after a workout. Ahhhh. I was shaking until I talked myself down. RB doesn't eat coney island. Bacon has preservatives. And there have to be tons of apple geeks that drive small GM POS trucks. Plus, there was an errant bungee cord . . . and nothing in RB's life would be errant . . . well, in the physical world anyhow.
I made sure not to give the truck a closer inspection and drove away wondering why that made me keyed up. I have run into him before and didn't turn to dust. I still talk to his roommate. (Princess may insert two beer joke here) And I have lived for thirty-five years without running into him before, despite being at the same concerts, living in the same general town and having some of the same interests. Plus I found someone I had the same gut feeling about, who had a job this time (and okay, he was kidnapped by pirates . . . but the point being there are others that I could be fond of, for, whatever). . . and have had a major crush on someone else. Have gotten my head around the fact that there are so many other fish in the tank. So it should be fine to run into him. But at a purely emotional level, it so isn't okay. And my limbic system is overcharged.
And not that any of you would understand this (the boys who read this especially . . . after they get over me calling them "boys") . . . but yeah, sometimes my emotional system just goes into overdrive and there is nothing I can do about it, there is no reasoning with it. And I can think rationally all I want, but my body is still on "fight or flight" all the time. It's exhausting. And talking yourself down, every hour or so, gets tedious. "No really, it's okay that the sink isn't draining as fast as you'd like . . . no, probably shouldn't take it apart RIGHT NOW because then we would have to put it back together . . . and it's okay that you don't have a slip that fits for that outfit . . . and no, you do not have to go buy one RIGHT NOW . . . " My limbic system is on RIGHT NOW mode.
There was this completely appropriate line on This American Life, this afternoon: "So you assumed that everyone thinks just like you, which is how most disasters happen" or something to that effect. But I'm beginning to think that most people don't think like me.
Pan's Labyrinth Hangover
Completely depressing movie. And although, I suppose the ending is trying to be uplifting, it didn't resonate in my brain. So I left sad . . . and stayed sad. Yuck.
Now I will have to watch some silly Matthew Perry movies to counteract last night. Or . . . gasp . . . a Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks movie.
Now I will have to watch some silly Matthew Perry movies to counteract last night. Or . . . gasp . . . a Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks movie.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Come on, I think it has subtitles
And the director has the sexiest voice. He's been on NPR all week.
Anyone else want to go see Pan's Labyrinth?
I think that is this evening's plan.
Anyone else want to go see Pan's Labyrinth?
I think that is this evening's plan.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Being a Naughty Student
I just wanted to close my eyes . . . just for a little bit . . . and I swear I was going to open them at 5:30 . . . and it was only 5:20 . . . ten minutes of rest . . .
Woke at 5:53. Which would be fine if I didn't have class at 6 pm. Late. Shit.
Am now not working on an assignment, because it was making my brain bleed. Also have a combination photography assignment that I will have to do this weekend, or it will not get done. Will not . . . (the current assignment is retouching, for a quiz next week. I know how to retouch, have to do it to yearbook stuff all the time) And I will have to take about 100 shots in seven different locations . . . because I'm like that. Maybe I'll go to my favorite haunts downtown. Here are the examples he gave us. Cool.
As for the retouching thing, you can do amazing things with Photoshop. And I never do them.
And the combo photo assignment is arty, so I will have to think, and think some more. So far I think I will take photos of the Wilcox house in Plymouth to start. It is lovely and abandoned. Maybe some pictures of Suess (sp?) my mother's favorite childhood doll, so I can put her looking longingly out the window. We'll see. Have to think.
Woke at 5:53. Which would be fine if I didn't have class at 6 pm. Late. Shit.
Am now not working on an assignment, because it was making my brain bleed. Also have a combination photography assignment that I will have to do this weekend, or it will not get done. Will not . . . (the current assignment is retouching, for a quiz next week. I know how to retouch, have to do it to yearbook stuff all the time) And I will have to take about 100 shots in seven different locations . . . because I'm like that. Maybe I'll go to my favorite haunts downtown. Here are the examples he gave us. Cool.
As for the retouching thing, you can do amazing things with Photoshop. And I never do them.
And the combo photo assignment is arty, so I will have to think, and think some more. So far I think I will take photos of the Wilcox house in Plymouth to start. It is lovely and abandoned. Maybe some pictures of Suess (sp?) my mother's favorite childhood doll, so I can put her looking longingly out the window. We'll see. Have to think.
Or maybe somehthing with photos of my mother and then photos of me . . . I have an old photo where someone asked if that was me and I thought they meant the baby, so I said yes. But they meant the woman in the photo holding the baby, my mother. I don't dress that well, I told them.
Okay, the prof is coming. Gotta minimize.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Act of God
As it turns out the media, they were right . . . with all their doom and snowy gloom . . . and I do have a snow day today. My mother called around 7:30 a.m. as I was dreaming about someone having stolen my couch (rather my fault, as I had moved it to a public area . . . but I thought my brother was going to watch it) and so I was dozing, waking up every so often to think, "No, my couch is still in the living room."
"YAY. Snow day! You were wrong." my mother says from the phone. I think she enjoys waking me up on snow days, as she has done it for all three. Maybe she is on Mr. Crabbypants' "don't waste the day" plan . . . or she's sadistic, I'm not sure which. She knows I'll be sleeping when she calls.
I proceed to tell her how this day off is messing up my plans for the day. The yearbook was due on Monday, but the thing the company doesn't tell you: they don't look for it until Wednesday at midnight. So I could have made the deadline and still had the "award winning yearbook" tag on this yearbook (because you get an award for being on time -- lame, but it looks good on the P.R. materials). My boss has to look over everything (we are a prior review school) and the kids, they took it to the wire. So it's still in the review stage. Plus, I'd like to teach my other students something this month . . . maybe some non-fiction terminology, the understanding of autobiography . . . something.
"Consider it an Act of God, and give it up, Emily . . ." my mother says, and I struck by how this applies to many other areas of my life. Surrender to the fates. Go limp and take it. I was never good at this. Consider it an Act of God.
So God, through this act, will allow me to work out earlier and go to the mall. I just shoveled my walk. I might try to start the truck, as I have not driven it in . . . well, a while . . . and if it doesn't start, I'll consider it an act of God too. Incredibly freeing, the act of God.
Now if I can just figure out why I took all my living room furniture to Cobo hall (actually, it looked amazingly like a warehouse) and why they only stole the couch. I remember dreaming . . . "but, I can't replace that couch . . . I got it on sale . . . " Craziness.
"YAY. Snow day! You were wrong." my mother says from the phone. I think she enjoys waking me up on snow days, as she has done it for all three. Maybe she is on Mr. Crabbypants' "don't waste the day" plan . . . or she's sadistic, I'm not sure which. She knows I'll be sleeping when she calls.
I proceed to tell her how this day off is messing up my plans for the day. The yearbook was due on Monday, but the thing the company doesn't tell you: they don't look for it until Wednesday at midnight. So I could have made the deadline and still had the "award winning yearbook" tag on this yearbook (because you get an award for being on time -- lame, but it looks good on the P.R. materials). My boss has to look over everything (we are a prior review school) and the kids, they took it to the wire. So it's still in the review stage. Plus, I'd like to teach my other students something this month . . . maybe some non-fiction terminology, the understanding of autobiography . . . something.
"Consider it an Act of God, and give it up, Emily . . ." my mother says, and I struck by how this applies to many other areas of my life. Surrender to the fates. Go limp and take it. I was never good at this. Consider it an Act of God.
So God, through this act, will allow me to work out earlier and go to the mall. I just shoveled my walk. I might try to start the truck, as I have not driven it in . . . well, a while . . . and if it doesn't start, I'll consider it an act of God too. Incredibly freeing, the act of God.
Now if I can just figure out why I took all my living room furniture to Cobo hall (actually, it looked amazingly like a warehouse) and why they only stole the couch. I remember dreaming . . . "but, I can't replace that couch . . . I got it on sale . . . " Craziness.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
But She Said "Snow Day"
Tomorrow is Valentine's Day . . . and someone said "snow day" very early in the day because of the weather forecast, so I ended up doing damage control all day.
"No, we are not going to have a snow day . . . it's not even snowing . . . look out the window."
And it is currently snowing. Messy on the way home . . . would have been better if I had left before 5 pm ( . . . yes, I can leave at 3:05, according to my contract, and I rarely ever do that, plus I have homework and a permanent 25 minute lunch . . . ) (I know, puppets of the evil empire have the easiest lives.) But it's not snowing enough. Despite the media foaming over the snow, it's not enough snow to shut anything down. I haven't even shoveled yet.
