Trying Too Hard

First of all, let me state that this is my LEAST favorite night and holiday of the year. I hate New Year's Eve. There is always all this expectation behind it and it turns out like a Smiths' song every time. Plus there was this one time where I was pulled over . . . the cop was pissed off that I wasn't drunk and so wrote a ticket for exactly what I was over, no "under advisement", no five over even though you were going 11 over . . . so basically a 500 dollar ticket with lawyer's fees for being speedy and sober. I know, I know, let it go Emily . . .

Went to the bar with my brother and his wife last night. As I wake up at one in the afternoon I realize I am trying too hard. If things are supposed to happen, they will happen . . . I don't really want to talk to randoms at The Front. Likewise, no more juggling. If someone calls at 10:30 p.m. and I'm already out, then I'm out and busy. I felt guilty last night for not dropping everything or inviting people to join us (except for those people I did invite who totally dissed me and screened my calls . . . some girl friends I have) and I can't rationalize feeling guilty when the phone call was at 10:30. I tried really hard but I can't.

There's a line in my new Nada Surf CD (yes, planning to go back to the Magic Stick and need some bands) "to find someone you love, you've gotta be someone you love" so simple . . . Yet, I'm attracted to such assholes usually . . . yeah, no more trying so hard . . .

So we are supposed to go to Jack's tonight. I wonder if that's still on. Otherwise, I'm staying home and hiding.

Cheesean'RICE

Now I'm sick . . . ill with the black plague, I'm sure. My whole body aches . . . and not from the SKA concert, there are chills, there is sore throatness, there might be a fever but I don't have a thermometer. . . and I know I've been staying up all night but I slept ALL day. In the fetal position. Groaning softly. With a blanket over my head.

It doesn't help that I am the biggest hypochondriac in the world. I'm already dreaming up all the diseases that start with "flu-like" symptoms. So I'm sure I'm terminal . . . it couldn't just be a cold. They definitely should not let me watch House.

In between thoughts of my demise, I'm waiting on the phone to ring and making mix CDs. I have no food in the house, my usual M.O., which is inconvenient when you don't feel well enough to leave the house. I ate Ramen for dinner. (did you realize that there are TWO servings in that package? Two servings for small children? Cats?) (Ramen are not very low calorie either, by the way) So I may have to rally enough for a trip to Meijer tonight . . . and we all know how I love the Royal Oak Meijer at midnight. On a Thursday.

But for gosh sake! Why do I always have to get sick on vacation?

My Teacher the Rock Star

As I was reading the newspaper yesterday, there was a picture of a group of handsome young men with a little caption reading "mustardplug.com". This caused me to READ instead of skim the daily "what to do" section and found that Mustard Plug, the ska band from my youth, was playing at the Magic Stick.

I immediately called Molly (M1), who is in town for the holiday, and she graciously agree to accompany me to the show. I knew that I would see at least two former students from yearbook who are Mustard Plug fans, so much so they actually own MP T-shirts. Turns out that there are quite a few Mustard Plug fans as the line wrapped around the building. Unfortunately about 16 of these fans are over the age of 21, including all the guys in the band (and it's a ska band . . . with a horn section). We got to talk to Dave (the lead singer) and he was very nice . . . nice enough to listen to two girls babbling at him about people he knew fifteen years ago.

As I'm at the bar, I hear a "Hey, Miss _______!" from this guy with a beard. Turns out there was a group of former Cranbrook students (including one in a mustard bottle costume) in the crowd, who are all old enough to drink . . . thus making me older than dirt.

