Dubious

I didn't want to title this "child abuse" because of the search engine bots . . . but the subject of the day is: child abuse. Not overt, call the police, have social services come in and check abuse. More like, "Boy, is that kid going to be f-ed up" situations.

Let's start backwards. I was just at Target . . . with Mason. I know his name is Mason because his mother said it at least 500 times while I was looking at cheap clothes. Now it doesn't take me more than say . . . a half an hour, tops . . . to do the clothing department at Target, including underwear and socks. So there was rarely a moment in that 30 minutes that I didn't hear the word "Mason". Mason was situationally deaf and chasing his sister through the racks. This would have been fine if Mason was under six and his sister wasn't screaming "Mason" to go with his mother saying "Mason". "Mason, Mason, Mason, MASON, masonmasonmason." Mason was probably about 12.

Now the child abuse going on here is that his mother kept making ultimatums that she wasn't going to keep, which is why Mason is twelve and thinks it's still cool to run in the women's department at Target. If he was normal, he would be playing video games in the electronic department. "Mason, STOP that." And Mason would just keep doing what he was doing.

I couldn't figure out if I wanted to hit his mother . . . or tell Mason to stop it and really mean it. I have a feeling that if I had turned and told him to knock it off, he would have.

Before I went to Target, I was at the mall. Somehow, I ended up in Victoria's Secret . . . until I remembered why I don't go into Victoria's Secret. So there is this family there. Yes, family. Mom, Dad, and three year old with mega-stroller. Didn't look into the mega-stroller to see if there was a baby because I was too distracted by the father holding up sheer lace underwear and saying across the aisle "Honey, how about these?" Maybe they have a great sex life. And that is wonderful. But I don't think their three year old boy needs to know that Daddy wants Mommy to wear slutty panties. Personally, I know I didn't want to know, so I can only imagine . . .

Last incident, which was actually the first incident of my day. I used the free parking in Royal Oak which meant I had to walk past the library. There were two blond, either nannies or mommies on the lawn. I do not make direct eye contact with mommies because it will make my ovaries explode with envy. So I didn't take much notice. However, there was this adorable two year old running around. He was trying to take his clothes off, which I thought was very reasonable. It's hot and clothes, they're bothersome. And then I heard the sorority girl voices.

"What's he doing?"
"(Sigh) I don't know."

They sounded like teenagers, the nanny/mommies . . . so I hoped they were nannies even more.
"Dragon? Dragon, what are you doing?"

Dragon had his shirt over his head. That's right. Dragon. I didn't hear it wrong, because I heard it repeatedly. The kid's name is Dragon.

"Dragon? Do you need to go potty?"

Dragon didn't need to go potty. Dragon just wanted to be naked. And if my name was something like "Dragon" I might just do the opposite of whatever my sorority mother said. Just because she named me Dragon.

Dragon just smiled at his mother and her friend and continued to try for nakedness. He was pretty far away from his mother, so he might have achieved his goal before she got to him.

I hope so.

So three cases of obvious child abuse that I can't call anyone about. Dragon is going to have to go to middle school one day, with that name. That poor three year old in the Victoria's Secret is bound to have issues . . . and my darling Mason, who I'm sure will be kicked in the head once or twice in prison. Because, Mason, you can't do whatever you want in the real world. No one will be there to say your name endlessly. They'll just either hurt you, or call the police. And the fact that all of these parents managed to find someone to breed with isn't making my ovaries feel any better.

Just saying.

Correction No.942

Mr. Crabbypants called. He left a very long message. I was asleep on the couch when he called.

He wants everyone to know that he NEVER said that The Polish Market had yogurt in glass jars. He simply said that they had European style yogurt. "And then your brother said, 'ooooh, like the kind in glass jars?' and then you people talked about that." So what he said and what I heard was different, according to him.

And Mr. Crabbypants would like to express his frustration at "being constantly misquoted" in my blog. The management could like to extend our sincerest apologies to Mr. Crabbypants and would like to say that it will never happen again . . . but the management would like to also maintain it's integrity. So it will probably happen again. Sometimes for artistic license. Sometimes, because, as he, himself, pointed out, I just hear what I want to hear.

Mr. Crabbypants should feel free to click the "comment" word and may file complaints in writing should he become concerned. This would avoid blogs being written about his complaints. Instead there would just be a "comment stream", which no one reads, really.

So for the record: Mr. Crabbypants said there was European style yogurt at the Market. He did not promise glass jars. I was horribly mistaken and he was misquoted.

Hopefully this will avoid any legal proceedings, disowning, or continued voice mail correction.

No really. Sorry Dad.

I will write as I am waiting for Princess to call. She is getting her hair done in R.O. and it is the only time she comes to town, so we'll go out. Getting her hair done takes two to two and a half hours and the last time I went early and then had to stand in the salon and wait. I don't like waiting . . . and I don't like "salons" particularly, and this one is a very, very small, exclusive one, so I kept feeling like a needed some air. I am toying with the idea of going to coffee though.

So as it turns out, sewing is not as easy as one would think. I watched my mother do it for years and she always made it look easy. My sewing? There is swearing. And lots of trips to the internet to look up terms because the pattern will just say "GATHER" without telling you how to gather. You will need to baste in three rows in order to gather and make sure that you pull the bobbin string gently. Just the bobbin string. And you will need to look up baste in order to do it three times. Of course, the internet does not roll her eyes and look at you in the "you're such a disappointing daughter how did I produce someone with no domestic skills" when you ask it what baste means. Which makes me glad there is the internet. But the apron is done. It has rick-rack covering all the times I could not sew in a straight line. Sewing beats knitting in that way . . . can't put rick-rack on when you drop a stitch.

Oh, and my car? The tumblers in the lock assembly were jammed. The key wouldn't move, forward or back. Went in, bought some yogurt and a kefir smoothie, came back out and my key wouldn't move. So my brother drove 40 minutes, sat in the seat, spoke lovingly to it and it turned. He says we can build a new lock assembly this week. Sounds very exciting . . . like a puzzle. And now, I'm just driving around with a can of WD-40. And I have to clean out my car. And get it detailed. As penance.