Why does the media get all rabid about the weather nowadays? Did they always do that? Or is it just that now it's the most colorful part of the news, with all their maps and graphs? Couldn't they talk about how Jenny is taxing all the things I love . . . martinis . . . pedicures . . . haircuts . . . pet grooming . . . (okay, I don't have any pets, but if I did . . . ) So I get to deal with a crabby constituency tomorrow who were all ramped up by the news and by someone coming over the P.A. And it will be Valentine's Day . . . which is a simply despicable holiday. I think I will need a martini. Definitely a martini kind of day.
So happy hallmark holiday. On this made up holiday, specifically thought up to make single people feel rejected and awful, I will be going to a high school band concert. Which means I can't have a martini. But on the plus side, I did not have to think of a creative gift for anyone. There. Thinking positive. Aligning that Chi.
"No, we are not going to have a snow day . . . it's not even snowing . . . look out the window."
And it is currently snowing. Messy on the way home . . . would have been better if I had left before 5 pm ( . . . yes, I can leave at 3:05, according to my contract, and I rarely ever do that, plus I have homework and a permanent 25 minute lunch . . . ) (I know, puppets of the evil empire have the easiest lives.) But it's not snowing enough. Despite the media foaming over the snow, it's not enough snow to shut anything down. I haven't even shoveled yet.
Why does the media get all rabid about the weather nowadays? Did they always do that? Or is it just that now it's the most colorful part of the news, with all their maps and graphs? Couldn't they talk about how Jenny is taxing all the things I love . . . martinis . . . pedicures . . . haircuts . . . pet grooming . . . (okay, I don't have any pets, but if I did . . . ) So I get to deal with a crabby constituency tomorrow who were all ramped up by the news and by someone coming over the P.A. And it will be Valentine's Day . . . which is a simply despicable holiday. I think I will need a martini. Definitely a martini kind of day.
So happy hallmark holiday. On this made up holiday, specifically thought up to make single people feel rejected and awful, I will be going to a high school band concert. Which means I can't have a martini. But on the plus side, I did not have to think of a creative gift for anyone. There. Thinking positive. Aligning that Chi.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
It's Sorta all Black
I bought three lip glosses today . . . found a $25.00 cashmere sweater yesterday. Dyed my hair all black, except for a little white streak . . . which is currently kind of purple-ish because of the wash out of the dye. Princess says she can't even see it. The white streak, that is. And sorry, maybe pictures tomorrow. Have to calm down the "Rooster Cockburn" effect.
Princess just made me some turkey chili, which was to die for . . . and she was making cookies at the same time, so I ate some those too (to test for poison, of course). We then stated that some man is going to be soooo lucky . . . cause Princess is an excellent cook. And talked of ceiling wax, cabbages and kings. Oh, and we had a very good French wine, that I bought randomly while my father was at the Ann Arbor wine store (20% off cases). I might have to go get some more.
I must remember to buy metal tomorrow afternoon. And the yearbook is not done, which is totally stressing me out, if I think about it. But I'm not thinking about it . . . it's not my yearbook. But the metal . . . the molds will be the right temperature tomorrow and only tomorrow, so I must have metal to melt. Might be fun to take this class when I have time to think, or carve wax, or be creative . . . something I don't have right now. Time.
Mid-winter break is in four days. Just have to hang on until then. And if there is snow, I will go get a snowboarding lesson.
Princess just made me some turkey chili, which was to die for . . . and she was making cookies at the same time, so I ate some those too (to test for poison, of course). We then stated that some man is going to be soooo lucky . . . cause Princess is an excellent cook. And talked of ceiling wax, cabbages and kings. Oh, and we had a very good French wine, that I bought randomly while my father was at the Ann Arbor wine store (20% off cases). I might have to go get some more.
I must remember to buy metal tomorrow afternoon. And the yearbook is not done, which is totally stressing me out, if I think about it. But I'm not thinking about it . . . it's not my yearbook. But the metal . . . the molds will be the right temperature tomorrow and only tomorrow, so I must have metal to melt. Might be fun to take this class when I have time to think, or carve wax, or be creative . . . something I don't have right now. Time.
Mid-winter break is in four days. Just have to hang on until then. And if there is snow, I will go get a snowboarding lesson.
Friday, February 09, 2007
What will it be this week?
So again we come to the question . . . what color should my hair be for the next six weeks? I'm leaning toward straight black again. I did like it when it was black.
But I hate to waste a good bleaching . . . and half of my hair is already there. Which means I can wait until summer and put a bright color on the white parts (I'm thinking blue, which so makes my parents roll their eyes . . . I suppose I could get a wig for interviews) (Or just tell them that I'm completely willing to go "normal" for an assistant principal job) (That would be hilarious!) or I could put a normal color on the white parts now. I'm wondering if I can do two-tone black, just to break it up a bit. Or maybe burgundy . . . but they might freak about burgundy, thinking that it was going too much toward Elmo.
I would really just like my hairstylist to do what she wants . . . but she did that last time, and I now have this calico cat/skunk thing going on . . . which there are no pictures of because I don't really like it.
So back to black it is. Really really goth "emo" black, the kind that shines blue in the sun. Then I can break out the white foundation and the Cure albums. And there will be no cutting . . . very little cutting . . . I need some stuff over my eyes for Cure songs.
But I hate to waste a good bleaching . . . and half of my hair is already there. Which means I can wait until summer and put a bright color on the white parts (I'm thinking blue, which so makes my parents roll their eyes . . . I suppose I could get a wig for interviews) (Or just tell them that I'm completely willing to go "normal" for an assistant principal job) (That would be hilarious!) or I could put a normal color on the white parts now. I'm wondering if I can do two-tone black, just to break it up a bit. Or maybe burgundy . . . but they might freak about burgundy, thinking that it was going too much toward Elmo.
I would really just like my hairstylist to do what she wants . . . but she did that last time, and I now have this calico cat/skunk thing going on . . . which there are no pictures of because I don't really like it.
So back to black it is. Really really goth "emo" black, the kind that shines blue in the sun. Then I can break out the white foundation and the Cure albums. And there will be no cutting . . . very little cutting . . . I need some stuff over my eyes for Cure songs.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
By the Way . . .
I earned an A on my first project. Actually, the instructor said: "Yeah, ummm . . . you get an A."
So maybe I didn't earn it . . . maybe I just get one.
So maybe I didn't earn it . . . maybe I just get one.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Correction
"True Love takes time to find -- Let us help" with a bunch of buttons that say "Reactivate Now", arranged in a way that it is very hard not to click on the button.
But their television ads say that it will only take six months . . . and they're so sure, they'll bet on it.
The mental manipulation of lonely people. No overhead because it's on the internet. I wish I had thought of it.
But their television ads say that it will only take six months . . . and they're so sure, they'll bet on it.
The mental manipulation of lonely people. No overhead because it's on the internet. I wish I had thought of it.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Parting Ways
The matchdotcom demons are currently sending me messages about how it "takes a long time" to find your soulmate. I don't feel that this lines up with their current marketing campaign, but I suppose there are several different definitions of "special". I would love to read the fine print on that one . . . is "special" if you make out in the parking lot? How many dates equal "special"? Maybe that's my problem, I keep going out with people who want their next six months free.
Matchdotcom and I are official parting ways on Valentine's day (so appropriate, considering) . . . and this time I have an email confirmation and everything. So I will have to find dates in real time and space. This will take all the surprise out of my life . . . but somehow I'll carry on. And speaking of dates, I think I will take the month of February off. Seems appropriate, with Valentine's Day looming and everything. And very fun to explain, should anyone actually ask me out . . . better than "but I don't call boys" . . . ummm, I'm sorry. I'm not available until March. How does that look for you? Good, so that's settled. It's a short month anyhow.
Had a wonderful "too cold" day off of work. Still have to go to school tonight though . . . bummer. Should have taken advantage of the time, maybe to go work out, get some coffee (can't meet other people inside your house . . . oh, wait . . . I'm stopping that full court press for the month) but instead stayed inside and make some sweet potato fries, watched some MTV. It was too cold to go to work, so it is too cold to go outside.
Oh, and my trash can got hit by a car and thrown down the street . . . and is now broken. So how do you throw away a trash can? I still can't find the lid.
Matchdotcom and I are official parting ways on Valentine's day (so appropriate, considering) . . . and this time I have an email confirmation and everything. So I will have to find dates in real time and space. This will take all the surprise out of my life . . . but somehow I'll carry on. And speaking of dates, I think I will take the month of February off. Seems appropriate, with Valentine's Day looming and everything. And very fun to explain, should anyone actually ask me out . . . better than "but I don't call boys" . . . ummm, I'm sorry. I'm not available until March. How does that look for you? Good, so that's settled. It's a short month anyhow.
Had a wonderful "too cold" day off of work. Still have to go to school tonight though . . . bummer. Should have taken advantage of the time, maybe to go work out, get some coffee (can't meet other people inside your house . . . oh, wait . . . I'm stopping that full court press for the month) but instead stayed inside and make some sweet potato fries, watched some MTV. It was too cold to go to work, so it is too cold to go outside.
