Drunk Monkeys and Doorbells

After the Concourse d'Elegance, my family came over to visit. During this visit, my brother D. managed to get everything electrical checked and, more importantly, magically made the doorbell work. I have a doorbell. A doorbell that chimes (actually plays stupid songs like "Camptown Races" in a random order) when you push the button next to the door. No more signs for the windowmen, there is a doorbell. I am eternally grateful.

Because of the "my house was wired by drunk monkeys" problem, the doorbell doesn't work exactly like is supposed to . . . separate doors were supposed to have different chimes, a front door chime (stupid song) and a back door chime (ding-dong) . . . we can only get both buttons to do one thing (so either stupid song or ding-dong) so I don't know if the caller is at the front or the back door. My brother and I rationalized the one chime dilemma by figuring that my house is the size of a postage stamp so it really doesn't take that long to walk to the back door after you have figured out that there is no one at the front door. Besides . . . who goes to the back door and rings a door bell?

Of course the whole thing is set to random stupid song because that's why I bought this doorbell. I love the fact that it plays stuff like "Mary had a Little Lamb", it's seems so 1950's "look at my modern nifty doorbell" cheese. Love it. I paid extra for that cheese. When you are at the Home Depot doorbell display and you accidently push the "plays 50 different cheesy tunes" button, and the two minute "Battle Hymn of the Republic" plays, you think to yourself, "Who would buy that?" The answer is me.

So this "home improvement" project only took six months . . . and my brother still isn't sure that it won't burn down my house because "It isn't supposed to work that way". Be sure to try it out when you visit . . . I probably won't answer, much like my phone, but you can hear it through the door.

I Love the Internet

There is a whole website devoted to the abandoned buildings that we used to run around in while we were in high school (and by "we", I mean other people, because that would have been trespassing and therefore illegal). A whole "Northville Tunnels" website, complete with "busted" stories and tons of photographs. And you guys thought I had too much time on my hands . . .

They built a subdivision over the Northville tunnels and I suppose that they filled the tunnels in . . . can't really see them leaving large holes in the ground for people to fall into. Rumor always was that they were haunted, that satanists lived there, all sorts of fun. So fascinating to teenagers in the Northville/Novi/Plymouth-Canton area. Back when I lived in Northville, we called the new condos the "haunted ones", because, really, who would buy a condo there?

For the benefit of those who did not grown up Northville or in the 80's, Wayne County Children's Home was a facility for developmentally disabled children. However, we called it "The insane asylum" which was much more dark and tortured than what it really was. There were a lot of buildings and tunnels to connect them so that people could travel more easily in the winter months (or maybe it was just for the utilities). It was all abandoned by the time I was a teen and it was very cool to go there and run around in the dark. It was also very arty to go take pictures there for photography class. They bulldozed it for some condos, so I don't know what teens have to do in Northville now. Hopefully, they built them a skatepark or something. I also don't know what the Northville police department has to occupy their time either . . . I think the $50 trespassing tickets were a huge source of revenue.

Goin' to the MAC Store

So I'm going to Somerset for the big make-up buying trip and decided to invite Princess . . . since she is so very fond of make-up. She is going to be crabby because I'm going to the MAC store (she likes Estee Lauder?) but she will probably keep me from going too crazy (black lipstick is good for everyday now? Sign me up!) or looking too much like the undead. Princess is good for keeping me in the "normal" range . . . and "normal" is good when one wants to keep their current paycheck.

Hee, Hee . . .

Hate Window Estimates

Being the genius girl that I am . . . I measured all the windows in my house and created an Excel spreadsheet, with pictures, so I could just go to places and GET estimates for new windows.

I don't want anyone to come to my house . . . I don't want to get asked about my husband . . . (my imaginary husband for the window people is now named BUCK by the way, though I may go with Horatio) . . . I don't want to spend "just an hour" looking at the cut up window . . . I don't want to feel the "heat through the e2 glass" . . .

I just want someone to tell me how much a window that will fit a 36 1/4 x 54 inch hole will be and how much they want to install it. No one will give me a window by window price . . . no one will tell me how much of the price is window and how much is installation. I know how much windows are at the Home Depot . . . and I figure it's about that price again for installation but I just had a guy quote me 12,000 dollars for 15 windows. 12 THOUSAND dollars . . . that's as expensive as Pella wood windows. These were vinyl . . . nice vinyl but still vinyl. AND he wanted me to sign on the line, right then. "Why do you need to get all those estimates?" "But the 10% discount won't be good after today."

