Ernie is Frowning.

Princess and M2 are filling out the application for "What Not To Wear" for me . . . again.

Qualified Observer wants me to be more positive . . . again.

Ah, the project. Always knew I was a project . . .

Whatever happened to the Sesame Street idea of accepting people for who they are?

(Princess would now argue that she will not accept bad fashion . . . no matter who they are and that she is only saving me. Perhaps she is. Bring it on, Clinton and Stacey.)

And when have I ever advertised myself as being a beacon of sunshine and light? My nickname is the dark princess . . .

(Damnit, I do listen to him though . . . and catch myself and will try to be more positive about things. But I have many, many talents. Seeing the sunny side just is not one of them.)

Whatever. Need to find an event to wear these new shoes.

Uneven Terrain

I went with the wedges. It was a bad idea. But hindsight is usually twenty-twenty.

And I looked cute. The professional photographer who was there even said so . . . but he always says so.

And wedges are more comfortable than straight out heels. So everything was good . . . or as well as they could be considering. And then I hit the edge of the track. Uneven terrain. And I took my first digger. Fell. I hit the ground. So did george.

"SHIT!" My first concern was for the camera. But george was okay. My cute shoe was a little scuffed. The photographer laughed at me.

And graduation happened. Speeches. More speeches. Some choir singing. More speeches. I had taken a picture of the entire band from the top of the press box and figured I would walk out on the field to get a picture of the choir. Hit the edge of the track again. This time there was blood. Dripping of blood. And george took another hit.

So blood on the dress. Scraped knees. Ruined shoes. Totally torn up. Gave a kid the camera (have to write Nikon and thank them . . . george seems very durable) and went to the fieldhouse bathroom to clean up. Made it back for the throwing of the hats. And was just about to cry.

Then graduation was over . . . and I am collecting the cameras and passing out gifts to editors when my boss walks up to me. I am still bleeding. My friends have already gone to the restaurant. I have almost broken my face and my camera in front of a thousand people TWICE. And then the conversation did not go well.

So I cried. I cried at work. Only in front of one person . . . and not my boss . . . but I cried.

And then I went out and bought a new pair of shoes.

And my knees really hurt.

Graduation

I am now dressed and ready for graduation.

I remembered sunscreen this year . . . for the first time in seven years.

The dress, which I bought for blue hair affairs of state, shows entirely too much cleavage. So I had to augment it somewhat.

I'm unsure about what shoes to wear. Ballet flats? My new wedges? (I like to be tall . . . and am really tall in the wedges) My plastic sandals, as I will be crawling around on a football field?

I will take two hundred pictures of this event. My minions will take maybe twenty between the two of them. We will use 20 pictures, at the most, on the page. And really, I should just sit in the stands. Oh well . . .

But the stands are rowdy. And then there is the yelling and hooting for each and every graduate. It's their day, I know. But wouldn't they like to spend it at a nice restaurant, instead of the hot football field? Maybe it's just me.

I hate graduation.

Maybe Need to Run in Circles

I feel like a cranky child tonight . . . and was honest and told someone I was pissed, when I really didn't need to. I'll get over being pissed shortly. May be over it already.

And I feel like I really shouldn't talk until school gets out . . . to anyone. I realize that it is not them, it's me and how I am approaching things. I'm just over-tired, and perhaps over-stressed (never had a good gauge about when I'm really stressed, except maybe when I'm so stressed that I get hives and my esophagus closes up involuntarily). Like to think that I roll with it well, when I so don't, as evidenced by my physical symptoms to stress taking over.

And tomorrow is a different day. And in less than eight days, it will just be me, in my house . . . going for days without talking to anyone except maybe the Starbucks barista. And despite my insistence that I was "ditched" tonight, I really just needed to go to bed anyway.

So sorry, Princess. I didn't mean it. And it's too late to call and apologize tonight. Hope your car is beautiful and I will see you at Graduation. Sorry I was crabbypants.

Living Up to Her Name

"I just ordered a car over the phone. I just can't be bothered to go in there . . . twice. So I looked it up on the internet, called them, and ordered it."

I love Princess.

Have You Seen This Boy?

I get a phone call at 4:31 p.m.

I am still at work. It is M., my brother's girlfriend. I like my brother's girlfriend. I answer the phone.

"Hey, have you talked to John today?" John and I talk about once a month on the phone and I do not have a job that is conducive to phone calls. Cell phones are not allowed to be seen, nor heard in schools. "Um, no?" And mind jumps to things. Did they break up? Cause really my family doesn't want that to happen. My father loves M. Perhaps likes her more than his son.

"Oh, I thought you talked to him pretty frequently."

"No. Why?"

"He's missing."

Missing? What kind of missing? He was supposed to show up at work. His colleague, the other J. has called wondering where he is. M. has been in court all day but left him, perfectly intact, this morning.

Now the Crabbypants . . . we always show up at work. I've shown up at work even when I shouldn't have . . . one time when I was still bleeding profusely from my nose at random intervals. And should we not show up, we always call. We were taught to call even if we were going to be a minute late. For anything. And anything less is impolite. I'd call my friends if I'm was going to be late for meeting them at "book club". Until I figured out that was annoying and the whole world didn't think that was normal. I mean it's normal if you're going to be 20 minutes late . . . but not three minutes. And I have called and said, "I'm going to be about three minutes late." That has come out of my mouth. We are punctual, we Crabbypants.

So he didn't show up for work and he is not answering his phone. J. not answering his phone is not all that unusual. He often breaks it. He has lost two phones to cats flicking them into the toilet. At least one has gone into the ocean. And sometimes, often time, he simply does not answer when I call . . . because he is working. So not answering the phone and not at work is unusual.

So I have the "he has had a brain aneurysm and fallen but cannot get up" vision. Hit is head on the damn toilet and his seven damn cats do not have opposable thumbs and don't know what to do. He went kayaking and is now washed out to sea. He took the deposit from one store to the bank . . . and he is sooo not good with thieves. He will tell them "no". Very firmly, in fact. Has done it before. And I can't do anything . . . he is 24 hours away by car. I can't drive over and check.

M. has called all his friends. She has called all the hospitals. She has called him repeatedly. When I get home, I check my IM. He is on but idle . . . but it is always this way. I send a message. I do not get an answer. I call M. back at 6:15 to see if there is a blood trail across the living room. She is still driving home but is totally worked up. Again, it is very unusual for J. to miss work. If he is not home, I advise her to call the police. And then I stand around my house. Call E. to chat about my missing brother in Miami. Think about when I should call my parents.

Turns out he was home. In the living room. The small zoo of pets jumping from here to there. Didn't see the computer . . . as it is in a whole other room. His phone didn't ring. I ask to speak to him . . . to give him the big sister speech. "What? My phone didn't ring. And no one should worry if I haven't been gone for 24 hours." I let him go . . . I have had voice verification. And M. is furiously yelling in the background. "SIX HOURS!"

He calls back a little later and thanks me for worrying. I didn't tell him my thoughts about what a pain in the ass it would be if he were dead. He is my beneficiary on everything . . . and I'm just not organized enough to track everything down and change that. So he can't go missing anymore.