M1 and I proceed to make up stories about the guys sitting at the bar, including a guy with glasses that is very cute in a Drew Carey way . . . and you know how I'm hot for Drew. However, he calls the bartender by name and orders up a shot of Jager so he is disqualified from the "flirt with" category for potential alcoholic status. The next band is coming up and I have moved on to staring at some guy with a fauxhawk in the corner, who might even be my age and not a parent. The next band is GREAT so I look up to see who is singing and it's Drew Carey guy. So he was just getting some liquid courage to go up in front of the throng of teenie boppers. And of course, any guy that's up on stage with a microphone gains like a thousand cuteness points automatically, especially when the band is actually good. Unfortunately, I hate people who don't like me at first and then see my art and want to be my best friend so I refused to go talk to him . . . it just wouldn't have been right under the circumstances . . . but the band was really cool. Deal's Gone Bad. Check them out. So we go dance and end up at the stage.

Cute Drew Carey singer boy calls all the girls up on stage. People are videotaping and have camera phones so I do not go up on stage, but some dumb sixteen year old decides to stage dive without looking, colliding with my head on the way down to the floor. It really hurt but if she had caught my nose, I would have kicked her ass. I mean it. It was very cute how the former yearbook students checked to see if I was okay.

So there was much more merriment before the night was done, all of which I will not bore you with today. Good clean fun, I tell you. Good clean fun.

Gotta find a band I like that my students don't like though.

Like a Duck to Water

Z had never even touched a Gameboy before. My brother had tried earlier in the week to lead him in that direction -- "Look! There's a Gameboy display . . . let's go try it!" but Z had seemingly no interest. My brother's coy plan for Z picking out his own games fell flat.

We opened the Gameboy early. Norma had written on it "open first", meaning to that one should opening it as the first of the Auntie Emily presents . . . not necessarily as the first present.
Z, however, took the written message to heart.

As an aside, Norma is my wrapping elf, she being better at it AND obsessive complusive about clutter. If you just leave gifts at her house (where we open them anyhow) she will wrap them just to get them under the tree and out of her dining room. So free professional gift wrapping without all the hassle of even standing there watching.

The problem with getting a Gameboy from your Aunt (instead of from Santa or something) is that Gameboys don't come fully charged in the box. So we had to plug it in and wait. And wait. And wait even more. And then there were no more presents and the adults were borin'. So we started playing Gameboy before it was fully charged and just left it plugged into the wall.

It was an hour and a half later when he came up for air . . . and that was only because he had to go to the bathroom. He tried to get my brother D. to play the game while he was "away" but my brother wouldn't go for it. We had to pry his little hands off it at 1 a.m. so he would go to bed. If it had been fully charged, I'm sure he would have slept with it . . . lovingly cradled in his arms while it played that annoying music over and over.

In the morning, the adults discovered the "joy of headphones" and he was jacked in until he had to shower. Unfortunately, he smarted off to his mother about not doing karate moves in the shower so there is no Gameboy for a whole week. Of course, while he was back talking to his mother, my brother was playing Jedi Clone Wars downstairs. So my brother and his best friend (who bought one for himself for Xmas) now get to play Gameboy with each other for a whole week without an eight year old hissing "give it back! It's MINE!" while Z is off visiting relatives.

My mother has already started knitting with the sock yarn I got her and my father is unsure about the ipod . . . it's still in the box and will remain there until we go to the Apple store tomorrow and touch all the other kinds. My other brother, J, almost had him convinced to open the box but I still have to go early tomorrow and touch the ipods. This would be much more fun if I hadn't agonized over this purchase for two weeks. I've already been to the Apple store. I've been to more than one Apple store. I have touched all the ipods. Stroked them lovingly and decided on a black Nano in the last second . . . and bought the second to last one in the store. It's wafer thin . . . (should be said with a British accent, a la Monty Python)

My brother J was amazed that I found a Nano on the day before Xmas Eve and then was even more amazed that there are Apple stores that you can walk into and touch stuff. I then pointed out to my father that we could just go to the Apple store and exchange the Nano for something bigger, if that was what he wanted, and he too was amazed that there was an Apple store that you could walk into and touch stuff. I am amazed that the two most technologically advanced geeks in my life DON'T GET OUT MUCH . . . and don't know what stores are in the mall. My brother owns, like, four ipods and he didn't know there was a store. (we will not go into why my brother has four ipods or where the hell he gets them, it's too painful for my head)

So my holiday was absolutely lovely. Hope yours was too. Say a little non-denominational prayer for me . . . I'm going to the mall in 6 hours.