Is it just because I don't have someone named Horatio sitting next to me? Is it the muppet hair? I really can't do math in my head but COME ON, I do have access to a calculator and I can read the price tags at the home improvement store. I just want an itemized estimate for windows and I don't want to sit through an hour long sales pitch IN MY LIVING ROOM. Why can't I just go to the window store and get that?

My imaginary husband Horatio is going to come home and kick your ass, window man . . . and then you might have to deal with Buck.

Bought Batteries

Finally bought batteries for the camera . . .

Bought the batteries so I could collect ideas for the window replacement plan. Then drove around the neighborhood to take pics of the several thousand different versions of my house (though only the ones I like). Didn't think about how creepy it is to take pictures of other people's houses -- felt very much like a burglar and kept expecting someone to write my license plate down. The police haven't shown up yet, so I think it might be okay.

Eharmony Demons

Eharmony conspiracy demons have been working overtime . . . and have gotten smarter. Damn them. I got the marketing email promising three months for the price of one . . . three whole months of multiple choice -- Whee! But I passed on this "opportunity".

I then got a flurry of matches . . . which is so, so very sad since they don't know that I don't subscribe to eharmony and therefore if they pick me, and my 29 compatible characteristics, their questions just go into the air . . . into the void of the internet.

THEN I got a bunch of "requests for communication" . . . something that didn't really happen when I subscribed. I'm not saying that they are false requests. That would just be way too eharmony demon conspiracy theory. I'm just wondering why this is happening after I got my "opportunity" email. You can't answer these requests -- five multiple choice questions -- unless you subscribe for $49.95.

Now I admit I was trying to work the system. When I was a paying customer, I would often be crestfallen when I got up the nerve to send questions and then never got any response. Turns out that they still send out your profile after your gone . . . so new people who sign up will get lots of matches. That just doesn't seem fair . . . matching up people who are seriously looking with people not using your service . . . so I worked the system a little. I figured out that you can only have ten matches if you are not a subscriber . . . so once a month you close all your matches. Eharmony then matches you with ten more people, the demons perhaps thinking that you will give in if you get new shiny matches. Or maybe they just want to keep the others by giving them me as a shiny new match.

I was totally upfront in my profile, stating "I do not pay eharmony anymore" and then including an email address for people who were still "interested". With this stated in my profile, I wondered why I was getting so many "requests for communication" . . . so I checked my profile. Turns out the eharmony demons had erased that part of my profile. They left the rest and continue to send it out to people. So eharmony demons, JUST DELETE MY FILE. I beseech you. Stop sending it out to men who think I'm also a paying customer. And stop sending me email.

By the way, I put my email back on eharmony . . . probably violating several things I agreed to in signing up for the thing in the first place. So there demons . . . naah!

Chipmunks Everywhere Felt a Disturbance in the Force

For information about Mr. Cat's killer adventure, see Mom's blog (link in sidebar) . . . he's very proud of himself.

Just a little clue

I am slowing realizing that anonymous posts kinda suck . . . don't get me wrong, I love that people are commenting. For gosh sake, don't stop commenting . . . in fact, comment more because it makes me think that someone might be reading this and that is so much more comforting than talking to air. (I will talk to air though . . . those of you who know me realize this)

But the last two comments posted have been from people I know (or that I assume I know) (who else knows about the lobsters in the yearbook room?) . . . but they don't have blogger accounts. So give me a hint or something. You could always sign it. Princess just gives me a call after she comments (except now . . . she won't be speaking to me now because I mentioned her). So yeah, just a little clue . . . unless, of course, you prefer to remain anonymous.

And it ONLY took five years

Princess was telling this story the other day about her friend who found a boyfriend on match.com . . . and it ONLY took her five years. This story was told as we were sitting in an empty "restaurant" (okay, it was a bar . . . you're all old enough to know . . . occasionally, I'll go to a bar) with no one even there to be interested in us. I used to work at the particular establishment, which usually means a free drink or two, but it was a week day so the bartender was new.