Love . . . and Spit

Really this is how I always pictured being in a relationship.

Of Tinkerbell Hair and Other Things

A couple of things:

I have named the new hair and it is "tinkerbell" hair. It stands up without any product . . . it's like two year old wispy toddler hair. In fact, I'm unsure if it will lay flat. Haven't gotten it to do it yet. And when I questioned a male friend about the attention, now that I'm blonde? His answer . . . this hair is less intimidating. Hmmm. I am getting used to it in the mirror finally. Not as much upkeep as the red, more upkeep than the black. Have to use this special purple shampoo that is slowly turning everything lavender. But lavender is better than the previous pink . . . well, actually, it was more like the set of Psycho every time I dyed it.

My father just asked about what I'm going to do this summer and I proudly announced that I had signed up for a class at CCS. "So what are you going to do with the other 23 hours of that day?" he asked. And I was so thrilled that I had managed to get organized and plan something. Going to sign up for yoga this evening. I think he thought I was going to get a job or something. Who wants an over-educated girl with blue hair who is ever so slightly crabbypants? For only four weeks? I'm sure it's Banana Republic. And yeah, it would be nice to have a part-time job . . . but they mostly involve kids (was already asked to run a tech day camp) and I don't really want to speak to any children for a month. Maybe someone would let me change oil or something.

Shopping continued: I bought the bestest purse ever . . . and got a deal on it. Bought one for my sister too. And managed to get Ralph Lauren sheets for 10 bucks each piece.

Two more weeks of school. Haven't started cleaning. The yearbook sold out. I'm in the black again this year, but barely. Might have to raise the price.

Oh, and I so need a nap.

No, Really . . . the Last One Wasn't the Right Color

I shopped like it was my job today.

Was talked into more underwear by a very nice sales person at Soma. Bought some super cute shoes. Bought a blue dress so I will have something to wear at affairs of state with the blue hair . . . because frankly, it's a little hard to pull off blue hair at affairs of state and that's what I always did with the red. I would just wear a pretty red dress and assume that everyone would be impressed with my color coordination. And let me just tell you, they carried the dress in black . . . and I didn't buy it. (and pink, and white . . . but we all know that my body rejects white)

Oh, and some new lip gloss to go with the blonde hair. Problem with changing your haircolor every six weeks . . . you have to go buy different lip gloss. And I talked to the wrong sales person at the MAC counter. I think she was there for . . . I don't know . . . my mother. Because when I started babbling at her about what kind of color I wanted -- "Pink. But not fuschia pink. Frosted pink. You know, like, 1950's with platinum hair pink? Really, really light pink and not too sheer." -- She looked at me like my mother would look at me. That stop-talking-so-fast-and -crazy sheen in her eyes. But I was busy digging in my purse for the other three vials of pink lip gloss, so I wouldn't end up with the same color. "So not this one. And not Viva Glam IV. Boy, that is not pink. It looks like pink, but it really isn't. It's kinda beige-pink lip colored. Not at all what I wanted." Then the woman started pursing her lips, so I stopped. We eventually worked it out but she really wants me to wear lip liner all over my lips . . . which I never bother with . . . and, as I assured her, I already have three lip liners, thank you. But did have an enchanting conversation with the other woman, who sent the mom lady on break, about the coloring of one's hair and the upkeep of bright colors. UV protectant dominated the conversation.

After all my finds, I went to Westborn to get dinner, feeling slightly guilty because Trader Joe's is across the street . . . and the general population should not ever go to Westborn, according to Bop-Bop. But they have these great zucchini and feta pancakes. Already made and everything. So half-fill a cart with too expensive random groceries (mozzarella cheese, tomatoes, fat-free whipped cream in a can, Greek yogurt, more cheese . . . an assortment of pre-made salad) and when I get to the register I am told that I have to have cash or a check. That the computers are down. (It did rain like hell) Well, I never have either. So no groceries for Emily. Sadness.

So had a hamburger instead.

As Long As I Have an Ipod, it's Fine

Okay, I did go. And next time, let me suggest 6 a.m. or you won't find a parking spot. And there were people, people everywhere . . . and we all know how I like the general populace. Despite the headache (which has moved to the left side today . . . sneaky) I was not Miss Crabbypants. I was just there to see what I could see. Even bought some things. Strawberries and limes.

But at one point, in the tree and shrubbery part, there was a blonde former sorority chick who was openly Crabbypants. I thought about adopting her . . . but she was too skinny. Just like my father, she had no internal monologue. "SHE"S GOT A STROLLer AND a WAGON? No WONder WE CAN'T MOVE. AND WHY DO THEY PUT THESE TRASH CANS IN THE MIDDLE?" So b.f.s.c. was in a hurry to go nowhere. Everybody had the same shrubs. It's not like the good stuff was at the end. I was then taken out by about three strollers and somehow have a cut on my leg.

The Royal Oak Farmers market was just as crazy. No place to park and S.U.V.s darting around the parking lots fighting for position. These people know that they still have grocery stores that carry produce, right? Probably the same produce? And they're air conditioned? Hmmm. Maybe I'm a spoil sport, but I'm not into fighting three ladies with strollers the size of S.U.V.s for asparagus. But then again, I'm not all that fond of asparagus. Silly.

Up Too Early

It's 7:20 in the morning on a Saturday and I have had a headache for 24 hours. Yes, I have taken something. (My family's favorite thing to say if you have a headache - "Do you take something?") I stayed in last night, went to bed early, thinking that it might help with the raw throbbing scraping inside my head. It's not even time for me to have a headache. (I usually get them once a month)

I woke up thinking that I would go to Eastern Market this morning . . . but I've since mused that I do not have a wagon. So perhaps I will downgrade to the Royal Oak Farmers Market. I really just want to people watch and window shop for antiques. It's already sticky, so yard work would suck today. From what I remember, Saturday at the Eastern Market makes me a little leery. Doesn't help that I used to tour the Eastern Market on weekdays as I child (I remember it vaguely . . . maybe it didn't happen). My mother used to bring her students to see the "behind the scenes" when she taught foods at the college level. On a weekday, there isn't anyone there really . . . at least in the seventies. My last Saturday excursion, it was wall-to-wall people. Crowded. I don't like crowded.

Okay, as Mr. Crabbypants would say, don't want to waste any more of the day.

But Not Enough Entertainment

At least it is entertaining. Just received an email from a person who really looked like a friend prospect. And the first three paragraphs were alright. Discussion about bands and such.

Last paragraph? (paraphrased, of course) Haven't worked in a year. On disability. Oh, and can't drive because of my second DUI. And due to my probation, I have weekly Breathalyzer tests.

Ummmm . . . yeah.

So that tipped the scales. Cancelled match as soon as I read it. Okay, I have enough friends. I'm good. Don't need any more. Thanks.

run over by the matchdotcom train . . . again

So once upon a time . . . or about four or five days ago, my mother and I have this conversation which turns toward matchdotcom and summer and possible boredom (although I'm taking a class at CCS AND taking yoga and something else AND volunteering at the MOCAD AND finishing the damn kitchen cabinets and dining room so I can have people over . . . so I don't know when this time is going to be when I'm bored). And mother makes this suggestion: "Why don't you just tell them that you're nice?"