High School Reunion

Went for a drink with my friend E1 at the Box Bar in Plymouth . . . it was high school reunion night. Of course, the Box Bar is high school reunion central on any given night, but the night before a holiday is just jammed packed with fun and people you didn't bother to keep in touch with.

As an aside, I have this neurotic twitch that causes me to actually say "hello" to people I haven't seen in years, which usually causes the awkward and untruthful "we should get together . . . call me sometime" conversation when we all know that no one is going to call anyone, ever. If we had wanted to stay in touch, we would be all going together to the Box Bar . . . not just running into each other. This twitch combined with the fact that I remember every face and name makes me dangerous. Very dangerous. I don't know why E1 chooses to hang out with me.

When we walked in the door, I waved casually to Mike Moore. I haven't seen Mike in ten years but I'm waving at him like I saw him yesterday, cause I'm an idiot. I'm sure this causes Mike to think "who is that idiot waving at me?" because he doesn't know who I am. It's been ten years for God's sake.

In a moment of growth on my part, I don't go over to say "hello" nor do I go anywhere near his table for the rest of the night. But the biggest moment of grown up Emily . . . I walked out of the bar, saw a pseudo-ex-boyfriend and did not say ANYTHING. No casual "Oh. Hi Mark." No wave. No acknowledgement whatsoever. Mark is one of those people from my past that gave me just enough attention for me to be like a puppy around him but then treated me like crap most of the time, which made me even more like a puppy -- pleaselikemepleaselikemePLEASE! So I just looked him straight in the face and thought, "oh, that's Mark" and then kept walking.

I did say to E1 "I think that was Mark T*&h" loud enough for him to hear and turn his head to make sure it was him . . . so I'm still a neurotic idiot, but not as much as before when I would have babbled at him. I then continued, "I would say hello to him if he wasn't such a dick . . . " which I may or may not have said loud enough for him to hear. But hell, it's true. Sorry, Mark, I'm sure you are nice to other people but you weren't very nice to me most of the time.

So it's nice to be home for Christmas and even nicer not to acknowledge parts of your past. I don't know why my high school bothers to have reunions when you can just go to the Box on a Friday night.

BLISS

It is officially "Holiday" break.

It has become holiday break for three reasons . . .

First, someone made the comment "What? Are you Jewish?" in an awful sarcastic tone towards me. So for the time being, if they will adopt me, I've decided I am.

Second, there seems to be this current PC backlash (at least where I frequent) with people saying "Merry Christmas", which is totally fine, and then following it with a angry monologue about how being Christian is part of who they are and they should be able to say Merry Christmas because it's an expression of their faith and WHO THEY ARE DAMNIT. The angry monologue is not fine. I can do without the speech. Just say "Merry Christmas" and be done with it.

Third, I hang out with the social studies teachers. They even let me sit at their table these days. And four out of four social studies teachers agree (and two English teachers and two math teachers) that we work in a state run institution and there should be separation of church and state. AND that we should admit there are some other religions other than Christianity.

So it is an hour and eighteen minutes into holiday break and I've already done a load of laundry. I'm off to a great start. I'm dressed . . . I'm not hungover . . . I haven't slept past noon. All great accomplishments. I have some light plumbing plans for the week, maybe stop the toilet from running at random intervals, fix the leaky faucet in the bathtub.

The problem with light plumbing jobs is that they could very easily become MAJOR plumbing jobs . . . and major plumbing projects mean turning off the water. I like having water . . . at a moment's notice. Which is why I think so much about projects and never actually DO them. So the two goals are the faucet and the toilet . . . even if I have to buy a new toilet from Canada and sneak it over the border. (everything is low flow here . . . yes, I know it is more environmentally sound . . . but having your toilet clog all the time is not personally environmentally sound, now is it?)