Yes, I do occasionally "milk" my former employer for attention and free drinks but only once every six months or so. The chef did come up and say "hello" but I think he may have already been in the bag because he assured me that he would come back and "chat" with me and he doesn't really want to talk to me . . . this would be okay (he's an okay guy) except he is the person who insisted on firing me. So I don't really like chatting with him because something bitchy might slip and ruin my karma for the night. Chef guy scurried to the other side of the restaurant and disappeared, thankfully.

Back to the original point . . . five years on match.com to get matched seems a bit excessive. It might be my ADD but I only lasted a month on eharmony . . . and only a couple of emails with eharmony guy (do I want to deal with other people's kids? especially three of them?). I guess if you are willing to put up with five years of pseudo-rejection over the computer, you really want to be matched. Let Morrisey get his head around that . . . instead of "it's a club and you've got to go" it's now checking your profile so that the computer matching service will put you at the head of the list (online in the last five minutes) so that you have a better marketing prospect.

For you young ones . . . Morrisey was the lead singer in a band called The Smiths. They have a classic song "How Soon is Now" which is all about longing and not being loved. I've always latched onto the line "it's a club and you've got to go . . . you could meet somebody who really loves you . . ." not really for the longing aspect but for the obligation. My mother always taught me that if you were invited . . . if someone was nice enough to invite you to something . . . that you should go. So it's the "got to go" idea that I connected with . . .
Evidently, the song was a huge anthem for the gay community in the 80's also. Who knew. By the way, the rest of the line is "so you go and you stand on your own . . . and you leave on your own and you go home and you cry and you want to die". (There really are all those "and"s too)

And with that randomness, I'm off to take pictures of houses in the neighborhood that look like mine so I can find windows that I like. Hopefully, I will not get arrested for doing this.

My house was wired by drunk monkeys

My mother and I finally guilted my father into coming over to my house and fixing things. It took several weeks of "But Princess' father painted her whole house . . . " whining but he was here yesterday("I don't paint." -- Mr. Crabbypants) . My mother sent him to do something that I had already done, but no matter, I had a pile for him.

After taking him out to lunch, going to the NEW Sam's club for some recreational shopping, and driving out to the "E lot" to look at cars, we arrived at my house and changed some outlets. I can do electrical, sorta, but I don't understand the subtle nuances, like, say, when someone makes an outlet a junction box and what to do if someone does. I tried to rewire a light in the basement and determined that my house had be wired by some drunk monkeys, so I put everything back because I am not a drunk monkey and wasn't seeing the logic. I then called my brother . . . because he does understand drunk monkey wiring and how to fix it, but he was still dealing with Mr. Pukey* and couldn't come to my aid. So really my father needed to come because he taught my brother how to understand wiring, home improvement, and drunken monkeys.

My father thought he was going to "help me with the shelf" which I had already put up two days before. Evidently my mother forgot that they forced me to do all the closets in their house, for two houses. "Well, aren't you glad we did that . . . you now have a life skill . . . " Putting up closet shelves is not a life skill, in my opinion. Anyway, my father came expecting to sit on the couch, with a diet Pepsi in his hand, and yell his own made-up directions to Closetmaid shelving. I made him rewire outlets instead. My father IS very knowlegable, don't think that I doubt that, and at the age of . . . well, his age . . . I suppose he can sit on the couch and tell me how to do things, he's earned it.

When he actually gets hands-on, he talks to the job using his own made-up swear words. He used to use everyday, normally-recognized swear words but switched since his association with Mr. Pukey. Mr. Pukey was not at my house but I guess he just uses the made-up ones all the time now. So he is on the floor yelling at the outlet, about how it is a cockroach because someone made it a junction box. (Come to think of it . . . he had made-up swear words when we were kids. Which is why I didn't recognize REAL swear words when I went to school. Think of the torturing possibilies of finding someone who doesn't know that f#%K is a bad word.)