And nice, to me, is a way to describe your not-so-cute cousin. Nice is that poster in middle school with the cat hanging and "hang in there". Nice is just not the best adjective. And so, in my profile, I write the conversation. And a geeky lawyer with glasses and sandals with socks winks at me. Remember, I think glasses and slightly bad fashion sense is hot. And I think, "No way. The nice thing worked?" And I sign up for the three day trial . . .

Actually, I signed up for a month because Princess said that she could not handle more than a month of me being a matchdotcom disaster again. But somehow, the match people forgot that I was ever a paying customer and offered me the three day trial. Either that, or they know it's like crack and figure it's worth giving you a little "rock" to lure you in for repeat business. And everything was going along swimmingly . . . emailed some people. Always loved the "who's viewed me section", always good for making you feel like a princess . . . ohhh, look at all of the people who looked at me today. Vanity . . . kills.

But I got the seven page strange email today about how I should take a chance because this person has frequently reviewed my pictures and has decided that he is my one. (I'm not making it up . . . I'll send you a copy . . . not even the part about frequently reviewing my pictures) And don't even go there, oh positive ones . . . I am not his one. He, however, could very easily be my stalker. Oh yeah, this is why I wanted to meet people in three dimensions. Three dimensional people are good. So I'll let know you what happens with cute bald lawyer guy and I'm off the crank-like match tomorrow. Because, to quote a friend, I always get the good ones.

And I am nice. Sigh. How boring.

Should Have Known

This is me in fifth grade, evidently before the braces. Probably could have predicted my adult outcome from this photo. To my credit, it was taken at a girl scout meeting and I was the only girl who would touch it. So girl with snake in library (one of my favorite places). What could be more charming?

And looking at this, everyone probably should have known.

At Lunch Today

"So is the boy still dating that girl?"
"Which boy?"
"Whatdayamean which boy? The one you went out with last night."
"Which one?"
"There was more than one?"
"Ummm . . . yeah. But that one? No. He tried to pick up the waitress. Turns out she was a lesbian."
"Maybe she just told him that."
"No. She told me that. I was on the way to the bathroom and I told her that he thought she was cute. And she said that she was a lesbian. I don't think she would have told me that . . . unless she was really a lesbian. But no, he's not dating that other girl anymore."

Get Some Elves

I did yard work all day. Mowed the lawn. Pulled neverending weeds. Cursed the fact that I have grass (mental note: do more research on that non-decorative landscape thing for the front).

I'm not even close to done. Maybe if I got some elves.

Anyhow, as I was mowing the last spot of the backyard that I was going to mow today, after I moved all the sticks, I thought to myself, while looking at the great bed of weeds that I'm growing next to my house, how does anyone do this . . . who works? I mean, like, at a job? Cause I'm off all summer and can catch up then. Maybe they just call the men. Or the elves. I gotta get the number for the elves. Because the landscaping cloth is not going to install itself.

I bought some watermelon plants. And some snow peas. Managed to plant most of the flowers that I purchased two days ago. Now I'm sunburned . . . and dirty. Very, very dirty. Just washed my shoes in the sink, which was a nice option. And there is something very soothing about gardening. A sense of accomplishment, when everything is straightened out and the weeds are all gone. Plus you get to pull out the weeds (kill, kill, kill). Never thought I would be into it. The ipod helps.

And before you get all excited, mother . . . no, I don't want to garden everyday and I will not own a "gardening hat". So calm down.

So to do:
Get some elves
More pots
Bigger ladder

New . . . Improved . . . with More Pictures

I've been bad about pictures . . . mostly because George -- the uber camera -- makes really big files. And then I have to make them smaller to upload them to flickr . . . or well, to anything. I know, I know, I could tell him not to make big files but then how would I edit them? Plus, George likes to make big files. He told me. Really.

So new masthead. Made fresh with my brother J.'s tattoos. New pictures up on flickr. Just click on one of the pics down there on the side and it will take you to the rest of them. Some nice Key West pics.

And I promise to put more up tomorrow. Have a whole load of Sedona that I have yet to get to . . . and there was the mother's day picture that I scanned and haven't uploaded. And a picture sitting in my car that I promised my mother that I would scan in. I'm so behind. It's like I had other things to do or something.

So stay tuned, I guess.

They're Creepy and They're Kooky

Actually, they aren't at all . . . but something about the pose reminds me of the Addams family. Here they are . . . The Crabbypants.

God, I look like my mother.

Rained Out

I had a positively grand day, in spite of the rain . . . maybe because of it.

I had planned to do yard work, until it was done. Instead I got to read the paper with a half order of french toast. Then I went to the Berkley knit store (Have You Any Wool) and bought some pink, mindless knitting, yarn to make up for all the projects that I have ongoing, all in mohair for some reason. And mohair is like knitting with thread. It never seems like you make any progress. So I need a couple of hats under my belt to feel like I can accomplish something (a hat takes me a couple of days). So pink hats it is . . .

I then checked all the stores listed in the Free Press entertainment section last week, when they showcased Berkley shopping. Shoe store was good. Found some cute little red numbers . . . but didn't want to peak early, so didn't buy them. For $39 I might have to go back though. Went to the musical instrument store and asked about fixing my viola. Kicked around Catching Fireflies.

Then I drove to Birmingham. Figured I would to the run of yarn stores. But the B'ham yarn store wasn't open . . . because it is never open. Walked all over downtown, window shopping. Then drove to Plum Market.

Because I am genetically related to Mr. Crabbypants, I love to look at grocery stores. In a new town? Let's check out and see if they have different mustard. In France? Ooooh, look at the yogurt aisle. And because I grew up with the vacation tour of grocery stores, I didn't know it was weird. Likewise with my fascination with new ones. Comes from my father having a degree and obsessive love of marketing. So off to Plum Market I went. To look at the wine selection and to see what I could see.

Honestly, I give it a B-. Very pretty without much substance. Lots o' expensive stuff . . . most of it being soap. As much soap as coffee. The cashier bubbled at me about how they put all the produce in the walk-in refrigerator every night. I guess that is an impressive use of labor cost. And there was a lot of produce. All of it seemed to be organic. Impressive cheese aisle, but that may only be because some geeky guy in glasses was looking at me, so I spent a longer time there. I'm such a sucker for geeky and glasses . . . and I do like cheese.

So all in all, a good grocery store for pick ups . . . but I wouldn't really buy anything there. Well, actually I bought three different mint plants (for my herb garden, that doesn't exist yet) (because I want mojitos), a bottle of French wine (because I almost recognize the name) and some snotty raspberry-lime mineral water. I was out for under $20.

Then the Gap, because it was close. Then to Lowe's . . . but I got distracted by shoes (DSW is next door) but there weren't any shoes as cool as the ones I saw in Berkley. So I managed to piece together some flowers, which are now sitting on my porch, not in their containers. Lowe's had put all their good flowers in containers . . . but I have containers and contented myself with the fact that the crummy flowers would probably grow. After all, they are plants and my porch has really good sun. Now if it would just stop raining.

So didn't get anything done that I was planning to get done. And it was lovely.