And then there was the parking lot that I was stuck in. My father went to the Polish Market last week (in Troy, on Maple) and although they were a disappointment about the ham (my father likes Polish ham, sliced very thin, almost shaved, but not shaved . . . he is the Sally of ham . . . and he likes a certain brand, which they said they had, but didn't really have), the Polish Market was said to carry European yogurt in glass jars. Yum. Yogurt in glass jars with surprise flavors because you can't read the labels. Just like in France. S

o that was my quest of yesterday. And they did not have yogurt in glass jars. They had beet salad in glass jars. They had fish in seal-o-meal bags. They had chocolate that you can't find at the grocery store (kinder bars . . . mmmmm). And they had yogurt but not the selection that I was expecting. In Europe, entire aisles at the grocery store are devoted to yogurt . . . stacks and stacks of yogurt. At the Polish Market they had four kinds yesterday, but four kinds that I couldn't find at Meijer. And the stuff I bought has chocolate flakes and is the consistency of frosting. Which is good. Not as good as glass jars, but good. And now I know where to get shredded beets.

Okay, maybe I will go to coffee. Her hair is taking a long time, and I'm sick of waiting by the phone.

Cheaper. Less Calories.

Hmm. Who knew?

If you search "goth in your thirties" on AOL search, there's me on the center of the page. Interesting how people find me.

So I'm feeling a bit under the weather today and I'd like to think that it wasn't the drinks that I had last night . . . but it was the drinks I had last night. My car broke. I talked to one boss and don't lie well and she asked about the other boss. I tried to keep positive. Tried. Yeah. So some martinis later . . . I felt really good. And now, I don't feel so good.

And you know that resolution you make with yourself? The one you make after drinking a bit too much? I'm never going to drink again. Yeah. That will be great. Cheaper. Less calories. No more drinking.

Except that I'm supposed to go to the wine bar with a friend tonight.

My brother was very sweet last night and fixed my car. Made it work again when things seemed hopeless. And fixed it for free . . . and made it work more that just that day with a can of WD-40. A very talented man. And I would probably be still stuck in the parking lot of the Polish Market with my yogurt going bad if he hadn't come to save me.

So my brother is currently a saint. And I'm not drinking for at least a week.

Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip 'Thou Shalt Always Kill'

it's long but worth it.

Pulled . . . or Finding the Bar Next to the Cyclotron

"I just commented on a post and now it's GONE."
"Yeah, I do that sometimes. I pull them. It was whiny."
"It wasn't whiny."
"It talked about work."
"Yes, it talked about work. It was revealing. But it wasn't whiny."
"Well, I can pull them. I usually put them back up after I get three or four more posts up."
"I just wondered if I was crazy. I had just commented."
"Nope. It's still there. You just can't see it."

Ah, the fine line of personal blogging. What is self-indulgent pratter and what is insightful? I was basically whining about my life . . . again. And I decided that wasn't pretty. So I pulled it to a draft. I always put them back up. I just wait, so that it is not the first entry one sees.

Basically what it came down to was that the internet (the "new" way to meet people . . . even though we've been doing it for years) is not working for me. And as I primarily talk to the waitress at Leo's and the barista at Starbucks, I would like to order something: slightly awkward skinny guy with glasses, dark hair, obscure sense of humor -- graduate degree a plus, but must be smarty pants. And one would think that you would be able to find that on the internet, cause isn't that where they all hang out? I need to find better nerd bars. Next to physics school or something. The ultimate question. Where do all the lonely engineers hang out?

Oh, yeah, forgot to add sane. The non-insane relatively good-looking lonely engineers who will worship the ground I walk on. Who are into alternative music. But not too into it.

And I wonder why I haven't met someone?

Anyhow, that was really what the pulled post was about: angst at not finding the nerd who will at least like me . . . though the nerd bar thing is a yummy thought.

Harry Potter

No, there won't be any spoiling.

As I sit here recovering from my good cry over a children's book at 2:26 a.m. I realize how lucky we are to be able to communicate through writing . . . and to have authors that inspire us. And that I am lucky. To be able to read and comprehend with the speed to finish a J.K. Rowling book over the course of basically six hours.

It was an excellent read. And it ended in a way that I am not reluctant that I finished. And although Ms. Rowling used very common themes -- the importance of love and friendship, the warning that one should not judge others . . . that often the good in a person will surprise you, that absolute power corrupts, and the power of faith and believing in oneself -- she manages to convey this in an often surprising and unique manner.

So true to form, I have finished the last Potter book in a day. It was a good as "Order of the Phoenix", which was my favorite. If you haven't read them (because of the resistance to the hype or perhaps because they are considered children's literature), please consider it.

Awesome

Went to see Travis tonight and they were totally awesome . . .

Will write more tomorrow. Night.

Tired of Being the Project

In a conversation about how I've stopped looking for a significant other for the moment. . .

"Well, maybe you have to take some time. You know, to work on yourself. Get right with yourself."

And my first step? To getting "right with myself"? To finding "inner peace" before I "share it with others".

Not talking to that guy anymore.

Check.

Before you get all uppity with the comments, I have plenty of inner peace. I'm just not choosing to share it right at this time. It was a "pot talking to very expensive espresso machine about her perceived blackness" moment. And my first step is to not take advice from tea kettles anymore.

You Can't Wait Here

I picked Princess up at the airport last night.

Her plane was an hour late . . . and I did not check the internet before I left to find out that information (at this point my father is rolling his eyes, thinking about where he could have gone wrong). When I went to pick up the prodigal son J. I pull up to the terminal and was told, very politely but firmly, that I could not stop my car "until my party was waiting curbside". This meant much circling, because J. being a Crabbypants, didn't check any luggage. So he was going to be momentarily curbside.

Princess is not in any way a Crabbypants. So I knew there would be checked luggage. Huge pieces of checked luggage. Plus she went to California for more than a week. If I was not a Crabbypants that would require many, many shoes. So even larger huge luggage. (turns out she was three pounds over the weight limit) So I didn't leave in a hurry. I pulled up to the terminal at 1:04, a full 17 minutes after her plane was supposed to land. The plan was for me to sit in the "cell phone area". But the "cell phone area" is complicated from my direction . . . you have to drive through the airport, go out on Eureka, find a place to turn around, go back toward the airport. I didn't know it existed until Mr. Crabbypants mentioned it. And I had some time with the circling for J.. But if you are east of the airport, you would not know about the mysterious "cell phone" waiting area.

But as I pulled up to the terminal, planning to be a good girl and going to wait in the "cell phone area" with my doors locked (it's not well lit . . . and basically is the side of a freeway ramp), I found that in the wee hours of the morning there is no plan for homeland security. Whereas, I could not stand with my car running for five minutes at 2 in the afternoon, I could park my car and walk away at 2 in the morning. And no one cared. I didn't do that, of course, due to my ingrained airport etiquette, handed down genetically. But I could have. The mini-van parked askew behind me had a college student and two small identically dressed children. She walked around everywhere . . . including . . . gasp . . . entering the airport itself. The weird green van in front of me, that had a clown car like quality of having an unlimited number of people enter and exit the vehicle sat for the same amount of time that I did. And was there when I left. As a rule follower, it was driving me crazy.