Oh, and my trash can got hit by a car and thrown down the street . . . and is now broken. So how do you throw away a trash can? I still can't find the lid.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
The Act of Blogging
I write to be sane. I write to work things out in my head. I write so I do not need to spend the time going to a therapist every week. And I have to admit, the entries where I am working out things are the more interesting (I think), rather than the "what I did today" genre. I do not write to please anyone. I write with an audience in mind, somewhat, but I assume that audience is going to be five people -- Mom, Dad, Mere, Princess and E2 . . . maybe six including E1. And although it is flattering that other people would spend time, which they cannot get back, looking at what I write; I am still basically writing for myself.
I had an interesting comment interaction last night, which makes me what to set some things straight. The comment feature seems to be a blessing and a curse on most blogs . . . both dooce and Matthew Good write about it often (only blogs that I read with any regularity) and have turned off the comment feature on their blogs . . . and maybe we're just extremely soft-skinned. But people feel the need to offer advice. Fine. Great. I put this stuff out there. Go for it.
(More comment fodder: I, in no way, am comparing myself to Heather Armstrong or Matthew Good in any other capacity other than comment difficulties. They are both amazingly talented people, with fabulous websites, and they get 1000 comments a post . . . seems silly that I am complaining about my 3.)
But when the advice involves how I've somehow wronged you in some way . . . well, keep in mind that my mother and father read this. My email is at the top of the page. There's another one in the profile. You could spread the venom (or the advice) that way, I suppose.
Why don't I just delete the comments? Well, I have a problem with deleting things just because I don't agree with them . . . or just don't like them . . . or what have you. If I comment is published about an entry, I'll leave it. I may pull the post but for some reason it seems unethical to delete the comment.
As for saving me from being a whiny, judgemental bitch, please see the first paragraph of this entry. I am not writing to please you. You could just stop reading that entry if it displeases you. You could just not type the address into explorer's (or modzilla, or whatever's) address bar. You could stop looking at my site. You could pretend that you don't know me. You could shun me. There is an amazing amount of crap on the internet, my site included . . . you could look at that other crap instead. I hear there is free porn.
And I know that you're trying to be helpful (at least I prefer to think that you are trying to be helpful). But these entries are showing you the inside of my brain, at a single moment in time. And how would you like it if someone told you that what you were feeling at a given moment was wrong, whiny, moaning, bad, stupid, (fill in blank here)? And for those who think "Well, you are publishing for the general public. You could have a journal." Yes, you are right. I could.
Most of the time, the comments are from my mother. Which is fine. She'll voice her opinion no matter what, so I'll get that information whether or not she chooses to put it in writing. And she's my mother . . . the only one I have. So she gets to do what she wants . . . and say what she wants. As for everyone else, I don't want to say "don't write hurtful crap" because sometimes I need to be checked but if it's really intense . . . again, you have my email. You don't have to call me a bitch in public.
Thanks.
I had an interesting comment interaction last night, which makes me what to set some things straight. The comment feature seems to be a blessing and a curse on most blogs . . . both dooce and Matthew Good write about it often (only blogs that I read with any regularity) and have turned off the comment feature on their blogs . . . and maybe we're just extremely soft-skinned. But people feel the need to offer advice. Fine. Great. I put this stuff out there. Go for it.
(More comment fodder: I, in no way, am comparing myself to Heather Armstrong or Matthew Good in any other capacity other than comment difficulties. They are both amazingly talented people, with fabulous websites, and they get 1000 comments a post . . . seems silly that I am complaining about my 3.)
But when the advice involves how I've somehow wronged you in some way . . . well, keep in mind that my mother and father read this. My email is at the top of the page. There's another one in the profile. You could spread the venom (or the advice) that way, I suppose.
Why don't I just delete the comments? Well, I have a problem with deleting things just because I don't agree with them . . . or just don't like them . . . or what have you. If I comment is published about an entry, I'll leave it. I may pull the post but for some reason it seems unethical to delete the comment.
As for saving me from being a whiny, judgemental bitch, please see the first paragraph of this entry. I am not writing to please you. You could just stop reading that entry if it displeases you. You could just not type the address into explorer's (or modzilla, or whatever's) address bar. You could stop looking at my site. You could pretend that you don't know me. You could shun me. There is an amazing amount of crap on the internet, my site included . . . you could look at that other crap instead. I hear there is free porn.
And I know that you're trying to be helpful (at least I prefer to think that you are trying to be helpful). But these entries are showing you the inside of my brain, at a single moment in time. And how would you like it if someone told you that what you were feeling at a given moment was wrong, whiny, moaning, bad, stupid, (fill in blank here)? And for those who think "Well, you are publishing for the general public. You could have a journal." Yes, you are right. I could.
Most of the time, the comments are from my mother. Which is fine. She'll voice her opinion no matter what, so I'll get that information whether or not she chooses to put it in writing. And she's my mother . . . the only one I have. So she gets to do what she wants . . . and say what she wants. As for everyone else, I don't want to say "don't write hurtful crap" because sometimes I need to be checked but if it's really intense . . . again, you have my email. You don't have to call me a bitch in public.
Thanks.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
The Ramp of Possibility
Okay, here's the deal.
Once upon a time, I decided to not date. I made the determination that I picked, or liked, or was attracted to, the wrong type of person and so I stopped picking, and liking and being attracted to. I ignored, well, basically my sexuality, (sorry Dad) . . . and it was easy to delve into work and not worry about other people. It was way easier than being disappointed or hurt. Plus, you could eat anything you wanted. I mentally shut myself off to that aspect of life, didn't even entertain possibility.
And I was very good at being alone. (still am, really) I do what I want to do . . . whether I have friends that want to go or not.
And despite the comments from Q.O. about being more positive . . . with the thought that things will work themselves out, that the universe will fall into place, I'm tired. I'm tired of the ramp of possibility and the fall. It doesn't matter if the fall is when I meet them and they have three kids and they aren't really divorced and their life is a mess . . . and then they look at me and say, "So . . . why is it you are 35 and haven't been married?" judgementally, like there was something wrong with me. (and yes, I realize that it is all in how you internalize the comment . . . he could have meant nothing by it . . . just making small talk . . . so we could instead go to the example of "Oh, you're skinny enough to date.") So the fall at the beginning, I'm tired of sitting in front of a person in the middle of an interaction, knowing I will never speak to them again. And I like to give everyone a chance, but frankly, there is a turning point. So should I just end things at that turning point? Should I just get up and walk out? Hmmmm.
I know that dating is a process. That you may, in fact, have to go out with a lot of people to find the right one. But the stories aren't enough anymore . . . and I'm not asking for marriage (God, they so freak out about that) but I would like to get to the fifth date . . . or maybe sixth months . . . because I'm really beginning to believe it's me that's the problem.
But let's talk about the other fall. When the ramp of possibility is higher . . . let's just say we get along. It's fun. Maybe it's that I think he is cute and therefore don't hear the annoying question or statement (I wonder what mine is . . . it's a two way street, I have to have one . . . and no, don't tell me). I had a great date last week. And it wasn't the date (although the Berkley Front is always exciting) it was the person I was with. The right combination of geeky and cool . . . glasses, I do love a boy in glasses . . . nice solid Midwestern values . . . liked to argue . . . called himself a liberal . . . had an interesting job we could talk about . . . never married, no kids and didn't live with his mom . . . oh, and wasn't gay. He was nice. Really, I'm just looking for that. That is so hard to find. Well, it's easy to find. I've met quite a few men that I find attractive and intelligent . . . but they all have girlfriends. So no possibility. But this one, there was no mention of a girlfriend. And I thought he was with me, in the "this is fun" thought. Up the ramp I go.
And I'm tired of this ramp metaphor. He didn't call. It's been a week. And despite what women think . . . and what other men have told me this week, he knows how to use a phone and no one is that busy. I will assume that he was kidnapped by pirates. Because that is so much cooler that not realizing that he was just a jerk, or even harder, that he is just not into me. But while he is out getting his peg leg fitted, I'm sitting here thinking, "Shit, I'm going to have to do this all over again." And I know it was only one date. But I thought there was a possibility and evidently, I'm a really sucky judge of possibility.
And I'm sure I'll get comments . . . and I'm not giving up. I may even email him and ask if he was kidnapped by pirates, if only to get the comforting line about being busy . . . or no response, but I can say I did the extra thing. But it is so much easier for me to suck into myself. Not as fun, but easier. I'm tired of the car crash. Maybe I should stop getting into cars. (See? Brand new metaphor.)
Or maybe I should get kidnapped by pirates.