Blue is Good

"So would like to interview the new art teacher? Oh, and the new English teacher?"

"Wha- Yeah . . . I suppose I could get a wig . . . I'd love to be on the interview committee."

(rational brain is now bouncing about, quivering, trying to stop mouth . . . but now you have to explain the wig comment)

"Wig?"

"Well . . . umm . . . I'm dieing my hair blue as soon as school gets out. And blue hair. It's not so good for interviewing."

(What the hell? Did I just say that?)

"Blue? {pause} I like blue. Blue is good."

"Yeah, they were pretty upset about my other hair. Blue is good, just not for interviewing. I'll get a wig. It's no problem."

"Other hair?"

"My red hair. They really didn't like it. They still talk about it. So blue . . . yeah, I know a really good wig shop at Northland. I'll get a nice black pageboy."

(the rational part of my brain is now trying to remove itself from my body, maybe to possibly find a smarter one . . . it keeps poking and screaming STOP STOP STOP TALKING . . . which didn't work . . . black pageboy it is . . . )

(I really wish I had a tape recorder . . . for when my boss says things like "blue is good".)

bad dream

I just had a bad dream. The kind where you wake up all "fight or flight" and you have to go check the house because you are sure the bogeyman broke in . . . of course the dream didn't make any sense, but I still have anxiety in the pit of my stomach.

I figured surfing would calm me down, but I really would like to go to bed.

And I really would like to live with someone. Yes, I would have to clean more. But times like these, it would be comforting to have someone else here . . . waiting with me to be killed. You know, for company.

And every horror movie I've seen in the last year is playing in my head, which is why I don't watch horror movies. Damn that photographic memory thing. I suppose I could get up, dress, comb my Tinkerbell hair and go to breakfast . . . cause I can't shower . . . everyone gets killed in the shower . . . and because no one wants to kill you at a coney island at 5 a.m. . . . but I really just want to go back to bed. After I check under it, of course. Then I'll curl up with my mag light (the heavy 4 d cell one) for another hour of sleep. And scare the shit out of myself if it drops on the floor.

Gonna be a great day, right?

Rally Monkey, Rally

I am the worst type of hypochondriac . . . in that I'm so sure that I have something terrible, but refuse to do anything about it. Like going to the doctor. Why would I do that? This is why I couldn't breathe through the left side of my nose for fifteen years or so . . . ever since A.G. slammed his shoulder into it at band camp (once . . . at band camp . . . ) when we were proving how much more punk rock were.

So my neck doesn't "feel right", if that makes any sense. My glands are swollen? Maybe? But the back of my neck hurts too. And I'm pretty sure that my spleen is swollen . . . perhaps that is the pain in my side. And my bug bites haven't stopped itching. They may, in fact, be getting worse and I'm convinced there are more of them. And yesterday, I was just lethargic. In the worst, I-cannot-get-off-this-couch-and-clean-anything kind of way.

And I'm fine. Just stressed and tired. Oh, and I have a metallic taste in my mouth sometimes. Anyhow, I'm fine. And blonde. Very blonde. Looks like Tinkerbell currently.

Is it bad that I change my hair color so much that my mental image of myself doesn't adjust? Quite honestly, I picture myself with the black haircut . . . which was three hairstyles ago. So Tinkerbell in the mirror is kind of a shock, each time. So the blonde is working toward the blue, so that I don't have to be in the chair for three hours, just two.

And why? Why blue? Because I can . . .

But yeah, I think I may be back. I mean I have to go work out right now, but I'll try to write everyday this week. I promise. Thanks for waiting.

Cheese on My Sweater

Today was the kind of day where there is no place to sit in the lunchroom, so you sit on the couch and dump macaroni and cheese all over your sweater. But hey, at least you remembered to bring lunch.

A parent told me today that I needed to learn when to "pick my battles". She had already played the "are you a parent" card and was feeling pretty confident . . . I'm not sure to what end: either to feel significantly superior (she has created life, you know) or to bait me, push my buttons (her student does this pretty well, why we were having an impromptu meeting). I didn't raise an eyebrow.

Didn't share any of the thoughts in my head. About how, although I have never contributed any genetic material, I have had thousands of children at this point. And since I'm still in this business after thirteen years (most wash out before year three), I think I know something about battles and their selection. But thank you for telling me how to do my job . . .

Nope. Didn't say any of it. Just smiled sweetly. And then explained the battle I had picked. And why. "Oh, I didn't know that what that meant . . . " is what she left saying, "I let them say that all the time at home." Again, why we're having a meeting.

I haven't been writing because I don't have much nice to say. Forgive me. It is an interesting double bind . . . being admonished for being too negative . . . yet, having comments when I don't write. I should just not pay any attention. But I do. I don't want to be a negative person, to be seen as such, but really . . . it may just be in my nature. Mr. Crabbypants isn't really a negative person. He is a great guy, who is really smart and often frustrated with the world. I am also. And am half his genetic material. And quite honestly, Mrs. Crabbypants . . . not exactly "shiny happy people" material either. I love them both to pieces.

One last thing. In Key West, I was bitten by these little minute bugs . . . "no-see-ums" I think they are called. I did see one. It was a teeny-tiny black fly, smaller than a gnat. And I paid no attention, assuming they were like mosquitoes or fly bites, like black flies. Otherwise, I would have bathed in DEET. So after a couple of days, with the itching getting actually worse instead of better and there seeming to be more bites, even though I'm back in Michigan (did I bring them home?), I looked no see ums up on google. Turns out that the bites last forever, blister and sometimes fester . . . which is the best case scenario.

Worse case, I have some horrible fatal disease that kills my liver and kidneys or some parasite that had a horrible name like nematode. Oh, and if you don't get that, too many bites . . . the venom only can cause kidney failure. Kidney failure from little flies that you can't see. I think there should have been signs or something.

Ah, all small stuff . . . and I'm letting the universe take over and not sweating the small stuff . . . or the itchiness . . . but the itchiness is, well, very itchy.

Xizor . . . Who Knew . . .

So the slurpiness on Saturday.

Everything took longer than expected. The allergy shot line was long. Had to drive to my brother's house. My brother's friend showed up way late. We got lost . . . in Taylor.

So it's at this commercial building, which looks like all the other commercial building that you see in "commercial parks". There aren't that many cars, but there are lots of out-of-state license plates. We walk to the back of the building and there are three men smoking and two porta-potties. Hmmm.

I walk in the door. "Are you registered?" I am asked immediatly. After the disappointed look at my response, I am given a form to fill out, asking me more information than I feel comfortable giving. And they cannot make change. After all the money is straightened out and the forms filled, I think we are free to wander. "Don't forget your badges!" I make badges for the boys. My handwriting is neater.

To the left of the entry is a geek garage sale. 40 thousand different flavors of Star Wars figures. Other figures . . . Spawn is one that I remember. All the Star Wars gear that my mom has in her basement (though no Dagoba system). All of the Paladium books. They did something with Ninja Turtles. Interesting.

Then there are the shirts. P really wanted to buy one and I wouldn't let him. Asked him if he needed another shirt that he was forbidden to leave his apartment in . . . said "I saved Palladium books and all I got was this t-shirt" with characters on it. Sorry. No. We browse the silent auction, which is all stuff my brother and his friends already have. I then check out the gamers.