Not only was I irked by the hypocrisy of not letting me wait five minutes in the afternoon but being able to sit for an hour late at night. I also was alarmed by what I saw, things that I don't think should happen at an airport anymore. A man wandering around without shoes for a full hour. Parked cars with no one in them. The Nicaraguan clown van in parked in front of me. Totally unattended six year olds running about. People entering baggage claim from the outside world. (I'm sure they were just walking in a stealing luggage. No one checks. And they always tell you the wrong belt and then make you walk to another belt.) And while there were at least ten sheriff patrol cars in the afternoon, I saw one in my hour last night. One. For five minutes. They pulled over someone in the third lane. Forced them to the curb. I think because they were waiting in the third lane. So forced them to the same place they told me I couldn't wait in the afternoon.

So I don't like the airport in the wee hours in the morning. Makes me feel jumpy. Perhaps because I have a devious mind.

Princess's luggage was not stolen by the random guy with no shoes, perhaps because it was so heavy. She brought me a lovely gift. She did not know about the line of "Emily, the Strange" products and seemed to think that they fit me perfectly. So I now have a lovely key chain proclaiming me as strange . . . and that I rock. Which fits, really. I'm glad she is home.

Expectations

Ahhh . . . summer.

Remember when I signed up for all those classes? Cause I needed to have "structured time". Yeah. Remind me to NOT do that next year. Actually, remind me to just sign up for Pilate's . . . and something where I can cut things, sculpture, cooking, welding. I need more burning and cutting. More hands-on. More something.

This has turned into the summer of "well . . . that wasn't as good as I expected . . . " And that is not entirely true. Riding my bike to Royal Oak and just wandering around, talking to the ladies at the yarn store about knitting a ball gag ("the hardest part is finding the right ball")(and they brought it up . . . no, really). Fun. Pilate's at the Y? Fun. My instructor is like the Sandra Bullock of torturous positions and I love her. Always in pink. Always with a smile on her face. She is what I want to be in my next life, should I not end up a border collie.

But in the category of "well . . . that wasn't as good as I expected . . . ", in no particular order: going to concerts spontaneously and finding they are sold out, my web design class, belly dancing, having blue hair

My web design class? I have learned absolutely nothing. And I would like to say that it was me . . . that education is what you put into it . . . but today, I did what he said and designed the site in photoshop first and not only could he not verbalize how I should start, HE COULDN'T MAKE THE PAGE EITHER. This was seriously frustrating. So I'm not feeling all that bad about missing the last class to go see Travis. I should feel bad. I won't.

Belly dancing was cancelled last week . . . by my instructor, who I think was doing the "I'm really sick . . . cough, cough, really really sick with a . . um. . . respiratory infection" and I was relieved. Belly dancing has turned out to be watching a white girl dance in front of a mirror. And that white girl isn't me. She doesn't teach us steps. She does show us steps but usually insists that we do them at the same time. And then she looks at herself in the mirror. One would think she would maybe make adjustments, so we don't look like walruses trying to stand on our tails and belly dance. However, it's the Y . . . so I should just get over it. It's an excuse to jump around for an hour. But I kinda wanted to learn how to belly dance.

And although it is fascinating to walk around the mall and be mistaken by four year olds for the tooth fairy, well, I'm a little tired of people giving me shit about my hair. It seems to be an inconvenience for my family . . . and let's face it, I'm just not all that weird. So when I'm in a dress and heels at the bar there is dissonance. And granted, I LIKE dissonance. But I also like to be liked a certain amount. So the blue hair may go sooner rather than later. My mother and father will be overjoyed with this news, because evidently, I am hard to be seen with. Who knew it would be a bigger deal than the red. People liked the red. And I do have someone come up to me everyday and compliment my hair, just like with the red. Maybe it's that I don't like the blue as much as the red. Mom suggested that I put red over and see if I get purple. Which may happen later this week.

However, I cooked today . . . which for the first time in my life I am finding more fun. Now if my family would just shut up about how bad I am at it . . . cause I'm not. I think they just have too high a standard. Or just like to give me shit.

And who knew that sewing machine could be so fun? That way exceeded my expectations. Oh, and pretzel sticks and peanut butter. That too.

Whomever

Went to see La Vie En Rose yesterday.

Best line?

A woman is interviewing Edith Piaf on a beach. Edith Piaf is knitting through the interview.

"Who are you knitting for?"
"Whomever will wear the sweater."

It was pointed out that I do that too. But with hats.

Just in Case You Thought I Was Just Sittin' Around

My second sock monkey of the summer. I think I'll name him Syd.

Cupcake Science Fair

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

Exhibit C

So I did the cupcake science fair yesterday. Made some more of the chocolate filled cupcakes (Exhibit B) from the Martha Stewart recipe and tried

two new kinds of cupcakes, as I was in a raspberry chocolate mood (Exhibits A and C).

Exhibit A -- Chocolate Raspberry Cupcakes: Recipe called for frozen raspberries and room temperature everything. Very easy recipe (which I would give you the link to, but have forgotten it) and things pretty much went without a hitch. Will fill the cups more next time. Oh, and I used cake flour (see explanation for Exhibit B) and I think they are a bit too cakey. Raspberry flavor is good . . . not quite chocolaty enough though. Maybe add some chips. And they seem to be dissolving, so they might be the "serve right away" kind of cupcake. I dusted with powdered sugar and it seems to have disappeared overnight . . . helping with the dissolving theory. They taste AWESOME though.

Exhibit B -- Vanilla Filled Cupcakes: My siblings gave me a lot of shit about the first batch, so I took their suggestions. Tried cake flour on my brother's suggestion (as he used to own that bakery and all). Found that vanilla beans are very reasonably priced at Trader Joe's and so used two this time. Beat the hell out of the sugar (as I do not have a mixer . . . well, I have one somewhere, I think, maybe, packed up in my Northville apartment junk . . . but when you move into a house with no kitchen and then buy new everything for your new kitchen because you deserve it after the tar floor debacle, well, okay, so I don't know if I have a mixer or not). Result: Cupcakes are not all that much more fluffy. Maybe minorly fluffy. Approaching fluffy. And the one cupcake that I "taste tested" the chocolate had sunk to the bottom and stuck to the paper cup. So maybe the all purpose flour brickness was to hold up the chocolate. And they still taste good. Just need some milk.