Once upon a time, I decided to not date. I made the determination that I picked, or liked, or was attracted to, the wrong type of person and so I stopped picking, and liking and being attracted to. I ignored, well, basically my sexuality, (sorry Dad) . . . and it was easy to delve into work and not worry about other people. It was way easier than being disappointed or hurt. Plus, you could eat anything you wanted. I mentally shut myself off to that aspect of life, didn't even entertain possibility.
And I was very good at being alone. (still am, really) I do what I want to do . . . whether I have friends that want to go or not.
And despite the comments from Q.O. about being more positive . . . with the thought that things will work themselves out, that the universe will fall into place, I'm tired. I'm tired of the ramp of possibility and the fall. It doesn't matter if the fall is when I meet them and they have three kids and they aren't really divorced and their life is a mess . . . and then they look at me and say, "So . . . why is it you are 35 and haven't been married?" judgementally, like there was something wrong with me. (and yes, I realize that it is all in how you internalize the comment . . . he could have meant nothing by it . . . just making small talk . . . so we could instead go to the example of "Oh, you're skinny enough to date.") So the fall at the beginning, I'm tired of sitting in front of a person in the middle of an interaction, knowing I will never speak to them again. And I like to give everyone a chance, but frankly, there is a turning point. So should I just end things at that turning point? Should I just get up and walk out? Hmmmm.
I know that dating is a process. That you may, in fact, have to go out with a lot of people to find the right one. But the stories aren't enough anymore . . . and I'm not asking for marriage (God, they so freak out about that) but I would like to get to the fifth date . . . or maybe sixth months . . . because I'm really beginning to believe it's me that's the problem.
But let's talk about the other fall. When the ramp of possibility is higher . . . let's just say we get along. It's fun. Maybe it's that I think he is cute and therefore don't hear the annoying question or statement (I wonder what mine is . . . it's a two way street, I have to have one . . . and no, don't tell me). I had a great date last week. And it wasn't the date (although the Berkley Front is always exciting) it was the person I was with. The right combination of geeky and cool . . . glasses, I do love a boy in glasses . . . nice solid Midwestern values . . . liked to argue . . . called himself a liberal . . . had an interesting job we could talk about . . . never married, no kids and didn't live with his mom . . . oh, and wasn't gay. He was nice. Really, I'm just looking for that. That is so hard to find. Well, it's easy to find. I've met quite a few men that I find attractive and intelligent . . . but they all have girlfriends. So no possibility. But this one, there was no mention of a girlfriend. And I thought he was with me, in the "this is fun" thought. Up the ramp I go.
And I'm tired of this ramp metaphor. He didn't call. It's been a week. And despite what women think . . . and what other men have told me this week, he knows how to use a phone and no one is that busy. I will assume that he was kidnapped by pirates. Because that is so much cooler that not realizing that he was just a jerk, or even harder, that he is just not into me. But while he is out getting his peg leg fitted, I'm sitting here thinking, "Shit, I'm going to have to do this all over again." And I know it was only one date. But I thought there was a possibility and evidently, I'm a really sucky judge of possibility.
And I'm sure I'll get comments . . . and I'm not giving up. I may even email him and ask if he was kidnapped by pirates, if only to get the comforting line about being busy . . . or no response, but I can say I did the extra thing. But it is so much easier for me to suck into myself. Not as fun, but easier. I'm tired of the car crash. Maybe I should stop getting into cars. (See? Brand new metaphor.)
Or maybe I should get kidnapped by pirates.
Friday, February 02, 2007
First Sighting
The ipod is on. It is cold, and I'm pissed about something else and I just want to get in and work out. There is someone behind me but I don't pay attention.
"Are you Emily?"
I turn. I don't recognize this person . . . this woman who knows my name. I look closer. I went to high school with a lot of people, college with even more. I meet people through the various things I'm doing with English curriculum. Buzz through the memory banks. Nope. Nada.
She introduces herself. It doesn't help. I don't know this person. And then . . .
"I'm H's friend . . . he's shown me your blog . . ."
I shake her hand. I think I verbally told her that this was odd. But I don't know what was coming out of my mouth. Did she recognize the back of my head? Do I have pictures of the back of my head on my blog? Wait, there was a mirror. She is talking about being H.'s girlfriend. Did H. ever talk about her? Hmmm . . . what to say. I haven't seen H. in ages. She informs me that she is going to be late for class. Well, okay then. The end of our acquaintance.
So a complete stranger walked up to me and announced that she had read my blog.
I feel so famous. Infamous? Anyhow, let's hope that doesn't happen again for a while. The complete strangers walking up and knowing my name. It makes me feel unsettled.
"Are you Emily?"
I turn. I don't recognize this person . . . this woman who knows my name. I look closer. I went to high school with a lot of people, college with even more. I meet people through the various things I'm doing with English curriculum. Buzz through the memory banks. Nope. Nada.
She introduces herself. It doesn't help. I don't know this person. And then . . .
"I'm H's friend . . . he's shown me your blog . . ."
I shake her hand. I think I verbally told her that this was odd. But I don't know what was coming out of my mouth. Did she recognize the back of my head? Do I have pictures of the back of my head on my blog? Wait, there was a mirror. She is talking about being H.'s girlfriend. Did H. ever talk about her? Hmmm . . . what to say. I haven't seen H. in ages. She informs me that she is going to be late for class. Well, okay then. The end of our acquaintance.
So a complete stranger walked up to me and announced that she had read my blog.
I feel so famous. Infamous? Anyhow, let's hope that doesn't happen again for a while. The complete strangers walking up and knowing my name. It makes me feel unsettled.
Smiths moment
I'm in a "Grey Room" kind of mood . . . heard it on "House" this week and recognized it. And I'll go work out and it will be all okay. And I'll come home and take down my Christmas tree and vacuum underneath my bed and it will all be okay. And I will not have a Smiths moment . . .
And I will turn on some Ska and dance around my house . . . and that will be much more happy. Plus a Dyson doesn't care what your are wearing, or the music you listen to . . . and most of the time it doesn't step on your toes. And maybe I'll go out at midnight and take some pictures . . . now that I have figured out how to do 30 second exposures with George. (George is a pretty good date too, by the way. Very quiet. Usually does what I tell him to. Gives me immediate feedback, being digital and all.)
And I will not take it personally.
And I will turn on some Ska and dance around my house . . . and that will be much more happy. Plus a Dyson doesn't care what your are wearing, or the music you listen to . . . and most of the time it doesn't step on your toes. And maybe I'll go out at midnight and take some pictures . . . now that I have figured out how to do 30 second exposures with George. (George is a pretty good date too, by the way. Very quiet. Usually does what I tell him to. Gives me immediate feedback, being digital and all.)
And I will not take it personally.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Famine
It really is feast or famine . . . and I can't figure out if I'm doing something wrong . . . though I rarely have the same behavior patterns . . . unless I can't see it and I do . . . have the same behavior pattern that is . . .
Another subject: Bought a humidifier, so hopefully my throat will stop being angry. Found some old pictures for class tomorrow, although not the pictures I wanted. I'm hoping I put those pictures back. Tomorrow is Thursday and then there is Friday . . . and then there is knitmichigan, which I am looking forward to . . . yay . . . yarn.
Another subject: Bought a humidifier, so hopefully my throat will stop being angry. Found some old pictures for class tomorrow, although not the pictures I wanted. I'm hoping I put those pictures back. Tomorrow is Thursday and then there is Friday . . . and then there is knitmichigan, which I am looking forward to . . . yay . . . yarn.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Cause If I Were Smart, I'd Be Done With It
I skipped some stuff this afternoon and blissfully shovelled my walk . . . something I haven't done all this winter. I also figured out how to make a masthead and how to change them up, something I've wanted to do for about a year now.
Now if I can just get the Christmas tree packed up tomorrow (What? It's festive . . . and still January.) I'll be good. Oh and any suggestions about what I should take pictures of for the "my world" assignment . . . any at all . . . would be great. Today I took pictures of the meat I was cooking for chili (I think it will be next month's masthead background!), so it's getting pretty desperate. Tomorrow I might take pictures of the inside of the washer. "My world" includes ninth graders, meetings, the YMCA and class . . . and none of those areas contain things I want to take pictures of . . . well, some of them might be funny pictures, but frowned upon, very frowned upon.
Maybe pictures of my gray siding . . . as a metaphorical statement?
Now if I can just get the Christmas tree packed up tomorrow (What? It's festive . . . and still January.) I'll be good. Oh and any suggestions about what I should take pictures of for the "my world" assignment . . . any at all . . . would be great. Today I took pictures of the meat I was cooking for chili (I think it will be next month's masthead background!), so it's getting pretty desperate. Tomorrow I might take pictures of the inside of the washer. "My world" includes ninth graders, meetings, the YMCA and class . . . and none of those areas contain things I want to take pictures of . . . well, some of them might be funny pictures, but frowned upon, very frowned upon.