They seem to be shut-ins. Or people who pay no attention to the outside world. The archetype or stereotype seemed to be in force . . . I seriously wondered aloud where they all found pants that were three inches too short. Thick glasses from the seventies. Stains on their shirts. Nothing matched . . . or more accurately, everything clashed. And ponytails are very in. There was one in every group. And not wimpy, can barely make it into the rubber band ponytails. No, I've been actively not cutting my hair for ten years, ponytails.

I will say the ratio was definitely in my favor. I was one of three women there . . . and the other two were in bad outfits. Well, one was in a leotard . . . so I guess that was a good outfit from the crowd's point of view. She would have looked better without the gold helmet . . . but whatever. I had cleavage and good shoes. And no one looked up from the games to notice. Well, the artist guys noticed. But that was it.

So the best part? My brother loves this movie called Free Enterprise. And it is very much like him and his friends. But there is a line in the movie -- "Xizor, who knew?" when they find an action figure at some comic book store and the kid behind the counter corrects them in the pronouciation of the name. (It's pronouced "Shes-or") It is a common family saying when we discover something. "Hey, Dave, did you know that Trader Joe's has raspberry trail mix?" "Xizor. Who knew?"

So in the festival of geek garage sale, I asked if they had a Xizor . . . partially because I had just discovered that Xizor was actually a character in Star Wars (to which I did say, "Xizor. Who knew?). Scariness when P pointed out that if they had one, it would be with the "Shadows of the Empire" label, but those boys, they know their Star Wars figures. So they found two. And the mark-up was only one cent . . . judging from the Meijer price tag still on the package. Evidently, Xizor has not really appreciated in value. Who knew? So now my brother and I both have a "Prince Xizor with Energy Blade Shields". Well worth the ten dollars.

Oh, and they are N.I.B. which means that I cannot remove him from his clear plastic coffin and play with him. Because then he would not be N. or I.B. And that would destroy his value. So says Dave.

And the guy who's username was "rat_bastard" (I know . . . ) was the cutest guy there. He put it on his nametag.

Who knew.

Sugar Free Jello

I didn't buy tickets beforehand. Why? Didn't seem like the spoken word fest from the former lead singer of the Dead Kennedys would be sold out. Few people my age know who Jello Biafra is . . . and if you ask the young-uns, the people who go out and listen to things . . . well, you hear crickets.

"Oh, Dead Kennedys? Yeah, my dad listened to them." was the response from one of my students. Only one.

Quite frankly, the line was offputting. But they hadn't let anyone in. With or without tickets. Talked to a cosmetology student in line. Bought my ticket for twelve dollars. A dollar cheaper than they charged before the show. Sometimes it pays to be unorganized. A former student of mine was in line about four people behind me. It was nice to see him. Admonished him about not staying in school.

They did have t-shirts. One said "Vote Republican" with a large Nazi flag between the vote and the Republican. Shit. Digging through the memory banks. I thought Jello hated everyone. Now it's just Republicans? I bought a Guinness and waited to be outed. Sat in the back row. Corner seat. Visions of pitchforks.

Took a chance and spoke to someone I recognized from high school. Exchanged pleasantries. "Oh, yeah. I remember you." which was not remarkable, as we were in the same clique. "You were in a band once." I said to him. "Yeah, I'm with Cheilos tonight." he said. I don't remember anyone named Cheilos . . . of the friends that I remember that he had anyhow. "No. I'm with Jello." he corrected. How's that for name dropping? He walked away without any further clarification. Leaving me to wonder, was he with with Jello? Or was his band on the Alternative Tentacles label? Once I was informed, he seemed to think I was suitably impressed?

Waved at the people I knew were coming and then Jello was on stage, so talking seemed rude. All the photos of Jello, on his website, on the Majestic website, in the Free Press, seem to be from 1989. Jello now looks like Mr. Crabbypants. At least the guy on stage who said he was Jello does. And the ranting began.

Now I will say that the last time I saw Jello Biafra speak, I was much more to the left politically. And I will say, as pointed out frequently by my social studies friends, that my supposed "right" leanings now are more oppositional defiance than actual ideology. I work with a bunch of bleeding heart liberals. At least, they are the most vocal. And I did agree with some of the things Jello said. And didn't agree to others. And I listened attentively and clapped politely to the things I agreed with. Laughed at the things that I found funny, that were meant to be funny. And he dogged the Democratic party too . . . just not as much. And for the most part Jello made sense. For three hours.

At three hours, he said he was going to take a break. Which meant he was planning to come back. And I, quite frankly, couldn't do another three hours. So I left. Feeling slightly guilty. And old. But I was tired . . . and there is only so much Jello one can take in one sitting. Plus, with all the conspiracy theories thrown about, I'm sure the Republicans had inserted something into the back of my neck that was making me glow green. Or, more likely, my F.B.I. file was being added to just by being there. So I went home.

His speech did make me think. I should go check out the libertarians. See what they are up to. Or if they have an office. Or a secret handshake. And I am very much in favor of free speech. And most people aren't.

Never did figure out what "with Jello" meant. And from now on . . . there will only be pictures of me from 1992.

My Weekend

There was a dead rat under my shed.

My brother tried to convince me that it was just a small badger.

And I'm too tired and sore to say anything more.

Everyone Loves Jello

I am going to Jello Biafra by myself . . . and suddenly feel like the lamest girl in the world.

Two days ago, this was totally okay. No one likes Jello Biafra (though everyone still likes Jello). Most have never heard of Jello Biafra. It was good.

But now there are going to be people I know there . . . which is my own damn fault . . . because I told them. Which is great. They are perfectly nice people. But I don't want a pity fest. The "oh, come sit with us . . . you sad, sad little thing . . . "

Which won't happen. Just have to turn my mind around to that, right? Jello is going to be hilarious. I just got a manicure and a Shreikback CD. Life is good. And maybe there will be shirts.

But He Asked

"So what would you do?"

Someone in authority asked. I'm sure it was an rhetorical question on their part. And the person doesn't know me well. We are usually talking about my hair.

And of course, I told him. Exactly, to the letter, what I would do in his situation. Very lucky I didn't draw a diagram.

I should never be in a room with that question.

Mob Manners

Not me: So do you think they'd let me bring a pitchfork? What if I filed down the ends? Cause I'd really like to bring a pitchfork.

Me: So would we all have to have pitchforks?

Not me: You could bring whatever tool you wanted. But what do you start a mob with? I think a pitchfork.

Me: Why a pitchfork? How about clubs? Or torches?

Not me: Because I want to put her on there, like a kabob.

(when kabob was mentioned, I could NOT stop laughing and giggled for about five minutes. maybe it's because I had kabobs at Princess' house on Sunday. don't know.) (and before you contact the authorities, we are most likely NOT going to start a mob) (most likely) (definitely probably not)

Said to Me This Evening

Actually, now morning.

"Do you know how cool you are? You are so f**king cool."

"Yes. I know I'm f**king cool."

And I do. I am. I'm smart and funny . . . and relatively attractive. I have good hair. Really good eyes, so I'm told. I'm financially responsible. I'm educated. I vote. I'm kind to puppies and small children. I'm cool.