I was trying to be helpful, so I started on the light. I know how to change light fixtures because I once waited six months for my father (and brother) to come and help and got sick of waiting. ". . . You now have a life skill . . ." comes to mind. The light changing exercise quickly became ME changing the light and my father standing there saying "Do you have it up yet? What about now? How about now?" which was really annoying. I pointed out that I was helping when he was changing outlet, being the good "go-for" that I am and that he could do more of that . . . and he laughed. I longed for the couch/yelling behavior. Well, everyone survived and I have a stair tred. (My father comes over and points out projects that should be finished and then leaves . . . and I do them out of guilt) Oh, and the outlets are good too.


* My nephew somehow caught something awful and couldn't keep food down for two weeks. There were a lot of trips to the doctor and hospital and it was very frustrating. He would look like he was getting better and want food, so they would feed him and then he would vomit again. Z and his mom didn't know the bucket trick (carrying around a bucket or wastepaper basket, evidently his mom was a better person than I was in college) and so for the first day or so there was throwing up on himself, throwing up on the floor, throwing up on the couch. I was there for one epidsode, there was no warning. So my brother had his hands full with Z, who is now nicknamed, unmercifully, Mr. Pukey. (He is better now. Had pizza and everything. No puking, knock wood, for three days)

I'm gonna be late but . . .

I have to post so it can become ritual. Really, yeah, that's the idea . . .

That, I want to impress people with my ability to punctuate. I bring this up because someone complimented that "ability" recently. She didn't even know how much that would mean to me. Or maybe she did . . . anyhow, I'm going out to get my hair done . . . a very fifties sounding thing. I'm being a "Wembler" about if I want to keep it red or just to dye it all dark (espresso I think would be the color). I'm going to be late, as usual, since my hair isn't dry yet, make up not on and I have to drive to Milford.

The closet is painted. Two coats even. It would be done tonight but I have to pick up my brother, "the chosen one", at the airport. He comes once a year and everything has to stop . . . which is the major benefit of moving away, all the fawning when you come back. Let the overscheduling begin. The chosen always forgets that it takes twenty minutes to get anywhere in Detroit, even if you are just going to the 7-Eleven. So he overschedules himself and plans to be downtown and then our parents five minutes later, which makes him at least 2 hours late for everything. His girlfriend is a saint and really tries to keep him focused, so maybe this trip will be better. The family Christmas picture is Sunday and my sister refused to color coordinate outfits (for the record). I will be really amused if the chosen brings one of his extra cats (he already has five or six -- Monkey, Gimpy, Elliot, Six, Tux and one that I forget -- and he threatened to bring a kitten. How could he have a kitten?) since my brother seems to be running a "no kill" animal shelter that never places any animals.

So internet -- should you want any kittens, please just comment. I know the chosen has kittens to spare.

Alice Must Have Stood in the Closet and Smoked

Promised myself that I could not go shopping until I washed the front hall closet. (The cleaning of the whole house will be put off until Thursday at midnight) So as I am washing the nicotine off the walls of the closet, I think to myself . . . no wonder my house smells. I was awful, as usual. I don't know why I continue to be surprised . . . it was like this on all the other walls of the house (the kitchen I washed twice) but whenever I get to the next project I seem to forget how bad the last was . . .

So from my point of view, from washing the inside of a closet, the former owners must have just stood in there and smoked. I mean brown goo dripped down as I washed. Was Alice hiding from Harold? How did she not set the coats on fire? "Honey, I'm just going to have a smoke in the coat closet and then I'll get dinner on." I just don't understand.

Now I get to have a Kilz high. Maybe that will enlighten me about the smoking in the closet. Kids never smoke in the house . . . someone eventually will have to wash the walls.

Get off the couch campaign

So yesterday started okay . . . until the hatemail, so then I just sat in the comfy chair and knit. The only thing I managed to accomplish was hanging the stemware hanger that I bought last year at IKEA. Oh, and dyeing my hair, but that's an every fourth day thing. So my stemware is hung . . . and you wouldn't think I have alot but I do. The only place in the kitchen to hang this thing was next to the stove and above the toaster and, yes . . . I have thought to myself that I shouldn't be storing glass above the toaster but . . . I can't hang it on the ceiling (can't reach glasses) and I don't usually use the toaster for anything. It's not like the glasses are two inches from the toaster.

I'm going to the foot doctor today. I hope he doesn't find anything shocking . . . like the foreign body in my sinus (I wonder how much I'm will have to pay to get the picture of that). And I don't really like the idea of shots to my feet (my mom: oh yeah, they could just give you a cortizone shot for that).