Maybe pictures of my gray siding . . . as a metaphorical statement?
You'd think it was slippery or something
Two accidents in less than 12 hours. Six car spin out on the way home at 9:30 p.m. that I also COULDN'T stop for . . . which is why people were spinning I suppose. Mr. Crabbypants gave me snowtires for the skunk car, the only reason I didn't spin as well. But a nice big patch of black ice last night under the overpass at Telegraph. Skating cars. Whee. And no, I didn't stop.
Less than twelve hours later, after a particularly wonderful morning of sickness and computer glitches, I'm driving late to my meeting (I had called to say I would be late and therefore not speeding) and a Jeep Cherokee spins and breaks into pieces. I see the air bags go off and stop. No one else does. 911 asks me questions that I cannot answer . . . the lady looks fine, no blood, but the air bags are spilling their smoky powder and I tell her not to move. "What should we send?" the dispatcher inquires. I am standing on a now obviously icy freeway, next to a car in the path of other irritated motorists. Antifreeze is dripping. Plastic is crunching. "I don't know. Probably an ambulance? At least a cop car." And I don't know. The Cherokee is facing oncoming traffic. The lady doesn't look hurt, but she's shaking.
The dispatcher says I don't have to stay but I do . . . talking to the woman, telling her that it's going to be okay. She doesn't know what happened. How her car landed here. It occurs to me that I should somehow get the SUV off the freeway. I peer underneath the car at the puddle of antifreeze. Doesn't look like the whole radiator. I've done much worse. And I realize the car is on, still running. Could have blown us both up by now, especially if we were to get hit by another person not paying attention and then trying to stop. "Turn on your hazards. And after this truck passes, can you pull slightly forward and then back up to get the car off the road." I am standing on the freeway, over the white line, feeling the whoosh of air was cars speed pass, swerving to avoid the Cherokee.
"Is it still running?" she asks. Before she fully understands what I'm telling her to do, the sheriff's deputy arrives. Dismisses me quickly. I walk to my car, fifty yards up. Turn off my hazard lights. Drive off as three full-size fire trucks pull up. I guess that's what the dispatcher meant when she said "I'll just send everything." And I feel a twinge of guilt. As if I could have made the call about what to bring. I certainly knew that they didn't need three firetrucks. Well, at least the car won't get hit again, which was my most immediate fear. And H. seemed kind of out of it . . . but we had just met, so I can't really make an assessment. People react differently to totalling their cars. She did say that she wanted to be checked out. Which was nice, to be in agreement. Hope she is alright.
And now I'm hesitant to drive home. And I was driving to my meeting thinking about being cursed . . . but my car wasn't smashed and I didn't have three fire trucks, which I'm sure someone has to pay for . . . so I'm going home, doing a little work for school and then working out. Might be a treadmill and weight day. I'm kind of tense.
Less than twelve hours later, after a particularly wonderful morning of sickness and computer glitches, I'm driving late to my meeting (I had called to say I would be late and therefore not speeding) and a Jeep Cherokee spins and breaks into pieces. I see the air bags go off and stop. No one else does. 911 asks me questions that I cannot answer . . . the lady looks fine, no blood, but the air bags are spilling their smoky powder and I tell her not to move. "What should we send?" the dispatcher inquires. I am standing on a now obviously icy freeway, next to a car in the path of other irritated motorists. Antifreeze is dripping. Plastic is crunching. "I don't know. Probably an ambulance? At least a cop car." And I don't know. The Cherokee is facing oncoming traffic. The lady doesn't look hurt, but she's shaking.
The dispatcher says I don't have to stay but I do . . . talking to the woman, telling her that it's going to be okay. She doesn't know what happened. How her car landed here. It occurs to me that I should somehow get the SUV off the freeway. I peer underneath the car at the puddle of antifreeze. Doesn't look like the whole radiator. I've done much worse. And I realize the car is on, still running. Could have blown us both up by now, especially if we were to get hit by another person not paying attention and then trying to stop. "Turn on your hazards. And after this truck passes, can you pull slightly forward and then back up to get the car off the road." I am standing on the freeway, over the white line, feeling the whoosh of air was cars speed pass, swerving to avoid the Cherokee.
"Is it still running?" she asks. Before she fully understands what I'm telling her to do, the sheriff's deputy arrives. Dismisses me quickly. I walk to my car, fifty yards up. Turn off my hazard lights. Drive off as three full-size fire trucks pull up. I guess that's what the dispatcher meant when she said "I'll just send everything." And I feel a twinge of guilt. As if I could have made the call about what to bring. I certainly knew that they didn't need three firetrucks. Well, at least the car won't get hit again, which was my most immediate fear. And H. seemed kind of out of it . . . but we had just met, so I can't really make an assessment. People react differently to totalling their cars. She did say that she wanted to be checked out. Which was nice, to be in agreement. Hope she is alright.
And now I'm hesitant to drive home. And I was driving to my meeting thinking about being cursed . . . but my car wasn't smashed and I didn't have three fire trucks, which I'm sure someone has to pay for . . . so I'm going home, doing a little work for school and then working out. Might be a treadmill and weight day. I'm kind of tense.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
You Could Just Leave That One Short
Somehow, I broke three nails last night at the Berkley Front. This means I can't go get a manicure for at least another two weeks because she will cut them all to match . . . and I don't want them that short. (ah, more evidence that I have been reading way too many fashion magazines and they're rotting my brain) It's like they have OCD, with the evenness.
I also think I might be coming down with a cold. Yesterday at the allergist, while getting my shots, I had to say something to the nurse, the usual pleasantries we exchange as she is poking me in the arms and shoving burning liquid into my flesh. But I opened my mouth and nothing came out . . . eventually my voice worked, but it sounded like Phoebe in the episode when she does sexy "Smell Cat". And I couldn't figure out why I didn't know that my voice didn't work . . . I had a conversation with my brother earlier -- why I was busting my ass to get to the allergist, because I had to do something with his family. Until it dawned on me . . . the conversation had been on IM. I haven't tried to talk today. Okay, just did and have a voice.
I also think I might be coming down with a cold. Yesterday at the allergist, while getting my shots, I had to say something to the nurse, the usual pleasantries we exchange as she is poking me in the arms and shoving burning liquid into my flesh. But I opened my mouth and nothing came out . . . eventually my voice worked, but it sounded like Phoebe in the episode when she does sexy "Smell Cat". And I couldn't figure out why I didn't know that my voice didn't work . . . I had a conversation with my brother earlier -- why I was busting my ass to get to the allergist, because I had to do something with his family. Until it dawned on me . . . the conversation had been on IM. I haven't tried to talk today. Okay, just did and have a voice.
Maybe it's just that my house is too dry. And too messy . . . have to get on the messy today. Cleaned part of my kitchen yesterday and all of my "delicates". But still have two weeks worth of mail to sort through on the coffee table. There are parts of me that love never being home, but the pile on the coffee table is irritating me. So must be dealt with. And I tore apart a bunch of stuff, looking for my jeweler's saw frame and can't find it. So if you know where it is . . . please let me know because I don't have time to buy another one.
And yes, for those of you who are concerned . . . I had fun. Likes to argue, interesting job, nice truck (as if I care what someone drives) and made me laugh. And I gave him this address. So enough. It will not be spoken of again.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Getting Stood Up for an Independent Film
I think. To his credit, I don't even know if my phone is in the house, or in the car. Should go check.
(check) It's on the kitchen table.
This morning I was lounging. Didn't get up with the alarm. Did some stuff on the computer. The im thingy pops up with my brother.
"You coming? Should we pick you up?"
Pick me up for what? Shit. Z.'s class. I promised that I would go. And I when I made the whole stay at home and clean plan, along with the "date" plan, I had this funny "forgetting something" feeling.
"Yeah. Don't pick me up. I'll be there, but late."
Have to go get my shots. Go and work out, so there will be no workout guilt. And this will be great because the guy I'm meeting is somewhere near the class, so we can just meet there. But then have the problem of getting dressed for a date AND getting dressed to go to Z.'s class . . . and merging the two. Black turtleneck sweater. Jeans. Boots. Pink scarf. Pleather motorcycle jacket. Make up casual but on my face (and a bit too pink, once it was all said and done). Trying for Audrey Hepburn. Probably more looks more Joan Jett. Going for the dressed but not looking like I thought about it . . . even though I did. And no heels, because I couldn't explain heels in the snow.