Doesn't make it any easier to find a date, bop bop, now does it?

And sorry. That was bitter.

Boys are silly.

Slurp Geek

I am going to what is basically a D & D convention next weekend. I imagine it will be something like this. (Sorry, I can no longer upload from youtube for some reason. A technical problem for another day. Something to do with switching to blogger beta.) (Love the lizard thing, by the way.)

I am going with my brother and his friends to the Palladium book convention, invited because it seems like an opportunity to meet slurp geeks . . . and I have developed an affinity for men wearing digital watches lately. Slurp geeks is a term coined by my other brother, J., to describe, well . . . the slurping sound of one's retainer being readjusted in one's mouth. When J. finds something that he deems as extremely geeky, he will make this sound . . . you put your tongue against the roof of your mouth and suck spit on the sides of your mouth.

Goes something like this: "Hey J. You want to go to the Palladium con with me? Seems they have like, four hour gaming sessions of Robocop."

J. makes long slurping noise with a look of distaste. "No."

Or "Hey J. look at that guy over there in the white socks."
"Umm, yeah . . . (slurp)"

And hence the term slurp geek was born. It's not in the urban dictionary yet . . . so it is truly a Emily's family made up term. You all know one, I'm sure.

Keep in mind, both of my brothers could be categorized as slurp geeks, in their day . . . J. possibly still is one, with his penchant for everything techie. And D. was, for sure, before he got married and his wife started buying him shirts from J. Crew. Mr. Crabbypants? Definitely slurp geek material. He was one part of the A.V. club . . . and the radio club in high school. I've seen pictures.

And a gaming convention (or "con" as D. keeps calling it) seems like an excellent opportunity to meet slurp geeks. I think I'm going to wear something that shows some cleavage. And no, I will not be gaming . . . at least not in the traditional sense. I read all the D & D books as a 4th grader, but was a girl and had no one to play with. Plus, once I figured out that there was just a bunch of dice rolling and you had to have this collective imaginary world . . . well . . . it just seemed like a lot of energy expended. Evidently, my brother J. was one of those Dungeon Masters who was a real tool. Found that out today.

P: "Yeah, I stopped playing with your brother after the butter knife incident."
"Butter knife incident?" (I don't remember anything about butter knives in D & D)
"I killed someone's character because J. told me he was running at me with a knife. Then he'd say, 'Why'd you kill him? It was a butter knife.' "

Evidently, that was bad form. My brother would do this, killing off the character who had the key to neutralize the nuclear bomb, or what have you, over a butter knife . . . thus killing off the whole room. The boy does like a good mind game.

So I've been promised that there will be more interesting things to do than watching a big bunch of slurp geeks play role playing games. Something about a costume contest and meeting all the writers. My brother has books for me to take around and get signed. And with the dawn of computers, it should be a thirtyish crowd. No one plays role playing games sitting around a table anymore. I think it's all done on the net nowadays. Low tech, old, slurp geeks. Yum. Hope they have jobs . . . and are not living in their mother's basement.

Tired

Sorry. Too tired. Have evaluation meeting tomorrow . . . probably telling me what a sucky teacher I am . . . and I'm not a sucky teacher, by the way . . . so I hope not . . . will wear my lucky socks, just in case . . . just graded 90 essay tests . . . so these kids can have some idea of their grade before report cards go out . . . my last photo class is tomorrow . . . yippeee . . . didn't cut matts . . . just bought them . . . and didn't email the stuff I was supposed to email for Princess . . . will do it tomorrow morning, I swear . . . bought origami paper today for no reason . . . tired . . .

Stories

I have a lot of stories.

And I can usually top someone in the strange tales department.

But I can't do anything with this one . . . can't beat it.

The woman who sits across from me in metals class limped into class with a cast.

She was in Ferndale (Fabulous!) last weekend and was hit by a car . . . driven by . . . a transvestite. Somehow he didn't see her as she was crossing the street in front of his car. Perhaps his blond wig shifted and was in the way. Ripped all the ligaments in her knee. And then he tried to drive off. He was in a pink dress and high heels.

Yeah, I got nothing for that. I have never been hit by a car. Thank goodness.

New Stuff

For my birthday, I bought a shed. Actually, a 6'x8' rubbermaid tote with doors.

Unfortunately, a 6'x8' rubbermaid tote comes in 500 pieces, which are now in my backyard waiting to be assembled like some giant lego project. The instructions do not have any words. I find this disturbing.

So in assessing the situation, I have determined that I will have to tear down the old shed first. My insurance company sends me a special letter every year, telling me that they will not insure the shed and I think if I lean on it in the right spot, it may just fall. But I have to clean it out first. And the only thing in the shed that I put there? The lawnmower. All the other stuff was the previous owner's, and has been there for fifty years. Untouched. And spidery. So after I put on some protective gear and pull all that out, I might just tie a rope around the shed and tie the other end to my truck. It sounds like a fun Friday afternoon.

And then I have to find someone that is really good with legos.

Today's Birthday

"Be specific, because you're going to get what you want this year. Next month brings renovations. In August, investment opportunities require decsions. Libra and Capricorn are star connections."

Hazard

"Teachers lie. I would have liked to gun them all down too." was a blog quoted in the Free Press. The article was about "fringe society" making Cho a martyr on the internet. And somehow it made what I've been thinking about for the last two days worse.

I break up fights. I listen to threats. I've been called every swear word in the book. I've been knocked over by a student this year. I report off-hand comments, things students say without thinking about the possible consequences and then have the student mad at me for making the report . . . which usually leads to more threatening behavior. In the incident where the student knocked me over, causing a visible bruise, I had to call the parent myself. And some of the state legislature think that teachers have too good a lot in life.

If I had gone into advertising, like my parents told me too, it would be stressful. But would I be breaking up fights in the hallway outside my cubicle?

I know that every career has its downside, but what is too much of a downside? I am consistently reminded that I'm taking care of "their" children. That my job is so important. That I have to be very careful, all the time. My personal life is constantly under scrutiny. I am told that I have to set a good example, 24/7. And yet, I am paid less than people with the same education level in private industry.

My profession is seen as easy to get into . . . the tenure system has kept some in my profession in place when they probably shouldn't be. Everyone can remember that terrible teacher they had . . . or the terrible teachers, more likely. "Those who can't do . . . teach." And there is the "you get summers off" argument thrown out there. And somehow, everyone thinks of high school perpetually in the 1950's. Sure everyone was bored, but no one was throwing desks. (I've only had chairs thrown at me.)

Oh, and when I call about "their" children? "I don't know what to do, either" or "I'm afraid of them too" is often the response.

Keep in mind, I always have to be the "bigger" person. I cannot retaliate. I can only defend myself if I can prove that child is being a danger to themselves or others without a doubt. And I will be questioned. And it will be assumed that I am in the wrong (assumed guilty) should I ever have to restrain a child. I am held to a higher standard than a citizen walking on the street.

And I'm not saying that I shouldn't be held to a very high standard. But I just don't see many people gunning for librarians . . . or engineers. He shot the professors first. And how many of you had to break up a fist fight at the office? With blood? Is it too late to go into advertising?