Exhibit C -- Raspberry Chocolate Cupcakes deux: I was excited about this recipe . . . well, the tablespoon of vinegar was a little weird. But just using raspberry preserves to fill them? Cool. Cause that comes in a jar. Already made. And the recipe has you fill them before you bake them. So no cutting up your cupcakes or piping. Because piping would mean more kitchen gadgets . . . and we just talked about the box of kitchen gadgets in the basement. So you make the chocolate cake and then fill the cups with one tablespoon, then one teaspoon of preserves, and then another tablespoon of cake. Great. Except that there wasn't enough cake. And a teaspoon of preserves is a lot of preserves. And when they baked? Huge mess. Volcanoes of hot raspberry syrup. And then there was the falling in like craters. They were not pretty. And do not taste as good as Exhibit A. Solution? Frosting. Lots of frosting. So basically they are paper cups filled with frosting, with a raspberry on top. But hey, some people like that.

So if you like frosting, ask me to drop off Exhibit C. If you have milk (I don't drink milk and therefore usually don't have it in the house) go with Exhibit B . . . and if I really like you, you can have some of Exhibit A. Give me your order and I will leave them on your porch.

Evening Activity

I read Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix in one evening. I remember, not because I read most books . . . and for some reason especially Harry Potter books . . . in the course of an evening (currently reading Winkie . . . slowly, which is unusual). I remember because (spoiler alert, for those who haven't read it or seen the movie skip to the second paragraph now) I was crying at 5 in the morning because Sirius Black died. And feeling very silly because it was 5 a.m., I was crying about a character in a Harry Potter book, and I wasn't ten years old.

So I went to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix this evening and true to the adage, the book was way better than the movie. And that part that I was so upset about was just a blip in the movie. Hardly a sniffle. It was worth seeing, but only if you have read the book. I'll lend it to you if you would like . . .

I thought I would be the only person in the theater, because who goes to the movies at 11 p.m. on a Wednesday? But there were families and couples. All who wanted to talk, unwrap loud candy wrappers and crunch things. If we had thrown a cell phone into the mix, it would have been perfect . . . the boys in front of me were constantly texting. So Sunday morning is a better time for movies. If we are comparing, anyhow.

And now everyone will compare me to Tonks. The posting of all the new rules and the changes at Hogwarts reminded me of "somewhere". I think I will take to posting "Rule 119" in the same way.

What I Came From

My grandmother is the little girl in the center with the bow. Aunt Leona is being held on the left. My grandmother's older sisters Hazel (on left) and Ina are the girls in the white dresses.

Nothing Scary . . . Just my Week

My Great Aunt Leona died last week.

She was ninety-six and had led a very full life. But it was very sad. Aunt Leona was my grandmother's sister, but was also her best friend. And while my grandmother had severe dementia for a very long time, Aunt Leona was lucid to the end. She remembered.

Aunt Leona did not have children of her own . . . so she was a second mother to my mother. Much like my grandmother, she had this amazing sense of fun and sometimes mischief. She never had anything bad to say about anyone. She had travelled the world and always had stories to tell. She expanded our worlds by telling them. She always had a giggle and a sparkle in her eye, even at the end when she really wasn't feeling all that great.

Even though there were four of us . . . and she had really breakable stuff, Aunt Leona would have us all over and loved us. She would play games with us for hours and seemed delighted to play "High Ho Cherry O". She had beautiful clothes and jewelry and elegant furniture. She showed us how to appreciate fine things.

She had gotten ready. Gave my mother a list, which my mother completed for her. Evidently, all of the items were food related . . . rhubarb pie, green onions . . . and then she left us, quietly, before lunch on a Saturday.

We cleaned out her apartment that day. That was Saturday. I offered to dye my hair. I spent Sunday with my brother and parents.

Monday I just didn't feel well. I skipped class. My mother went and made the arrangements.

Tuesday I was stood up for a date. Which wasn't all that big a deal. Just annoying. And then he called with an excuse . . . an excuse that was more annoying. And then I went to a movie with Princess in which the main character finds fulfillment in having a child. Literally, the message was "have a child and then you won't need men". Being single, 36, stood up, and childless, I did not find the message of the movie uplifting. It made me sad.

Wednesday my father called and informed me that he was taking my mother to the hospital. Go to hospital. Know mother is feeling better when she tells us to take the sock monkey home and "go roomba the kitchen". We go roomba the kitchen (it's very noisy, the roomba). I make boozy pie.

Thursday I bake. They found nothing wrong with my mother (THANK GOODNESS) and we chalk it up to bad chicken. See what happens when you don't eat family chicken?

Friday I pick up the prodigal son from the airport. We have lunch. I deliver him to the family. My sister tells me that my cupcakes are bad. My brothers support her opinion.

Saturday is the funeral. And it is very sad. And my family keeps making fun of my wig. My brother keeps bowing and asking me when I joined the communist regime. I get really tipsy at Ashley's and find that the bathrooms are still kinda gross . . . not as gross as I remember, but gross. We go to my parent's house and light the fireworks that were supposed to be for the Fourth of July.

Sunday one of my friends lost his job. Which makes me feel bad for him. And things weren't going so well for him to begin with, so it's sort of like watching a train wreck.

And in amongst this, I join yahoo personals for week (hence the blind date that stood me up). Somewhere, somehow, during the chaos of the week, I came to the conclusion that I deserve more. Maybe it was the one that started with how he really wanted to "fusk me" . . . maybe it was the one that is "looking forward to our physical relationship". Maybe it was the train wreck that just happened. But you know what? I deserve more.

And part of this push to meet people (people being men to date) was that I didn't want to be Aunt Leona, whom I saw as childless and therefore, alone. That was part of the dating panic which was really dying alone panic. I didn't want poor Z. to have to take care of me . . . being my step-nephew and all. If I was going to be a burden, I wanted to be a burden to someone who I pushed out my womb. It seems only fair.

But you know what? Aunt Leona had a really great life. And a really great couch. And things worked out for her, even though she and Uncle Manning dated forever (11 years). And so . . . things will work out for me.

There. Doesn't everyone feel better?

And I'm still not going to answer my phone. Sorry.

But I might give you a bad cupcake.

Walking the Line

There is a fine line between non-judgemental . . . and just not using judgement.

And right now, I think I'm guilty of the latter.

So I need some alone time.

And I'm not using the phone. So leave a message, IM me, or email me if you want something.

And yes, Dad, if you call . . . if I can find the phone in time . . . I'll answer it.

So there will probably be more bad cupcakes. Thank goodness I don't eat them. I just torture my siblings with them.