Get to the place with Z.'s class only an hour and twenty minutes late. We go to Traffic Jam and Snug for lunch and have fried dill pickles. Then we take Z. to the DIA again and he goes through all the same rooms but looks at different paintings. Poor Z., he has that damn aunt with an art degree that keeps asking him questions about what he thinks about the art. (insert eye roll here)
Guy said that he would call sometime around five. The DIA closes at five. So I had nothing else to do . . . and so drove home. Now I may take my paper and go to Starbucks for some crack-like latte, because I can't take a nap with the makeup on and I would have to change clothes to clean. But it's after five, and so there is no free parking for crack lattes. And my sweater keeps riding up in the back. And I'm sure he will call . . . you can't plan on when your independent film will stop shooting. But it just would have been more convenient if he had called while I was already down there. But it would have been more convenient to sit on my couch instead of going to Z.'s class . . . and I could have said "no". But I had made the commitment last week.
But if he doesn't call in the next hour, I am so going to sleep.
(check) It's on the kitchen table.
This morning I was lounging. Didn't get up with the alarm. Did some stuff on the computer. The im thingy pops up with my brother.
"You coming? Should we pick you up?"
Pick me up for what? Shit. Z.'s class. I promised that I would go. And I when I made the whole stay at home and clean plan, along with the "date" plan, I had this funny "forgetting something" feeling.
"Yeah. Don't pick me up. I'll be there, but late."
Have to go get my shots. Go and work out, so there will be no workout guilt. And this will be great because the guy I'm meeting is somewhere near the class, so we can just meet there. But then have the problem of getting dressed for a date AND getting dressed to go to Z.'s class . . . and merging the two. Black turtleneck sweater. Jeans. Boots. Pink scarf. Pleather motorcycle jacket. Make up casual but on my face (and a bit too pink, once it was all said and done). Trying for Audrey Hepburn. Probably more looks more Joan Jett. Going for the dressed but not looking like I thought about it . . . even though I did. And no heels, because I couldn't explain heels in the snow.
Get to the place with Z.'s class only an hour and twenty minutes late. We go to Traffic Jam and Snug for lunch and have fried dill pickles. Then we take Z. to the DIA again and he goes through all the same rooms but looks at different paintings. Poor Z., he has that damn aunt with an art degree that keeps asking him questions about what he thinks about the art. (insert eye roll here)
Guy said that he would call sometime around five. The DIA closes at five. So I had nothing else to do . . . and so drove home. Now I may take my paper and go to Starbucks for some crack-like latte, because I can't take a nap with the makeup on and I would have to change clothes to clean. But it's after five, and so there is no free parking for crack lattes. And my sweater keeps riding up in the back. And I'm sure he will call . . . you can't plan on when your independent film will stop shooting. But it just would have been more convenient if he had called while I was already down there. But it would have been more convenient to sit on my couch instead of going to Z.'s class . . . and I could have said "no". But I had made the commitment last week.
But if he doesn't call in the next hour, I am so going to sleep.
But Will the List Be Cool Enough?
Someone asked me what is on my ipod today and I don't know exactly how to answer them. I don't remember telling him that I had an ipod in the first place, but now that it's out there, do I list the 4 gig? Or just go over the highlights? Who askes "what's on your ipod" anymore? And plus, how is the other stuff . . . not ripped yet . . . or just hanging out on itunes . . . addressed?
Yeah, I know, I think too much. And I'll go with my standard list for the "what music do you listen to?" question that always comes up.
Last Purchased: Blue October (only like one song . . . there's another song that makes me depressed . . . and that's about it)
Next Planned Purchase: Evanescence (if I can't steal it from my brother) and +44 . . . and Neverending White Lights, if I can find it anywhere.
Playing Right at this Moment: Ben Folds "Landed"
Next Song: Sisters of Mercy "Temple of Love"
Favorite: Matthew Good
Favorite Song: "Suck" . . . but the Trent Reznor version
Old Standards: Tool, NIN, Bauhaus, The Smiths
Classical: Arvo Part, Bach
. . . and I do have Ann Margaret on my ipod.
And you know the title is a joke, right?
Yeah, I know, I think too much. And I'll go with my standard list for the "what music do you listen to?" question that always comes up.
Last Purchased: Blue October (only like one song . . . there's another song that makes me depressed . . . and that's about it)
Next Planned Purchase: Evanescence (if I can't steal it from my brother) and +44 . . . and Neverending White Lights, if I can find it anywhere.
Playing Right at this Moment: Ben Folds "Landed"
Next Song: Sisters of Mercy "Temple of Love"
Favorite: Matthew Good
Favorite Song: "Suck" . . . but the Trent Reznor version
Old Standards: Tool, NIN, Bauhaus, The Smiths
Classical: Arvo Part, Bach
. . . and I do have Ann Margaret on my ipod.
And you know the title is a joke, right?
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Trails of Myspace
So I was looking for inspiration today for my photography project and came upon a Cranbrook student that I had talked to, months ago, on myspace. "Huh," I thought to myself, "his podcast is really cool. I should email him and tell him that. Because I like it when I get emails telling me that I am really cool. (and I assume that everyone thinks like I do)"
So off into the myspace world I go . . . and notice that one of his "friends" had emailed me randomly two weeks ago. It was a woman who also lives in Hamtramck, who wrote to me about liking monkeys. "Hmm, small world" I thought.
Then later this evening, during an email conversation, myspace was brought up again. Go to the person's profile and recognize another "friend" on the friend list . . . who is on photography guy's list. So everyone in Hamtramck, knows each other . . . and have added each other. Granted, this boy has 581 friends, so he knows everyone. But still, it's all coming back to Cranbrook photography guy tonight.
Creepy.
And I only have 12 friends . . . and now feel so lame.
So off into the myspace world I go . . . and notice that one of his "friends" had emailed me randomly two weeks ago. It was a woman who also lives in Hamtramck, who wrote to me about liking monkeys. "Hmm, small world" I thought.
Then later this evening, during an email conversation, myspace was brought up again. Go to the person's profile and recognize another "friend" on the friend list . . . who is on photography guy's list. So everyone in Hamtramck, knows each other . . . and have added each other. Granted, this boy has 581 friends, so he knows everyone. But still, it's all coming back to Cranbrook photography guy tonight.
Creepy.
And I only have 12 friends . . . and now feel so lame.
Learning Curve
If you look at life like a learning process . . . and although M2 disputes that I've learned this . . . well, there are people in your life that you decide are . . . and I'm trying to put this delicately . . . unhealthy . . . or more to the point, out and out crazy, or evil, or bad mojo. Whatever, you don't want to be around them, or need to be around them. And it took me a long time to figure out the difference between interesting and toxic.
And yes, M2 is right. I prefer to think of myself as in search of interesting people, people who think outside of the box, but M2 is right. Some of them are just crazy. (But then again, I'm having a theme name problem right now {2 R.s, 2 C.s} and we had a whole discussion about the negative connotation that someone had just because he had the same name as RB. And I can't dismiss someone just because he has the same name. That's not his fault anyhow. He didn't choose it. But I digress.)
Let's just say that I don't like to judge people . . . right away anyhow.
So when I get a note on myspace from an old high school acquaintance, who doesn't know who I am because there is nothing identifying me on myspace, I have to pause. She said that she thought my profile was cool . . . and she probably found me by searching the Alumni part of myspace. However, in high school, she was nuts . . . I vaguely recall. Had a good sense of style. And I think there was a rumor that she killed herself after high school.
So I click on her profile and the first thing I see? Another former friend of mine, who is mad as a hatter, is listed as one of her friends. We didn't go to high school together, so interesting how things are connected, but yeah . . . I wouldn't trust N. with a plant that I didn't like. So no happy reunion. Learning curve.
Of course, I didn't see any of this until I sent H. a perky little note. So must look at profile before emailing perky little notes. Learning curve.
And now M2 would say something about how my profile attracts the insane.
And yes, M2 is right. I prefer to think of myself as in search of interesting people, people who think outside of the box, but M2 is right. Some of them are just crazy. (But then again, I'm having a theme name problem right now {2 R.s, 2 C.s} and we had a whole discussion about the negative connotation that someone had just because he had the same name as RB. And I can't dismiss someone just because he has the same name. That's not his fault anyhow. He didn't choose it. But I digress.)
Let's just say that I don't like to judge people . . . right away anyhow.
So when I get a note on myspace from an old high school acquaintance, who doesn't know who I am because there is nothing identifying me on myspace, I have to pause. She said that she thought my profile was cool . . . and she probably found me by searching the Alumni part of myspace. However, in high school, she was nuts . . . I vaguely recall. Had a good sense of style. And I think there was a rumor that she killed herself after high school.
So I click on her profile and the first thing I see? Another former friend of mine, who is mad as a hatter, is listed as one of her friends. We didn't go to high school together, so interesting how things are connected, but yeah . . . I wouldn't trust N. with a plant that I didn't like. So no happy reunion. Learning curve.
Of course, I didn't see any of this until I sent H. a perky little note. So must look at profile before emailing perky little notes. Learning curve.