Okay, Today We are Going to Talk About Blogs

I have been asked to do a presentation about blogging tomorrow.

Does that take me out of amateur status?

I don't think I'm getting paid. Evidently, I'm focusing on being a writer, a teacher of writing and the different utilities that you can use to blog. Wonder if I should bring up that I'm not a blogger. (remember? diarist.) Maybe I could quickly make up a "not a blogger" shirt.

I did have a slight panic attack about whether I should share my address or not. I think I will just look up "teacher blogs" on google -- the internet is a wonderful thing and show mine as one example without giving the address. No use in giving 40 busy bodies the material that makes my mother's eyes roll.

So I'm going semi-pro.

Saw the News Today . . . Oh Boy . . .

Well . . . yeah . . . my life isn't that bad.

I scurried to my car today, after dealing with a fight this morning and the senior beer T-shirts that they all want to wear after spring break . . . and realized, horribly, that my life is great. Just as soon as I turned on the news.

And school shootings always make me cry . . . and I don't find it any different because it was a college. My heart goes out to Virginia and the families and their loss. To the people who ran out to pull the students back into another building. And I haven't watched the news yet, but I'm sure I will be sickened.

And we will have a meeting about it tomorrow and there will be reaction and more reaction . . . about making everything "safer". When there is no "safer". I'm sorry kids. It's a terrible world sometimes.

Done -- No. 16

I am done poking RB with a stick. Him being annoyed doesn't make me feel any better. And as much as I would like to attribute mystery to him . . . there isn't one. He calls me when he is lonely and bored. I don't know why I can't figure that out.

I am done with bars. I had fun last night, but there is always this expectation that this will be the night . . . the night that we meet someone . . . and we never meet anyone. Actually, I should speak for myself. I never meet anyone that I am remotely interested in. I would rather just go and hang out.

I really just want to curl up on my couch and watch movies for a while.

I'm done with drinking for a while. No, I'm not sick. I drank Coke for most of last night . . . but I'm sick of the headaches. And I do have a "oh my god I can't stand any smells ehw I smell like bath and body works soap" kind of headache today. Which is inconvenient. I'm a girl. Every product I use has a smell. Usually recognized as a good smell. But with a migraine, anything with a smell makes me nauseous.

I'm going to try to be done with apologizing. I apologize entirely too much. For everything. Things that are not my fault. Things that I have nothing to do with. And I know it is from my childhood and an oldest child thing, blah, blah, blah . . . but really I have very little to apologize for, but I spend an enormous amount of time apologizing. So hit me if you hear me saying I'm sorry. I'm not sorry. I think I'm just trying to get the upper hand in the conversation.

I need to be done being snobby about meeting people. If I'm really serious about having a relationship, then I need to do what it takes and be over my thoughts about how I should meet someone. Someone just said, "Well, our choices make our lives. If you really wanted to be married, you would be married." So golf lessons it is . . . yuck. Cause I'm not going to meet my glasses-wearing, tech-loving, bad-fashion choices, geek boy hanging out at the Front. And if I did, he wouldn't talk to me because he's with his friends at the Front . . . or I'm with my friends. I hear there are tech conventions somewhere.

Latest Music Find

Heard these guys on PRI's "The World" . . . Pakistani pop duo from Montreal. JoSH the band. Maybe I can pick them up on itunes.

What I Learned Today

That I am a little leery of e-filing my taxes. I did it, but I'm not sure about it. Especially because you have to wait 24 to 48 hours to find out your "status". But I didn't want to find stamps. And I don't even know how much stamps are these days . . . I think I have 37 cent ones in my drawer, with some 3 cent ones or something. Note to self: look up first class stamp amount. (41 cents?)

If you ask enough people, enough times, you will eventually get the answers you need. Not necessarily the answers you want . . . but the information you need.

I am really good at asking questions. Some people are not as good at this. I am also good at asking the right questions. Some people are not.

I am not a blogger. Evidently, I am a diarist. Bloggers talk about the issues of the day . . . diarist talk about their issues of the day. I feel so downgraded.

Mr. Cat is pissed when people leave him home alone for extended periods of time. And loud about his emotional pain if you come to visit.

I am like my father . . . in more ways than I really care to admit. Including walking full speed at the airport, but in more ways also.

Cause you know you wanted to see it

Cause I'll Know

Coming home tonight on the red eye . . . so put all my stuff back where you found it.

Shiny, Shiny

I have a rash. My mother says it's Vitamin D poisoning.

Went shopping and bought myself a birthday present. They have a very good mall in Scottsdale.

They are building everywhere and everything here. And there are jobs everywhere. Everything is shiny and new. Makes Michigan look like . . . well . . . not so good.

I miss green. It is snowing at home so I won't get green there either. But it occurs to me that I should move. I have no ties to the community (such the flight risk) and I've met more men here in three days than I've talked to in three months in Michigan. And I'm with my mother. Would like to think that I'm somehow doing something different here. Vacation attitude? Less clothing? Who can tell.

There was That One Summer

My mother just sent me an email chastising me for being on the Princess "Tan of the Isles" plan.

"eehw -- skin cancer"

I would just like to point out, for the record, that one of the multiple summers that I was grounded SHE MADE ME GET A TAN. I was well into my morbid, listen to Robert Smith and hide in the basement phase. I looked like Lydia from Beetlejuice. And was quite proud of it (things haven't changed all that much . . . though I'm not all that into the Cure anymore). My mother dragged me to Murray's Lake everyday that summer. It had water and sun. I tanned. I remember, because I was so pissed about my school picture that September. Me with blond hair and a decidedly unpunk tan. I looked so . . . healthy. And well-adjusted. It was awful.

So the woman who is responsible for that should be happy. Even though Princess' plan has backfired and I look like a lobster. (I am not in too much pain, so something worked) Don't tell anyone, especially Princess, but I slathered on spf 30 today . . . and will do it again when I sneak off to the bathroom at the pool. Cause I look like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer currently. And the allure of tan lines cannot overcome the repulsiveness of that.

Off to the super target.

Vitamin D is Good for You?

We tried to go to the "Super" Target today. There is one. In the middle of the desert. Waiting for people to show up. I bet the clearance is awesome.

Princess insisted that the Target would not be closed for Easter . . . "Not everyone is Catholic" was her response. Nevermind that the Protestants also celebrate the rising of Jesus. They don't count. Somehow in Princess' mind, Target is a decidedly agnostic organization.

Target is closed on Easter. At least the Super Target in the middle of nowhere, desert, Arizona is . . . must be run by the Catholics.

There are bunnies in the backyard. They are courting, because it is springtime. I almost ran over a quail . . . the first I have seen. Evidently they are not so smart, the quail, as he or she was desperate to run under the wheels of my rental car. Because I love to name inanimate objects, the car's name is Valerie for the week. So I had to make Valerie stop very quickly, so I did not flatten the quail.

After the failed trip to the Super Target, we went "tanning" by the pool. I brought knitting . . . except that I am making something out of "Naughty Needles". So it is awkward, when question "Oh, what are you knitting?" comes up, usually out of the mouth of a seventy year old women. If you say "I'm knitting a ball gag" then you have to explain what that is . . . so I just said "I'm practicing my short rows." This had the same effect, but it's easy to explain what short rows are . . . actually, that is not true . . . but it disturbs the ladies less.