119 Dollars Later

One tank of gas so I could leave the house: $32

Trip to Target for a whisk, cooling rack and additional muffin pan: $25

Holiday Markup for Dutch Cocoa, Vanilla Beans, and Orange Liqueur: $62

Having lots of cupcakes with long names and a "I was stood up on a Tuesday" booze pie . . . well, not priceless, but it kept me busy.

Now someone has to come and eat this food. Expect packages on your porches. And no, they are not poisoned . . . though watch the boozy cupcakes. The icing is pretty strong . . . and they do not come out of the wrappers well. Something about the Coca-cola, I'm sure.

Kermit The Frog - Lime In The Coconut

Booze Pie

I just made a "I was stood up last night, booze pie".

And Paul tells me that if I cook, it doesn't matter if I'm ugly or not, cause boys, they are all about the food.

But I'm not really interested in cooking . . . I am interested in baking. So if you want you could have the "My mom went to the hospital, and thank God nothing is wrong with her" cupcakes. They will have chocolate hidden inside.

Making up Pie

Just because I know you all want to know . . .

He didn't show.

And I drank my tea, read the Metro Times and listened to my ipod.

I now know how much Golden Monkey tea is . . . and although it is not $85 dollars, true to my usual unconscious choice, it is one of the most expensive teas. And I will now be up for four days.

I only had two cups and then decided to be early for the movie that I was going to after with Princess. Thank God for Princess and the movie after. And he called. I didn't listen to the message, Princess did. Something about being "hung up" talking to someone. He was nervous and very apologetic. But not the best start.

And the movie we chose, I did not find uplifting. But Princess liked it . . . and maybe I'll make a pie tomorrow.

Because Men Hate Shallow

Okay, this makes me smile every time I think about it.

on the phone

Me: So I'll meet you after my blind date. I'll just have one drink with him.
Princess: Are you sure? What if it goes well? Maybe you'll want to stay.
Me: Ah, he doesn't have a picture. Hasn't sent me one. I'm sure one drink will be enough.
Princess: Maybe he doesn't have a picture because he is so gorgeous. He just wants to make sure you aren't shallow.

And just that thought will get me through anything that happens. Because that is the most lovely positive spin I have heard all week.

What He Heard

"Well, I'm on summer time . . . so you could call me sometime after you get out of work. I'll be up."

What he heard: I want you to steal all your freedom.

What I meant: It's really boring when you're up at 3 a.m. with no one to talk to . . . and you'll do.

"Oh, so you'll have all the kids? Well give me a call, we'll go to a museum or something . . . I'm good at finding free fun."

What he heard: I want to steal your soul.

What I meant: It must be hard to handle three kids and do anything. And hey, I want to go to the MOCAD . . . that might be fun with little kids.

The most fun of the conversation is, with this particular person, I could see the translation going on as he processed what I said. I was just being nice. Making conversation. I don't want to "date" him per say . . . but he is a good friend. Perhaps that is why I could see what was going on in his head.

And there are all these personal ads written by men saying they don't "want any games". I think of Scrabble (which I find boring) and Monopoly (which I find so boring that I don't think I've ever gotten through a whole game). But they aren't talking about that. I'm sure of it.

And I have been guilty of doing the "what does he really mean by that". And you know what? Most of the time, he meant exactly what came out of his mouth. Unless, he is breaking up with you . . . and then he is going to say whatever he thinks won't make you cry. Oh, there is that other time . . . but my parents read this.

And maybe I don't pay enough attention to what other women are saying and doing. But I didn't know there were games. Well, okay, maybe I did. But men play them just as much. If not more. And I really am just nice. Sorry, my parents raised me that way.

I don't even want anybody else's soul. Geez. Where would I put it?

New and Streaming

The new Matthew Good album comes out July 31st . . . but is streaming now from his website. And yes, you have to register to listen to it, but of course I had already registered. Maybe, just maybe, the U.S. itunes will carry it. I wonder if I can download things from itunes.ca, or if I have to download another version of itunes to do that.

It is sad . . . and angry . . . but mostly sad. And while I love his work, I would not use the term "uplifting" to describe it. And there are songs about a woman jerking him around . . . hmmm, where have I heard that before?

And that will lead into the next blog . . .

If he comes anywhere near the state of Michigan, we are all going. Stop whining, it will be a good road trip.

Well Loved

"Well it's more Grover than Cookie Monster. And your head . . . it looks like a well-loved stuffed animal. Like a Grover doll out of somebody's memory box."

Thanks Mere.

Yah Mean That Back?

Sadly, I have an affair of state to go to . . . which I will write about later when it is not so fresh. But Princess, you doubted that I would have one. Too bad this is a very sad occasion, but thank goodness I bought that wig and don't have to try to dye my hair to its normal color tonight.

However, my family had to move an apartment of furniture today. My brother kept saying that we could put the giant mirror that we had to move in "the back of the truck", which to me, meant the bed of the truck. And I kept arguing with him, because I didn't want to break the mirror and quite honestly, it wasn't going to make it in the bed of the truck with the two dressers and the bed we were moving. Finally, he gave me the tone of "just drop it" and I did. He was getting pissed at my big sisterly advice. Or so I thought.

We moved all the really heavy stuff first.

As we went in to get another load, I noticed that the giant truck of lease cheapness (my father's folly) (which to his credit was very useful today) had a full backseat . . . and that it was mostly empty. And I hatched this great idea.

"Hey, Dave . . . we can just put the mirror in the back of the truck."
"That's what I've been telling you for the last hour . . ."
"But the backseat of the truck. That way, it won't get broken."
"Um. Yeah. I know. That's what I've been sayin. Doofus."

"Oh, you meant that back of the truck?"

But The Grocery Kid Just . . .

I left the house today. To buy buttons and coffee and a cd I was longing for . . .

I ran into someone from my belly dancing class at Starbucks, meaning there was smiling and chit-chatting. And we all know how much I like that. And then I had to "unknit" the shawl I brought to work on while I drank the coffee . . . because my sticky note is unsticky. And yet, it was okay.

At Habermans, I figured I could find buttons for eyes in the bargain bin . . . but then I got distracted by the buttons behind the counter. That you have to ask to touch. And I picked out a bunch, because I couldn't decide what would look better. And when I got to the register, the total came to $24.95. Who can spend $24.95 on sock monkey eyes? Granted, I have enough for four or five monkeys . . . but the damn socks only cost $2.99. But they are beautiful eyes. So that was okay.

So I went to Record Time and Ingrid Michaelson was not in the "M"s in the indie section. And that was annoying. To whole point was to buy the independent label music at the independent record store. And I was starting to think that perhaps I should give in to itunes, instead of my archaic idea that I have to touch it. But then I found her in the "I"s. And the music is really good. So that was okay.