So have a great holiday!

Guinness up my nose

Last night at the Front I tried to breathe some Guinness. It worked out eventually, after I started breathing again but not before I sounded like a dying caribou . . . no wonder I never pick up any guys. There was that split second when I couldn't cough or breathe where I wondered how they would explain this to my parents and how my father would keep giggling . . . cause she died from beer. But I rallied and horked it up. It was incredibly unattractive.

Off to go buy a starter skateboard. How ironic is it that my parents would NEVER let me have a skateboard . . . but then voted for it during the "What should I get the child?" poll yesterday. The skateboard has won out over the Gameboy . . . but I can't buy just any skateboard due to my unfortunate knowledge of bearings and how they work. The skateboards at Target have really crappy bearings, which mean the wheels don't roll very well. From a mother's perspective, this would be a good thing . . . if the skateboard doesn't move very well, there are less broken things. From an Auntie perspective, non-rolling skateboard seem like no fun. So off to Modern Skate and Surf. Maybe I'll get a discount because of the hair.

Update a la matchdotcom

So I emailed that guy . . . and casually, as could possibly be, brought up the whole "not interested in dating" thing. It was just too good not to bring up.

I deleted the part about "or not interested in dating me" because he hadn't come out and said it . . . and low and behold, he had a whole paragraph about it in the reply email. Including the line "I'm not attracted to you, so I'm not interested in dating you." Lovely, let me get right back to you on that asshole. He then goes on to mention that my profile is one of the few that mentions the possibility of a "non-romantic" relationship and that he thought he would email me to see what's up.

I MEANT non romantic relationship after I rejected YOU . . .

So do I want a shallow friend, who wants to meet me to date my cuter friends? Makes me feel all warm inside . . . yes, indeed it does. Hmm, wonder why he's "currently separated"? Boy, it makes one love a delete button.

Jamie the Snowman

Ain't he cute? He has a bow-tie and everything. I will be sad when the squirrels come and eat his eyes . . . but that's the chance you take when your eyes are made of Reese's peanut butter cups because your creator didn't want them tempting her in the refrigerator anymore. But until then, he's stylin'.

Huh!?! What were you saying?

So I just received an email titled "Barbie is Satan". I believe this is in response to my matchdotcom profile title of "The Anti-Barbie" but let me assure the Mattel company and all of it's affiliates that I do not believe that Barbie is the actual Anti-Christ. She's just several conjoined pieces of plastic . . . she can't even walk without shoes, and high heeled shoes at that. I think that Satan would choose to be more mobile and choose a head that tears off less easily.

Back to the email . . . matchdotcom boy took the time to email me to let me know that he did NOT want to date me. I'm not sure where he was trying to get with that. I do have something in my profile about the interconnectiveness of the world and how it might not work out but I have lots of single friends . . . but that was supposed to be a scenario for AFTER you met me. This one has decided that he doesn't want to date me before he's even met me. Do I just look like I have cute friends? Do I have an asshole magnet tied to my person?

His actual words were "I'm not interested in dating" . . . so you're on matchdotcom because you like to throw money at the internet? Couldn't you throw money at the internet in much more personally fulfilling ways? (I'm thinking about charity . . . get your mind out of the gutter) (actually, MY mind was in the gutter but this is a family show, folks)

The rest of his email was very nice, to his credit. But now I have to email him back and suppress the question: So not interested in dating or not interested in dating me? Hmm . . . yeah, not going to ask that, but so want to, don't you?

And this is why I don't give out the blog address to the matchdotcom boys anymore. It's working out spectacularly.

Shiny Keys

I wrote this great snide entry yesterday, which will not see the light of day . . . or the blog for that matter. Let's just say there's a part about George Bush and should be a part about being distracted by shiny keys but I'm told that it will offend "people". And by "people" I mean one person, who doesn't even read my blog. But things get back to people.