I now have the closest thing to a tan that I can muster . . . pink. Princess insists that I'm doing it "on purpose" to prove her wrong. I'm amazed that she thinks that I have that much control. "Yes, I'm controlling the amount of melanin produced by my body . . . just to make you look bad." I told her that I was a white girl.

Now she is slathering me in Aloe, hoping that somehow that will turn the pink to brown. And I ruined the "Tan of the Isles" plan because I used the first stuff she told me to use instead of the second stuff. I'm not flexible enough about the tanning plan. Somehow it evolves as you are tanning. According to Princess anyway.

So if I'm not too pink, I may tan tomorrow. But really, I like being a white girl. Goes with all the black outfits . . . and the vampire teeth.

Picking up Rocks

The weather is beautiful here.

And as I picked up the 30 spf sunscreen gel, Princess admonished me . . .

"You can't use that."
"What?"
"It has too many spfs in it."
"But I don't want to look like a lobster."
"Here." (hands me a bottle of tanning oil . . . with spf 4) "Use this."
"I can't use that . . . I'm whitegirl."
"And you'll still be if you use that . . ."

So we are on the Princess plan of tanning. Since the last time I even thought about "tanning", in the sense that I actually wanted a tan, was seventh grade, it's been an interesting experiment. The first day we only worked on our "fronts" with lots of spray on oil . . . that reminds me of the cooking spray I have at home, just with a more coconut smell. There is the mandatory rearranging of your bathing suit, to avoid "bad lines". (that isn't easy with this rack . . . let me just say . . .) And then there is just lying there. Baking.

Once you are done filling Princess in on all the gossip (and some guy from Omaha, that was listening to every word) . . . well, then it's just boring. But luckily, I had a lot of gossip, so we filled the first afternoon.

I ruined day two of the "tan of the isles" Princess plan by going to Sedona. I only have 200 pictures, which I will share with all of you . . . obnoxiously, in minute detail . . . later. Cause I, of course, took pictures of: my lunch, cracks in the sidewalk, random flowers, a broken beer bottle in the middle of the desert. Along with 146 pictures of red rocks, of course. Oh, and cactus. And twisty trees. And bark. Yeah.

I wore something strapless (again, not easy with this rack) in an attempt to please the tan nazi. And at this stage, I am vaguely pink. Which will fade back to white in a day or two. My skin, it was built for overcast climates.

Today's plan? Lying "out". Which is tomorrow's plan too. Princess was by the pool all of yesterday, because trips to Sedona interrupt tanning. Everyone (except me) knows this. One thing about Princess . . . when that girl sets a goal . . .

Went to Scottsdale last night, when Princess ran out of sun. I don't recommend it . . . but more on that later. Maybe it was just the restaurant we stumbled upon, but even Princess has proclaimed that Detroit has better bars. And that . . . is a sad commentary.

To bring it back to the title: The fairy godmother that we are staying with picked up and gave me a red rock in Sedona. No scorpions jumped out. But I was worried about ruining the delicate ecosystem. If everyone who visits Sedona takes a rock . . . well, won't they run out of rocks?

"Look around. They've got lots of them."

Well, yes they do. And I suppose people have been taking rocks for a hundred years. So it's in my suitcase. Thank you Fairy Godmother.

Oh, and I bought a red cowboy hat. Cause it looks good.

Flying Blind

Okay. Princess hasn't called.

So I don't know where I'm going tomorrow. Not just "don't know the address" . . . I'm not even sure what city I'm supposed to be driving to. So you will find me wandering Phoenix until Monday. Monday is Scottdale . . . at least I've got that down.

And it occurs to me that I should be freaking out. Having never been to Phoenix before and not knowing anyone . . . except for a family friend that I haven't seen in thirty years. But I've been told they have good mexican food there. And Princess may call eventually. So much for the mapquesting idea though. Already such the adventure.

Maybe I should make friends on the plane.

Really, it's just lipstick

I don't know how anyone who has a job with travel keeps clean. I just found toiletries in neat little 3 ounce containers . . . but is it not the shampoo I would prefer . . . and let's not even go into the contact solution problems. I almost purchased cheap lipstick also, because I would cry if they confiscated my MAC stuff.

But they have stores in Arizona right? Because 2 ounces of contact solution is not going to do it for the weekend. It's not like I drink the stuff . . . but 2 ounces is a really little bottle.

I am going to Arizona. A place with sand, sun, and spiders under rocks. Little ol' dark princessey me. And Princess's plan is to "just sit by the pool". So there are little tiny bottles of sunscreen . . . in case the state of Arizona doesn't have any. And I'm trying to pack something other than black (so not working).

And I don't need five pairs of shoes for five days, right?

Nothin'

Have been swearing and avoiding the "n-word" all day . . . doing dramatic three readings a day. Can't bring myself to say the n-word in class, so say "beep-lover" the twelve times it comes up in chapter 10. Because I am ridiculous. However, I do an amazing rendition of Burris Ewell calling the teacher a "slut" in chapter 3. Occasionally slide into a bad southern accent too. Very entertaining.

Yearbook is still not done but we have managed to get something on every page. Just need more pages for all the ads that the "business manager" "forgot". Great.

Hold on for a day and a half. Just a day and a half. Well, maybe two days. And then there is a break.

Oh, and I have figured out what I'm going to do my final photo project with . . . take that Steve. Because all photo geeks love eggs. They are so round. And white.

And the Matthew Good site has new downloads if you register.

Versions

I was talking to a side of the LR today (who gets to be the bottom?) and was amazed by how different a perspective got presented. I heard all the same stories last week, just through another's eyes.

We all change our stories, our version of truth, to benefit ourselves . . . the protagonist always wins, even if there isn't any winning. And we are always the protagonist, in our stories.

There were some parts where I bit my tongue. A spectacular bit of control for me. Because, again, I had already heard a different version of the story . . . and somehow, my brain wanted to add these insights to others' brains. It's funny that way.

I spend a lot of time in my career talking about point of view: Atticus' point of view (doesn't he know that they aren't playing strip poker? How can you tell?), Jem's point of view . . . Scout's telling of the story . . .

So here is my point of view. You . . . you over there . . . you are just doing this because it's a bad idea. I have a hard time believing that you are this morally corrupt . . . but if you are really that needy, well, whatever. Glad I won't be there when it goes boom. Please understand that people sometimes use other people to get what they need. When they are morally corrupt anyhow. Or not whole people. You notice that I'm not saying "bad". You are doing this. She is doing this. And a relationship cannot be based on use. As an outsider not really knowing either party involved, I wish you the best. And the worse.

And you . . . yeah, you . . . the one's who is distracted easily. I know I'm a sympathetic ear and I'm cool with that but we have a very unequal relationship at this moment. I know that I upset the equilibrium . . . but really, what it was based on, wasn't that good. So we either need to move through this. Or not. But I need you to stop being distracted by every betty that walks through your life. I wouldn't stop listening to you for a guy.

So there you go.