And then I went to the arty gift shop on Nine Mile, that I never remember the name of, and I almost bought a t-shirt that read "Knitters are Knotty" but decided that I really didn't like brown and that it would have been better if it actually said "Naughty". But I talked the clerk into applying for an internship at "Bitch" (the magazine). Told her that she should go for it . . . that she could certainly just call them and they would give her an internship. Opportunity favors the bold. She seemed convinced. And that was okay.

Then went to T.J.'s to get some food. (Just spilled some wild mushroom quesadilla on my skirt.) Bought three bottles of wine. Couldn't find the no raisin trail mix because they put it on the bottom shelf. They like my hair. Oh, and almost killed one of the grocery clerks because she tripped over my basket. But the boy who rang my groceries very earnestly asked for my i.d. to buy the wine. And I love that . . . very much.

And as I ripped the new found CD to itunes . . . a new category appeared in the "genre" section. "Easy Listening". I just bought something that reads easy listening. And that is sooooo not okay.

Orange Devil Sock Monkey

So I have moved on from hats to monkeys.

I am sewing my first sock monkey tonight . . . have his body done, just have to do the bits. You know, ears, arms, tail. All the things you do with the second sock.

I don't have any eyes, so that may have to wait for tomorrow. I don't know where to buy buttons at 1 a.m..

As this is my first sock monkey, I am sewing him completely by hand. That and I don't know how to work my grandmother's sewing machine that is sitting in my dining room (another damn thing in my dining room). The sewing machine would be way quicker, so I will have to figure out how to thread it. (That's what the internet is for, right?) And have some boy move it to the place that it could live. (Basement? Office? Living room temporarily?)

There is this group called The Sock Monkey Ministry . . . and although they are actually aligned with Christianity (I thought they were just a group of nice people. Which I suppose, is what some Christian groups are about.) AND although there doesn't seem to be any way to donate actual monkeys . . . if I get good at it perhaps I will send them some. Plus, I'm thinking of all the people in my life that really need sock monkeys. And I can think of more than a few.

So sock monkeys it is for the next couple of days. After all, how many hats does one need (I finished three this week . . . meaning two of you are getting hats. Soon. To get them out of my house. They are like tribbles.) If you have a color request, please comment. I will try to find socks to match the decor. Oh, and there are no actual sock monkey socks being purchased . . . I like to wear mine and will not give them up. They are really good socks. So if you want a traditional sock monkey, the socks are available on the internet . . . buy them and I'll sew one up for you. I find hunting for non-traditional socks much more fun.

Speaking of sock hunting . . . the men's sock department at Target sucks. I don't know how men find socks. Unless they just wear black all the time (probably for the best, in most cases).

And shopping for socks in the summer is a bit challenging. I found some nice bright argyle and some stripes, but would have liked to have a better color selection. But then again, I'm not really going to spend more than . . . say. . . three bucks for socks that I'm going to cut up. So if anyone sees some orange or yellow, especially solid, socks, let me know. D. wants an orange sock monkey. With devil horns.

Yeah, don't know what's up with the orange devil sock monkey . . . but it will be created as soon as I find some orange socks. I think he should be named LeRoy.

More Purple Than Blue

Yeah, Well Maybe It Does . . .

. . . look like a dead squirrel, dyed black, tied to the top of my head. Maybe.

And That's a Good Thing . . .

Not that Martha Stewart would endorse this . . .

Famous Dave's has Guinness for a dollar on Wednesday nights. That's ONE dollar. Cheaper than iced tea. And that, folks, is a really good thing.

Correction

The cartoon is a creation of Disney . . . trying to benefit from the Anime trend. So I'm not even a live version of real anime, just Disneyifed anime. Like cooked sushi. (okay, in reading the wiki, maybe Cartoon Network . . . which may or may not be cooler)

According to D., the character is soooo me:

Yumi (pronounced /ˈumi/) is depicted as a cynical, sarcastic punk rocker with purple hair and eyes and is dressed in a heavy metal/grunge/goth style with studded necklaces and bracelets, a light purple T-shirt with a skull that make the same expressions as she does, a black miniskirt over purple bike shorts, and black army boots.

Now D., I don't wear black army boots anymore . . . closest I've come is green Doc Martens and that's only in the winter. I'll give you skully shirts, cynical and sarcastic though.

So really, I look like a cartoon Disney punk character (Disney and punk in the same sentence. Yay.) . . . which is really just Disney's attempt to cash-in on Japanese culture (and a weird thing that is . . . two words . . . Hello Kitty). Great. Again, exactly what I was going for . . .

Oh, and PuffyAmiYumi is a Japanese pop/rock group. One of their songs is titled "Destruction Pancake" . . . but there are also titles like "Go Baby Power Now".

Yeah, Hello Kitty.

Because I LOVE Anime

According to my brother . . . I look like this. Evidently, there is a purple-headed one (Yumi).

And Japanese cartoon character was exactly what I was going for . . .

Weaving

You wonder why it all happens.

Or maybe I just wonder . . . why it all happens.

Connections that I make. People that I feel for.

And I'd like to think that it is for a reason . . . that it all is for a reason.

Maybe a reason that I don't see.


I explain the Greek idea of the fates to the ninth graders every year . . . and wonder what the tapestry has in store for me . . . why it is, what it is. And I wouldn't change it. I wouldn't trade. I don't regret. But sometimes . . . just sometimes . . . after a couple of glasses of wine, usually . . . I wonder why.

Bitten

The change has occurred, despite all the measures taken . . . the classes, the projects.

I went to bed at 4:37 a.m.. I probably could have made it to sunrise, but it burns the flesh so . . .

Vampire time has arrived.

To my credit, I did finish three knitting projects and am 23 inches into a 60 inch shawl. But this is way too early for the change. It is hard to interact with people on vampire time. Unless, of course, they are on vampire time also. And I wanted to hold out until July, at least. So maybe I'll pull an all-nighter and get back on day schedule.

And some of you are asking why? Why do you need to be with the daylighters? I mean Meijer is open 24/7. Why shouldn't I go with my natural circadian rhythm?

Because I don't know anyone that works third shift . . . or any other vampire-time teachers . . . so the lifestyle is very isolating. And think about who is at Meijer at 4 a.m. (including me, if you don't know me). Yuck. Plus "Daysleeper" by R.E.M. plays in my head a lot. And that isn't pleasant at all.

Sigh. Maybe I'll have to get a job.