And now M2 would say something about how my profile attracts the insane.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
"Sweetie, Let Mommy Finish Her Martini"
I've been reading too many magazines while working out at the Y . . . and I'm turning into one of those Salinger female archetypes, the ones who actually care about things in magazines. As proof of this, I have started writing down everything I eat . . . because Instyle or Cosmo or whatever other drivel was in the rack told me to. Told me it was a great idea because, then, you will think about what you eat. And we all need to think very hard about what we eat.
I don't want to think about what I eat. At least not in any detail, unless the details include "and it was incredibly yummy." But here I am, writing down my food. Because I read about it in a magazine. Shit, it's such a girl thing. I think the idea behind the whole thing is that you will think twice about eating that cheese danish . . . that yummy calorie filled cheese danish . . . if you have to write down that you ate a cheese danish. And you know what? I did think twice.
If I start talking about my pores or start complaining that I don't have a date on a Friday night, please come and bring the deprogrammers.
I don't want to think about what I eat. At least not in any detail, unless the details include "and it was incredibly yummy." But here I am, writing down my food. Because I read about it in a magazine. Shit, it's such a girl thing. I think the idea behind the whole thing is that you will think twice about eating that cheese danish . . . that yummy calorie filled cheese danish . . . if you have to write down that you ate a cheese danish. And you know what? I did think twice.
If I start talking about my pores or start complaining that I don't have a date on a Friday night, please come and bring the deprogrammers.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Really, the Best Part was Playing Pool
This morning I woke up refreshed, despite the vodka shower (not my choice) and cigar that I had the night before. I showered, put on the second oldest sweater I own (J. Crew . . . muted green), decided on a hat and was out the door.
I went to C.R. Hill first and was pleasantly surprised to find it open. Someone keeps telling me to be more positive (keeps = twice, so not all that often) and when I found myself doubting that the obscure metal and jewelry tool secret store would be open, I consciously told myself to quit it . . . and taa-daa, it was open. From 9 am to noon on Saturday. I bought $80 worth of wax and wax tools. You all better appreciate your rings (and should send me your ring sizes if you want them to fit). It was soooo nice to buy art supplies for a class when I have the money. Although I was always working in college, I was also making slightly more than minimum wage and had to pay for, well, more school. Today, I could impulse-buy dental tools. Hey, you have a book on how to carve wax? Sure, throw it in. Some wax saw blades. Heck, yes. I held off on the twenty dollar file though. I think I can find one exactly like it at Home Depot for a fourth of the price. So I didn't go totally crazy. Already have the dragon ring in my head, with little prongs to hold in the beads for eyes.
Then I drove to my brother's to borrow his laptop for my Romeo and Juliet meeting. He had excellent coffee and we made fun of music videos for a half an hour. He is currently addicted to the IMC (I think that's what it is called) which has much better videos than VH1 or MTV. As a child of MTV, I do enjoy a music video once in a great while . . . although I don't like imagery to be stuffed into my head. "MTV is for him now." D said, pointing at the nine year old playing with action figures on the floor while singing along to Blue October. And that was my heyday with MTV also, so it makes sense.
Made it to the Dearborn Borders without being late. Had a very productive meeting, with everything assigned and planned by week. Six weeks of teaching Romeo and Juliet . . . and I got to go shopping. Bought the new juxtapoz, Metalsmith magazine and the new American Craft, just for ideas.
Drove downtown via Michigan Avenue. Met my brother and sister-in-law at CCS. Found more wax at the CCS bookstore (cheaper too!) and bought Z. a shirt so he could have even more bragging rights about "goin' to college". He is taking a cartooning class for kids through their community education program. Best part of the class? He got to play pool in the student center during break. His instructor writes comic books. He saw them. But nothing about the title or characters . . . just comic books. And he learned how to draw eyeballs.
We went to the DIA. Z had never been there. Tried to tell him about some art but really . . . talking about art is boring. Swords are kinda cool. The stairs were the best part. There really should be more stairs . . . or more correctly, more stairs open to the public. Then we went to the Auto Show, which was overwhelming just in the amount of strollers on the premises. Good to see wall-to-wall people in Cobo . . . but only needed to see that for about four seconds.
Walked to Layfette Coney Island, which is next to a pipe store, possibly explaining it's early discovery by my Grandfather. I know, it's famous. But I had never been there. And it's good. Really, really good. Crack was put in the chili good. Plus the yelling and writing nothing down, the fact that your food comes in seconds, the original decor, the standing room only part. Just good. And I will always try to sit next to the radiator. Toasty butt and a loose hamburger with everything. Yum.
So it was a good day. I'm going to read about carving wax effectively and maybe do a little knitting. Mr. Crabbypants and I have a Costco and wine drinking meeting tomorrow. Again, sounds lovely.
I went to C.R. Hill first and was pleasantly surprised to find it open. Someone keeps telling me to be more positive (keeps = twice, so not all that often) and when I found myself doubting that the obscure metal and jewelry tool secret store would be open, I consciously told myself to quit it . . . and taa-daa, it was open. From 9 am to noon on Saturday. I bought $80 worth of wax and wax tools. You all better appreciate your rings (and should send me your ring sizes if you want them to fit). It was soooo nice to buy art supplies for a class when I have the money. Although I was always working in college, I was also making slightly more than minimum wage and had to pay for, well, more school. Today, I could impulse-buy dental tools. Hey, you have a book on how to carve wax? Sure, throw it in. Some wax saw blades. Heck, yes. I held off on the twenty dollar file though. I think I can find one exactly like it at Home Depot for a fourth of the price. So I didn't go totally crazy. Already have the dragon ring in my head, with little prongs to hold in the beads for eyes.
Then I drove to my brother's to borrow his laptop for my Romeo and Juliet meeting. He had excellent coffee and we made fun of music videos for a half an hour. He is currently addicted to the IMC (I think that's what it is called) which has much better videos than VH1 or MTV. As a child of MTV, I do enjoy a music video once in a great while . . . although I don't like imagery to be stuffed into my head. "MTV is for him now." D said, pointing at the nine year old playing with action figures on the floor while singing along to Blue October. And that was my heyday with MTV also, so it makes sense.
Made it to the Dearborn Borders without being late. Had a very productive meeting, with everything assigned and planned by week. Six weeks of teaching Romeo and Juliet . . . and I got to go shopping. Bought the new juxtapoz, Metalsmith magazine and the new American Craft, just for ideas.
Drove downtown via Michigan Avenue. Met my brother and sister-in-law at CCS. Found more wax at the CCS bookstore (cheaper too!) and bought Z. a shirt so he could have even more bragging rights about "goin' to college". He is taking a cartooning class for kids through their community education program. Best part of the class? He got to play pool in the student center during break. His instructor writes comic books. He saw them. But nothing about the title or characters . . . just comic books. And he learned how to draw eyeballs.
We went to the DIA. Z had never been there. Tried to tell him about some art but really . . . talking about art is boring. Swords are kinda cool. The stairs were the best part. There really should be more stairs . . . or more correctly, more stairs open to the public. Then we went to the Auto Show, which was overwhelming just in the amount of strollers on the premises. Good to see wall-to-wall people in Cobo . . . but only needed to see that for about four seconds.
Walked to Layfette Coney Island, which is next to a pipe store, possibly explaining it's early discovery by my Grandfather. I know, it's famous. But I had never been there. And it's good. Really, really good. Crack was put in the chili good. Plus the yelling and writing nothing down, the fact that your food comes in seconds, the original decor, the standing room only part. Just good. And I will always try to sit next to the radiator. Toasty butt and a loose hamburger with everything. Yum.
So it was a good day. I'm going to read about carving wax effectively and maybe do a little knitting. Mr. Crabbypants and I have a Costco and wine drinking meeting tomorrow. Again, sounds lovely.
Friday, January 19, 2007
You Give Me Nightmares
As I was swooning about sharing a book with tattoo boy last night (he has a Weimaraner, which he dresses in sweatshirts in the winter, and he was looking for something on the Noir website last night, and he took just as long to do his assignment as I did . . . and I get really picky on photoshop and will select pixel-by-pixel . . . and no, I don't mean to sound like he was slow . . . just careful, like I was . . . sigh.)
M2 looks up and says "Who?"
E2: "Tattoo boy"
M2: "Who is that?"
E2: "Remember the one that you said that you would have to tell Emily to stop talking to in a couple of months?"
M2: "Oh, that one."
Then other people in our party questioned M2 statement, to which she replied:
"Fine. I'll start sending her to you whenever she wants to talk. Because the things she talks about . . . it gives me nightmares."
"I give you nightmares?"
"Yes, nightmares."
Other person from party: "Well, maybe you should stop talking then."
M2 looks up and says "Who?"
E2: "Tattoo boy"
M2: "Who is that?"
E2: "Remember the one that you said that you would have to tell Emily to stop talking to in a couple of months?"
M2: "Oh, that one."
Then other people in our party questioned M2 statement, to which she replied:
"Fine. I'll start sending her to you whenever she wants to talk. Because the things she talks about . . . it gives me nightmares."