So I must accomplish more things today. One of my former students JUST called for a letter of recommendation, so there's that to do. I don't know why I'm shying away from the painting of walls . . . I love to paint. But I sit and think . . . oh, shit, I would have to get out all the stuff and find the goggles so I can wash the walls . . . and oh, The Daily Show is on and that leads into that Southern Lady who cooks and I really want to finish this sweater. So I must think about the question for the first day of school: What'd you do all summer? Cause "I sat around and watched John Stewart" (though he is dreamy) will not cut it.

I have what in my sinus?

Turns out that they don't even send the x-rays to the doctor . . . they just send a report. While I don't have horribly deformed sinuses, I do have a cyst in my left nasal sinus cavity. That would explain the pint of water that came out of my nose one day . . . a burst cyst. I also explains why my nose always feels stuffed up and why blowing my nose doesn't help. The allergist went into the "we'll just watch it" routine . . . "no problem, you don't have a sinus infection right now" but I insisted on the referral to the ENT. I don't think you can diagnose "benign" on an x-ray. Besides, I've occasionally thought about just taking a power drill and drilling a hole to release the pressure . . . now a professional can do it.

When I asked for a copy of the x-ray, they laughed . . .

"Again . . . I cannot . . .

comment on a continuing investigation." Or did he say "will not"? The hilarious television I get to watch with summers off. I got to watch that press conference LIVE. Hoo doggie. And after that I picked up some prescriptions and bought some yarn. Lots of excitement.

The prescriptions I filled out of guilt. I'm going to the allergist tomorrow for an appointment (not just the lovely shots) and hadn't filled the prescriptions from the last visit . . . in March. So I have not had any allergy meds in my system since March. The doctors may be a little irked with this type of behavior. They really like it when you follow their advice. So it won't be lying if I've taken the Nasonex for one day. Sure I'm taking my allergy meds. Oh, and I get to see my skull x-ray tomorrow. Nifty! I'm assuming I have a regular skull because the x-ray was also taken in March and they haven't called me . . . and they would call me if I had hideously deformed sinuses, right? Maybe I can bring the x-ray home . . . you know that would go in my living room.

In other exciting news . . . NPR had a whole show on adult ADD and it turns out . . . SURPRISE . . . that I have, like, every one of the "collection" of symptoms. Well, I didn't get in trouble in school. I mean, I was a huge pain in the ass but I don't think anyone called home about it. So from now on EVERYTHING that is remotely wrong in my life can be chalked up to the ADD. (at least that's what the callers on NPR were doing) Messy house = ADD, Any bad relationships = ADD, Crashing the car = ADD . . . I can even use it for an excuse for my muppet hair! Yeah, I wanted to beat my head against the steering wheel as this woman cried to the doctor that she just couldn't hold down a job and her unemployment was running out and her shrink just wouldn't recognize that she had ADD. I know she didn't mean to sound like that on National Public Radio -- in case anyone IS really reading this, but she did.

Also the guest on "The Daily Show" tonight rocked. Very cute and can't wait to go to Barnes and Noble and stand around to read his book . . . er, buy his book . . . called "Spanking the Donkey".

Oh, and my mom . . . in her ultimate hipness . . . now has a blog, cuz all the kids are doin' it these days. But I'm not supposed to mention it or her for that matter, because she IS the director of homeland security (suburban division) and she wants to remain anonymous. So we didn't have this conversation . . . did we internet? So my friend (wink, wink) just started with blogger and wants to learn the joys of ". . . putting pictures and links and all of that stuff . . . I want sounds too. You can put sounds on it right?" Awesome.

Coolness with Flickr

Whatever you type in, this site will search flickr for the letters and create it. Mesmerizing.

Spell with flickr site

So that kept me amused for, like, fifteen minutes.

So I'm a media whore . . .

. . . and I watch entirely too much CNN. Today I learned about:
-- the guitarist from Korn's (Bryan Welsh?) decision to quit the band and become a Christian. I gotta say good for him. Though the word devil was mentioned too many times, it was kinda nice for someone to be on T.V. saying "hey, I don't think five year olds should sing about sex". He IS going against the establishment.