Quotes from Last Evening

(sigh) "So it looks like a wig?"
"Um. No. But it doesn't look like you. At all."
"So it looks like a wig?"
"Well. It looks like a wig on you . . . but it's all one color. You never have hair that's all one color."
(sigh) "So it looks like a wig?"
"I just don't think I've seen you with such normal hair . . . "

AND . . .

Drunk blonde teenager at 7-Eleven, 2:34 a.m.:
"Whoa. Your hair is BLUE."

Summer Day Three

That whole idea that I was going to go into work? Yeah . . . I so haven't been into work.

Yesterday, after Pilate's (which kicked my ass), I went wig shopping.

And where does your everyday suburban white girl with blue hair go to buy a wig? Northland mall, of course . . . same place that she goes to buy furniture. What used to be Marshall Fields closeout furniture is on the third floor . . . stacks and stacks of scratch-and-dent furniture . . . marked down in a sorta Dutch auction style. And there is Lee Beauty Supply . . . with it's aisles of hair.

Lee Beauty Supply is between the Target and what is now Macy's. I stumbled upon it when I decided to figure out how to walk the maze to the Target, instead of driving the outside maze of Northland. Lee Beauty Supply had very earnest, but hilarious, commercials on cable about all my hair needs, so I decided to check it out. And I found the aisles of hair . . . and the wig room.

While I find the bags of hair fascinating . . . I don't need extensions. And this was the first time I seriously shopped in the wig room. There are signs on neon paper stating "Please wear wig cap and ask for assistance before trying on wigs" and well, I have blue hair, so assistance found me.

So you pick out your wigs and they put pantyhose on your head. Amazing how soccer mom I can look with a brown bob. After trying on several, I went with a longish black bob . . . made of 100% human hair in China. I was really shooting for synthetic . . . but the black bob looked the best. And according to the wig stylist, I can curl it and stuff. Made me very sad that I could buy someone's head of hair and a Styrofoam head for under $50. Plus all the sewing it to a cap and all. I really would have paid more.

So on summer day three, I bought new hair. And now that I have a "wig stylist" I may go buy more instead of dyeing my hair. Turns out that wigs are way cheaper. (no, they didn't have a blue one) I feel so Sydney Bristow.

Dining Room Plan

Okay, so the plan is . . . to deal with the dining room. Cause then there could be shopping . . . for dining room furniture.

So I'm on step one: finish stripping parent's "stereo cabinet". I'm taking a break because the new stripper keeps burning through the gloves. Which is a good sign. At least I think it's a good sign. Evidently, there is no product listing on the web but my brother just sent me the skin exposure warnings --

This product is a skin irritant. Product may be absorbed through skin. May cause irritation; defatting; drying of skin; and dermatitis. May cause and increase the severity of symptoms listed under inhalation

And according to D. "defatting" is not desirable. So I need to find thicker gloves. Which I have. Somewhere.

So after I strip the stereo cabinet (which I think was Aunt Hazel's buffet or china cabinet in another life), I have to decide if I want to stain it . . . or paint it. Have the painting plan in my head . . . saw it at a store in Scottsdale. You put on four layers of different color paint and then sand things off in spots. But the buffet has inlay . . . so might not paint it. Anyhow, have to get it to a state in which I can move it to the living room, so it can live there for a while. Then will move everything else out of the dining room (tools, more tools, random shit, shop vac, electrical whoseits and whatsits) so I can wash the walls twice. And then paint.

I didn't start this project because I had this vision that I was going to put up wainscotting to eye level and then have a shelf around the room . . . and well, that's hard. It's a lot of pieces and wood and thinking. So I think I'll just paint the damn room, so I can use it and invite people over. Plus, I think I have a tiny roof leak . . . so I have to repair the ceiling before it gets worse (and repair the roof too . . .) Crap, I need a bigger ladder.

So if I just get it painted, then I can go buy stuff at IKEA . . . like shelves . . . and a table . . . and maybe even some chairs. And then I can have dinner parties . . . with no food and lots of martinis. So off to go find some thicker gloves.

Summer Day One

"Miss _______, that's the best thing to happen to your hair . . . EVER!" said the student who was waiting at the school for his ride. "I mean it. Best thing ever."

My hair is now on its third color in four days . . . and is almost the color I was originally shooting for, Grover blue.

Watched True Romance on the insistence that it was "the greatest movie ever" (a lot of evers today) and was up late. Woke up early and then managed to go back to bed. Redyed the hair in the late morning while watching season one of NCIS (on episode three). Managed to get everything together by 1 p.m. Outfit, shoes, makeup . . . and walked out into the 96 degree sauna. Drove to work. Assessed the mess. Decided not to do anything about the mess. Made a few phone calls and drove downtown.

My plan was to go to the Majestic Cafe for dinner. Class is at six . . . so I figured an early dinner (as no real lunch was consumed) and then maybe coffee and some toothpicks to hold my eyes open for class. The waiter was very attentive . . . but then again, I was the ONLY customer in the place . . . crowd at the Majestic does not start at 5 p.m. Cute little young one, who was very flirty. And then he presented me with what I can only assume was the "blue hair discount". So I tipped him well. May go back to see him again.

So no work . . . good outfit . . . dinner half off . . .

So far a very good day.

Summer List Part One

Go see:

MOCAD's Stuff: International Contemporary Art from the Collection of Burt Aaron -- turn in volunteer application while there

Cranbrook's HOT HOUSE: Expanding the Field of Fiber at Cranbrook, 1970-2007 -- bring DIA card to see if membership works

Ingmar Berman's Persona at the Royal Oak Library on Tuesday 6/19 -- free! Pay off libray fines.

Gore Gore Girls 6/29 at the Magic Stick . . . because it would be nice to see Eric again.

SHOSTAKOVICH String Quartet No. 8 in C minor on 6/28 -- some special thing the DSO is doing to attract young people.

Call Princess and see if she wants to Whitney Garden Party . . . if the Whitney is even doing that this year.

See where the bus goes . . .
Fix bike tire . . . maybe go get the thing tuned. Or figure it out on the internet.
Find Day Bed Cover
Paint something . . . and finish the damn cabinet . . . or throw it away
M2 on Wednesday . . . shopping
Now go clean the bathroom

My Pretty Pony

I Think It's a Bit Too Bright

"Can I touch it? Can I touch your hair?" the little voice said, with a toddler lisp.

"Sure. You can touch it."

Odd request, I thought, but certainly didn't hurt my hair. I leaned my head down to his reach and he quickly touched some hair on the top of my hair. His hand shot back and clasp his other. There was glee in his big brown eyes. A smile on his face. He walked over to his mother and sneered at his sister, as if he had won something. Like she had been afraid to ask and he had been brave enough.