Somehow the world is falling to pieces and I've simply taking the stance that I don't care . . . I told someone to basically lower their expectations today because it simply wasn't going to get any better. How much does it suck to hear that? How much does it suck when you figure out that it came out of YOUR mouth?

So I'm going to distract myself with some knitting and maybe some shiny keys. I have two meetings tomorrow with teaching and a company Christmas party in between. I had to buy food for the latter meeting, even though we will all be coming from the Christmas party where they will give us food (but not good food, because of these hard economic times . . . they stated this on the invitation). I have to get up at 5 a.m. to get to the first meeting.

Just look at the shiny, shiny keys . . .

Distracted by Brian Williams' Tie

I was watching Brian Williams' interview with George Bush while talking on the phone. "I'm distracted by Brian Williams' tie. Who wears a bright pink tie to interview the President?" "You can't tell me that you like George Bush." was offered up in the conversation and then hackles were raised with the answer. Why do people do that? Did you want me to lie?

So I asked if it was really important . . . what did my opinion about George Bush have to do with anything? And he argued that it WAS important . . .

Why is it that people can say that they are all tolerant and stuff but as soon as it is something that they don't agree with, suddenly they are down your throat. "How can you believe that?!?"

And he was serious . . . and when I tried to change the subject, he wouldn't.

My feelings about the current government are not important to any of my current relationships. I don't care about what people do the in privacy of their own bedrooms or in their voting booth. I do care when they try to make me feel shitty about my beliefs simply because they don't exactly match their own. You didn't change any of my opinions, however, I did choose not to SHARE some of my opinions with you. So what was the point? Oh, and I eat meat too . . . lots of meaty meat.

He finally stopped pressing when I pointed out that I spend all day with social studies teachers and if I wanted to have a political discussion I could have it with them . . . cause they let me sit at their table and everything.

Did I mention that I also eat meat? I mean the killing animals kind?

So This is What Happens . . .

We went to one of the many waterfront bars on that side of town last night. I had not been to this particular place but figured it was the same frat boy, wanna be glam, "oh, you know, Kid Rock hangs out there" kind of place.

Instead it was Sugar Daddy divorcee cheese-fest, with expensive tiny drinks and a dance floor. The interior was done in college dorm room with shitty loft decor, which was an odd juxtaposition against the clientele. We knew the D.J. by coincidence, which meant all my requests were played. Very fun how he fit The Smiths into the seventies dance mix.

Desperation was shaking her booty on the dance floor and with a liberal tossing in alcohol it was an engrossing scene. Very much like a car crash or murder scene photos. It got wilder as the night went on . . . forty and fifty year olds who don't have much to lose know how to party.

No, I did not pick anyone up. Nor did anyone really hit on me, though I was oogled on my way to the bathroom several times and some woman was rubbing her butt up against mine but that was just because she wanted the chair and she was so distracted about reeling in this guy that she didn't look to see that I was in the chair.

It seems to be a very regular crowd. The men all knew each other. We were new "meat" so they just sniffed at us, leery. Thank goodness. Because they were creepy.

So last night made me appreciate the matchdotcom thing much more. It works about as well but I don't have to get all smoky, leered at and leaned upon. Watching a whole night of women throwing themselves at anything was a good reality check too. When I get all depressed that things aren't moving, I need to remember that they could move to dancing with a drunk sixty year old guy with an alcohol problem and a bad toupee.

How Soon Is Now?

"It's a club and you've got to go . . . you could meet someone who really loves you . . ." -- The Smiths

So I'm going out tonight with M2 and maybe Princess, if she decides to be my friend again (I was off the list and perhaps still am). It's my turn to go to their side of town. While that side of town has places to go, they are much more, umm, let's say "frat" than this side of town, though where I live has it's share of them.

I tried to flip my hair out, which right now seems unsuccessful, and am late as I was already supposed to be there. It just seems so futile. We never meet anyone. No one ever talks to us. We never talk to anyone. Three Rolling Rocks and then I go home (after waiting the amount of time I need to drive, really officer, I mean it).