-- Project Alabama, which has the coolest $300 T-shirts I have ever seen. Evidently, you can not buy them on the web . . . and my checking account thanks the world wide web for that because it is 4:30 in the morning and I would have bought one of those suckers.

I am up this early because I cannot close my front door and don't really want to sleep with the door open (little security psychosis thanks to my mother - the director of homeland security herself). I managed to get a third coat of paint on the door by 2 am and it's not quite dry enough. I'm afraid it will stick to the frame and I'll have to sand and start all over again. Backstory is: I painted the brand new expensive door when it was too hot or something and it got all drippy so I brushed over it and then it got all blotchy and drippy. It was a mess. So I had to sand and repaint. Now I'll only paint it when the sun is down and it's under 70 degrees. I'm on vampire time anyway.

I got up at noon and then took a nap from 2 pm to 4 pm because I wasn't really ready to get up. Mr. Crabbypants would be appalled with my complete "wasting of the day". At this rate, I'm wasting tomorrow too. CNN is such a good friend at 4 am though . . . I had forgotten about that.

Down at Fraggle Rock

My hair is now what has been described as "Fraggle colored" (but only after I described it as Muppet hair . . . then the arguement about if a Fraggle was a Muppet) and the color has lasted a whole 48 hours. I'll have to redye it tomorrow but I'm thinking maybe it will hold a little longer (maybe four whole days) after a couple of redye sessions. The Manic Panic website suggests that you put it on, wrap your head in plastic and then sleep on it but I'm not THAT committed. My bathroom already went through Amityville Horror . . . don't want to deal with that in two rooms of the house. And Manic Panic dyes skin really well . . . how many people end up dying their face while their sleeping when the plastic comes off?

Then I guess they would then really look like a Muppet . . .

(Fraggle=Muppet Really it's true.)

Vampire Red

Re-dying the hair this minute. Very tricky, the dying of one's own hair. I'll have to stop by the beauty supply store and pick up a brush. The "I'll just squeeze it on my fingers and work it in plan" worked but didn't work as well as I'd hoped. I'll now have a very red scalp. Better than the Bozo orange-brown my hair was turning. I don't think it will be interview hair though. We'll see in two more minutes.

So I have to type about something for two (now one) more minute . . . have to clean the bathroom again. Red dye is not really coming out of the sink, so I will have to bleach again. I really do love bleach, though only the gel stuff. I can't use the regular stuff, because I always splash it on something . . . okay, it's been a minute. Hold on, I'll let you know how the hair turns out.

My shower now looks like the Amityville Horror or Psycho, but in color. The hair does look redder, however, so mission accomplished. Next time, I'll rinse in the sink. Okay, off to go dry my hair and bleach the whole bathroom . . . again.

But the bathroom is clean

Was lazy ALL day. Moved from the chair to the couch to the chair again while rotting my brain with 101 More Celebrity Oops. I am a vegetable. Maybe a carrot or rutabaga.

Then I cleaned the bathroom. When I clean the bathroom, I go all out. I wash the walls, behind the toilet paper, the sides of the sink cabinet and I even took out the stopper to the sink and cleaned that -- yuck. As I was cleaning the underside to one of the soap dishes, I thought about why I wait to do this until it is pretty much disgusting. Is it because I'm so obsessive that it is so much work? Is it because I don't know how to clean the bathroom without covering everything in bleach and washing the sink three times (it gets dirty again from washing other things). I mean, I took the shower head apart and cleaned the inside of that too. And now I can't shower . . . I would just get dirt on it again.

I borrowed one of my parent's Dysons. Yes, my parents have more than one Dyson (the most expensive vacuum in the universe). They have one for each floor. My mother loves her vacuuming. What's it to ya?

Anyhow -- bagless vacuums are so cool. Look there's more dirt. Who knew their would be dirt there. Look how much dirt there is . . . it's just an amusement ride of cleaning or like watching Survivor on television. So tomorrow (or tonight, since I will be up) is the cleaning of the living room and I may even get to the kitchen by Saturday. So you are all welcome to come over on Sunday . . . as long as you help with the washing of the dining room walls. Or with the wiring of the doorbell. Or if you can put a light above my kitchen sink. But the bathroom is really, really clean.