"I give you nightmares?"
"Yes, nightmares."
Other person from party: "Well, maybe you should stop talking then."
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Oh Bother
I woke up this morning at 5:16 a.m. and it felt like someone had cut off the top of my skull, scraped the inside until it was raw, and then plopped it back on my head. It hurt. Really, really bad. And it wasn't a migraine.
So I did what I always do with a early morning headache. I took some ibuprofen and went back to tossing and turning until the alarm goes off. Three snooze cycles later (8 minutes each) and I'm up looking in the mirror . . . and realizing that I am nauseous. "I shouldn't go to school." But I go to school. With the headache and the nausea and the weird hot blushy feeling and the chills. Because it is easier and somehow better than having to do the "emergency" lesson plans. Plus I have to go to class tonight anyhow. And community college, they are all about the attendance.
I make it through the day. Read to them. Coast. Read to them some more. Kids want to stay for "homework help", which isn't really helping . . . they help each other . . . it's more just using my room and me being the referee. Manage to do my homework (wrote test for tomorrow) and get out by 4:45.
Drive home to pick up "George". Pay some bills. Check email. Change into jeans. Drive by the mailboxes with the bills. Park somewhere that I will have to find an ATM to get out of. Eat a Z-bar for dinner. Realize that I left my extra battery at home and the battery in the camera is cashed. Have to buy book and can't spring car without three bucks. Figure I'll make it with the battery I have. Run to bookstore.
I had forgotten how much college is very much just a lesson in bureaucracy. The bookstore. A line to get your book. Get to front of line, then wait for the guy to find your book. He can't find the book. He looks some more. Finds three books and brings them to you. Pick correct book, but it is used. At this point, I don't want used . . . I finally have the means to buy new, fresh, untouched, unhighlighted, unbent. New. But there is no new book. Have to buy book for class. But cannot take book, must now take number. And go to another line. Wait. Waiting. Waiting. Wait some more. Get to front of line. Guy has to find book. Guy cannot find book. I point to the book sitting behind him. Give debit card. Just want to buy damn used book, sometime this evening, preferably before class starts. Must have "valid I.D.". Dig for I.D. Find license. Sign slip. Then the person has to do this ornate dance of paperwork. Stapling. Printing. Stamping. Stapling again. Just give me the damn book. "Do you need a bag?" Yeah, now I remember about college.
Class took all four hours. I took my pictures in RAW mode and then couldn't see them. He told us last week to take everything in RAW . . . but he didn't mean it. The pictures are huge. But I did learn how to use my manual mode on "George" and I did talk to tattoo boy. He has a dog. I think his name is Jeff. And the girl with the eyeliner . . . she's Felicity, or something. And I don't think the Nikon twins showed up today. And random comment man, well, he's still random comment man. The instructor is now treating him like a child. A hyperactive child that he is forced to sit at the children's table with at Thanksgiving. Nice, but with a ever so slight edge. Cause grandma would kick his butt if he was mean to him. Forced. Took a swell picture of a tree. Which is too big to even place on my computer to resize. So the world will never see it.
My headache is now a plain old familiar migraine. Comforting compared to this morning. Just a sharp stabbing pain on one side of my head. Currently feels like an ice pick just above my temple but occasionally moves to be a vertical line of pain through my head, radiating from the top of my mouth . . . a little to the right. Maybe I will go to work tomorrow.
So I did what I always do with a early morning headache. I took some ibuprofen and went back to tossing and turning until the alarm goes off. Three snooze cycles later (8 minutes each) and I'm up looking in the mirror . . . and realizing that I am nauseous. "I shouldn't go to school." But I go to school. With the headache and the nausea and the weird hot blushy feeling and the chills. Because it is easier and somehow better than having to do the "emergency" lesson plans. Plus I have to go to class tonight anyhow. And community college, they are all about the attendance.
I make it through the day. Read to them. Coast. Read to them some more. Kids want to stay for "homework help", which isn't really helping . . . they help each other . . . it's more just using my room and me being the referee. Manage to do my homework (wrote test for tomorrow) and get out by 4:45.
Drive home to pick up "George". Pay some bills. Check email. Change into jeans. Drive by the mailboxes with the bills. Park somewhere that I will have to find an ATM to get out of. Eat a Z-bar for dinner. Realize that I left my extra battery at home and the battery in the camera is cashed. Have to buy book and can't spring car without three bucks. Figure I'll make it with the battery I have. Run to bookstore.
I had forgotten how much college is very much just a lesson in bureaucracy. The bookstore. A line to get your book. Get to front of line, then wait for the guy to find your book. He can't find the book. He looks some more. Finds three books and brings them to you. Pick correct book, but it is used. At this point, I don't want used . . . I finally have the means to buy new, fresh, untouched, unhighlighted, unbent. New. But there is no new book. Have to buy book for class. But cannot take book, must now take number. And go to another line. Wait. Waiting. Waiting. Wait some more. Get to front of line. Guy has to find book. Guy cannot find book. I point to the book sitting behind him. Give debit card. Just want to buy damn used book, sometime this evening, preferably before class starts. Must have "valid I.D.". Dig for I.D. Find license. Sign slip. Then the person has to do this ornate dance of paperwork. Stapling. Printing. Stamping. Stapling again. Just give me the damn book. "Do you need a bag?" Yeah, now I remember about college.
Class took all four hours. I took my pictures in RAW mode and then couldn't see them. He told us last week to take everything in RAW . . . but he didn't mean it. The pictures are huge. But I did learn how to use my manual mode on "George" and I did talk to tattoo boy. He has a dog. I think his name is Jeff. And the girl with the eyeliner . . . she's Felicity, or something. And I don't think the Nikon twins showed up today. And random comment man, well, he's still random comment man. The instructor is now treating him like a child. A hyperactive child that he is forced to sit at the children's table with at Thanksgiving. Nice, but with a ever so slight edge. Cause grandma would kick his butt if he was mean to him. Forced. Took a swell picture of a tree. Which is too big to even place on my computer to resize. So the world will never see it.
My headache is now a plain old familiar migraine. Comforting compared to this morning. Just a sharp stabbing pain on one side of my head. Currently feels like an ice pick just above my temple but occasionally moves to be a vertical line of pain through my head, radiating from the top of my mouth . . . a little to the right. Maybe I will go to work tomorrow.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Keeps me off the Streets?
It's just Tuesday and already Thursday, Friday, and Saturday are booked . . . solid. And don't get me wrong, I like to be busy. I am at my best when I am slightly overscheduled. Otherwise, I think too much . . . and get caught up in the thinking.
College: worked two jobs and took 21 credits a term (ah, the dual major) . . . and somehow partied like a rock star . . . and made grades. No cracks about being an art major.
Early career: worked at the restaurant because my "real" job wasn't paying the bills. Worked 8 to 4 at real job, Wednesday night, Friday and Saturday at restaurant.
I think I'm back to that with the two classes plus the yearbook advising.
For those of you are interested, in my oh, so exciting life:
Thursday: Class -- get to hang with the Nikon twins again! And sit next to tattoo guy.
Friday: Magic Bag. Friend of a friend's band.
Saturday: Work meeting, that I am running and then DIA (quick like bunnies), auto show and Layfette Coney Island (which I SWEAR I have NEVER been to . . . not even with Grandpa Don . . . you people, you never brought me along on those trips)
I'm very excited about crossing the threshold of the famed Layfette Coney Island. Maybe I was there when I was three, but I don't think so. I'll see if anything looks remotely familiar.
And I have exams to write. And books to buy for classes. And maybe I should make an agenda for the meeting on Saturday.
Anyhow, the point was: I really just want to fall asleep on the couch.
College: worked two jobs and took 21 credits a term (ah, the dual major) . . . and somehow partied like a rock star . . . and made grades. No cracks about being an art major.
Early career: worked at the restaurant because my "real" job wasn't paying the bills. Worked 8 to 4 at real job, Wednesday night, Friday and Saturday at restaurant.
I think I'm back to that with the two classes plus the yearbook advising.
For those of you are interested, in my oh, so exciting life:
Thursday: Class -- get to hang with the Nikon twins again! And sit next to tattoo guy.
Friday: Magic Bag. Friend of a friend's band.
Saturday: Work meeting, that I am running and then DIA (quick like bunnies), auto show and Layfette Coney Island (which I SWEAR I have NEVER been to . . . not even with Grandpa Don . . . you people, you never brought me along on those trips)
I'm very excited about crossing the threshold of the famed Layfette Coney Island. Maybe I was there when I was three, but I don't think so. I'll see if anything looks remotely familiar.
And I have exams to write. And books to buy for classes. And maybe I should make an agenda for the meeting on Saturday.
Anyhow, the point was: I really just want to fall asleep on the couch.
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