I suppose I should take the attitude that I get to hang out with two fun people that I like. We do have a good time. But if I was just going to hang out with M2 and Princess, why do we get dressed up? Why do I worry about the outfit and the makeup? Because we are looking and some of us are in our thirties and wondering if the fates really do have a plan or maybe if the plan is that we are supposed to be alone and the lady with the cats (which couldn't be me . . . with all of the allergies and all).

Yay . . . I have such a good attitude tonight. Hopefully I'll improve it by listening to The Smiths in the car on the way to that side of town. Yippee.

Sometimes They Will Melt You

Heard in my class during a serious discussion: "Yeah, but this class is like a family."

Now how can I not be proud of that?

Dump Trucks and Sassiness

Every so often I say something that makes so much sense to me that I don't realize that no one else in the room has any idea WHAT I'm talking about . . . Case in point, I now have to stand up in front of all my colleagues and field questions. Simple enough. Except that when I answer the questions, according to my partners in crime, I make no sense to anyone who is not well versed in Emily-isms.

What I was trying to say: That won't work because that is not how the computer application works. You, as a teacher, use one software program and they move that information (or export) into another software program in order to use the information or data. (Except that I knew that no one would understand that)

What I said in front of sixty people: Well . . . it's kinda like your grades go into a dump truck . . . and the dump truck dumps those into SASIness . . . (SASI being a school information software program)

I thought I was making perfect sense. The crowd was smiling politely and nodding their heads softly as though they understood. I was making a great metaphor about data and a dump truck, something tangible that you could picture in your head, until . . . I heard whispering next to me. "Did she really just say dump truck and sassiness?"

"What? They get it." I whispered back. "Nooooooo, they don't." was the reply. Of course we are acting like there isn't an audience of sixty people . . . or pretending we are in a cone of silence. I look back at the person who asked the question and say "You get it? Right?" She smiles, even more politely if that were possible, and nods her head . . . yes . . . and then no . . . and the no shaking is stronger. "I have no idea what you are saying, dear." she says.

Evidently, according again to my partners in crime, I do this all the time. It made perfect sense to me.

"But I can't bend my arms"

I went walking tonight . . . in 10 degree weather, with a wind chill of - 10 bazillon or some such nonsense. In preparation for the walk I put on a parka over my patagonia fleece which was already over my jean jacket and a sweater which was over my current favorite T-shirt (Lucky Brand Year of the Pig shirt . . . super sale, cause who wants a shirt with a pig on it, or admit that yes, you were born in the year of the boar or pig?).

When I was done I couldn't bend my arms. Add the scarf, hat and mittens, and I didn't look human. Dogs went to the other side of the sidewalk, unsure of what to make of me.

It now gets dark here at 5 p.m. and I am never, ever home before 6. Lately, it's been more like eight with the meetings upon meetings I've been "invited" to. So I’m always walking in the dark. I am lucky enough to live in a good neighborhood and I live on a busy street . . . though a "serial killer" van drove by tonight and I was very leery. You know that white van (they are always white for some reason) with no windows and rust . . . so usual that it's unusual. And it's hard to carry a four-D cell Mag light with mittens. Fleece is slippery. No, I don't use it for light. That would be expensive . . . so many batteries. The Mag light is to possibly hit attackers. A six-D would be better but the 4-D I have is pretty and blue.

So mostly I stick to the main road. It has an amazing amount of police traffic, being the border of two municipalities with neither police force having anything to do. They just roam up and down my street, pulling people over in a constant speed trap. I feel amazingly safe. Last night, they even checked me out for walking on the street. Shined me with their brights to make sure I wasn't riff-raff or the like. I would have waved . . . but that whole not being to bend the arms thing. It would have looked like I was trying to flag them down or something.