Small children are fascinated when you have blue hair . . . perhaps it has something to do with clowns. (smile) Plus, I'm kinda dressed like a mom, but with punk rock hair.

So children . . . and transsexuals (the one waiting for the bus really liked my hair and asked all sorts of questions) . . . and random ladies driving in 1986 green Dodge Lancers (again with the questions, like they want the recipe) . . .

Although I think a man came out to "save" the dog I was petting outside of the Starbucks.

This phase may last less than the planned month. Interesting experiment in sociology though.

C is for Cookie

A box of saran wrap and a lot of water and shampoo later . . .

It is better color blue. At least a blue that I can go out in public in (ah, the irony). Off to the Royal Oak Ceramic and Glass Fest.

. . . and I tried to sleep in, I really did, but only could get to 8:30. Maybe I've grown out of vampire time.

My Pretty Pony

. . . or if Sea Monkeys had hair.

So today was the big day. Last day of school. Goin' to dye the hair blue. Yah.

Went out to a nice lunch. Browsed the paint chips at HD . . . always fun when you bring paint chips to your hair stylist.

And I arrived early, which J. pronounced as a good thing. And there was bleaching. And more bleaching. And cutting. And more cutting.

And then the blue was put on . . . and it was a beautiful sapphire hue. Brighter than I would like, but I could correct it easily at home. And there was heating and cooling. And washing.

End result? It really looks like the blue cotton candy that you get at a fair. So not the look I was going for . . . this is My Pretty Pony hair. Light turquoise. And J. was hyper-ventilating. And there was nothing she could do, something about waiting a week, so that my hair doesn't fall out. And I just figured I'd make a stop at Noir. But had to go to my parents first.

My hair is currently my paternal grandmother's favorite color. Let's see if they have a text color similar. And of course I have pictures, but I'm not showing them to you. Hopefully, all will be fixed tomorrow, with some gloves and saran wrap. And while at dinner (yes, my parents went out to dinner, in public, with my pretty pony hair), my father ran into a co-worker who had two little girls. They were fascinated . . . because I look like my pretty pony head . . . or it looks like sea monkey hair. I haven't determined which is the better description. My father muttered about having to explain at work.

To all of the people at work . . . this is not my father's fault. Really it's not. And in the scheme of things . . . I support myself, have a master's degree and a pretty good job. It's only hair.

And all I can do is laugh. I did go to a salon and ask for blue hair. And it's just hair. And maybe next week I'll dye it black. Because with my pretty pony hair, people have a tendency to stare. More than with the red. And I don't blame them . . . at all . . . but I am finding it slightly unnerving. Especially, at the Palace of Pork Products with my parents.

I'm sure it will be more Cookie Monster colored tomorrow.

Because They Stick . . . Duh

I brought my mommy with me to work today.

My mother works in the same field . . . but way, way up the ladder. And it's nice to bring her down to visit the trenches once a year. So I had her come on a day with children.

"I had forgotten what ninth graders do with sticky notes" she said.

And the people in charge? They always want lessons involving sticky notes. They see them as a good way to share thoughts.

Now I know exactly what ninth graders do with sticky notes. They stick them. Incessantly.

And I cannot buy enough sticky notes. There would not be enough money in the budget. Because ninth graders do one thing with sticky notes. They stick them.

And I had put sticky notes down so they would not just sit anyway for their exams. Put them in alphabetical order, facing front. And then they stuck their sticky notes . . . on their foreheads, on the back of their heads, on their neighbors butts, on their arms, on my board. One of the boys took his entire exam (an hour and fifteen minutes) with a sticky note stuck to his forehead. He only took it off after the exam to stick it on someone's butt.

One more day.

And then blue hair.

Peyton Place with Bungalows

I walked to the grocery store tonight . . . figuring that I would save some gas. I need a bigger bag to bring groceries home in . . .

As I walked back home, I notice there are two police cars very near what seems to be the location of my house. One of them is facing the opposite direction of traffic and all the lights are on. Granted, I do live on a rather busy street . . . but the whole light show? And there are three police persons (one was a woman) standing in a driveway.

Hmmm. Did my house blow up? Did someone drive into it? Are they waiting for me to come home? I've only been gone a half an hour.

The two guys on the porch at the house next to the really nice house . . . so the less than nice house (we all have the same house and floor plan) . . . one of them explains that it is probably not my house. "I think they are talking to R." he says.

"R?"
"Oh, you don't know R.? Yeah, how long have you lived here?"
"Ummm, about three years."
"And you don't know R.?"
"Who is R.?"
"He lives with his parents . . . he was sleeping with the woman in the house over there (nods head in direction opposite my house). Big scandal. She died. He was abusing her . . . sexually abusing her and she died while he was there. He's still under suspicion."

I look down the street and there is the weird guy that occasionally shows up in my yard. He used to mow the lawn for Harold (the guy I bought the house from). I told him I could mow my own yard. He seemed rather "off" in a trainable mentally impaired way.

"R. has been in your yard?" the guy says. "Don't talk to him. Never talk to R. I don't live here, but my buddy, he's lived here all his life, since he was born . . . since 1978. And the rule is you never talk to R."

The police finish their discussion with R. and pack up. R. lives four doors down, past the empty house and the Clampetts. I suppose I could look up things on the sex offender website, but really do I want to know? I lock my doors as a reflex anyway, be related to the "director of homeland security", as we lovingly call my mother. Crap, if she reads this, I'll have to get an alarm system.

I always set off the alarm system at their house, because I open the wrong doors to let the cat out on the porch. I couldn't handle the responsibility of an alarm system at my house. Trust me, Ms. director . . . I lock my doors. All the time.

So new rule . . . never talk to R.

Not like I did anyway. And the google bots are going to have fun with this one.

What's in a Name?

So I'm taking this fancy-schmancy web design class at CCS, which I thought would be all students . . . and is instead all people in advertising. Feels like it should be said in quotes, doesn't it? "People in Advertising"

And the whole purpose of me sitting here in this broken chair (no arm . . .) is to break away from the blogger and get my own domain name. Not that blogger hasn't been good to me . . . but I'd like to do some more advanced stuff. Or maybe just to figure out how to rewrite my widgets.

So I'm trying out domain names . . . and the one I really, really want, more than anything is:
www.iam_thanu.com

But I can't do that. Domain names (web addresses) cannot have underscores or spaces. And I suppose I could do www.iam-thanu.com, but it just isn't the same. The whole point is the space where you can put anything. iamlamerthanu. iamwaycoolerthanu. iamcuterthanu. I like the endless possibility.

So any suggestions?