The real problem with wearing three coats is tying your shoe. Make sure your sneakers are double-knotted before you start because it's hard to tie without bending your elbows. Or freezing your fingers, as it's 10 degrees.

Did I mention I should probably join the Y?

Random Chatter

I have painted my nails a color that reminds me of nude pantyhose.
I haven't worn "nude" colored pantyhose since, like 7th grade.
I hate pantyhose.
Do men who lie about their age on the internet realize that we know they are lying?
Why don't they just use an old picture from the age they want to be . . . then we would have no idea.
It would be a secret, until the obligatory Starbucks date.
I just wanted to use the word obligatory.
The new Fiona Apple album is all bouncey . . . like a Broadway show or something.
Who calls them albums, except me?
I forgot I was going to make chili this evening and so I scarfed some mac n' cheese.
Now I have to make chili anyway and just eat it tomorrow . . .
I have meetings after school and won't want to for the next couple of days.
Which means the meat and tomatoes will go bad.
I wore my new skull sneakers to school and probably shouldn't have.
But I had on pants that were too long, so no one saw them.
They have red laces, that were not included.
Z did not want a pair.
I feel like he has forsaken me, in the junior goth department.
My siblings are not being wrangled very well in the parent gift discussion.
I feel like a cat herder with my brothers.
It is hard to herd cats, even with 31 years of mutual baggage and dirt.
I want an Emily the Strange T-shirt for Xmas.

Shoveling Penance

Last night M2 came over and we walked to the nearest bar . . . about three blocks. The bar was okay. Nothing to write home about. Would have been better without the obnoxious DJ trying to play top 40 in a tiny local grandpa bar. It was starting to snow as we walked there and by the time we left . . . three beers and some onion rings later . . . it was really snowing. So I was looking forward to some snow shoveling in the morning.

Now you're thinking, "Emily? Looking forward to shoveling?" I hate shoveling but I figured it would burn off some calories and I wouldn't then have to do the "walking in the cold" thing that I'm loathing almost as much as shoveling. I slept in . . . put on my flannel lined jeans and layers, opened the door and . . .

Someone had done all my shoveling for me. It's like the snow elves came with their tiny shovels and cleaned my walk during the night. Not a bit to shovel. I was almost disappointed.

I do not know who the mystery shoveler is, but he or she did not do my neighbors walk. My neighbors are in their eighties, so as penance for somehow being lucky enough to have snow elves or gnomes or what-have-you, I shoveled their driveway and sidewalk instead.

That not really being all that much of a workout, I then walked to Starbucks to read the paper. It was warm for snow, must have been in the forties, and I considered just wearing long underwear and a jean jacket. Luckily, the mother voice (you know, when her voice pops involuntarily into your head . . . ) won out and I wore a coat because as I was wandering aimlessly around Barnes and Noble picking at Arvo Part CDs (bought another one and it's still not the one I heard in NYC . . . crap I'm going to have to call him just for that) the temperature dropped about 10 degrees. Suddenly what was melting and slushie was frozen again and the wind was very unfun to walk into. I really wished that I had a friend in Royal Oak that I could call and have them pick me up so I wouldn't have to walk home.

I made it home, before dark and everything. And I walked faster than usual, which MUST be better, right? Off to grocery shop, do laundry, clean out the refrigerator and take out the trash . . . oh, the joy in the mundane. I'll keep an eye out for the snow elves too.

Really?!?

This summer I made a sweater . . . simple enough, yarn from the Superbowl Sale at the yarn store in Howell (only go there for that sale, much too crowded otherwise), pattern from Stitch and Bitch, lots of days with little to nothing to do . . . Voila! sweater.

It's still a little rough around the edges. I wanted the sleeves to be long, so they would go over my hands, but now they are a bit too long so some unwraveling is in order. I still have to weave in some ends (I hate that . . . I need some man to live at my house and do dishes AND weave in ends). But it's COLD here and for some reason I hate wearing coats so I just layer well. Yesterday, I wore the sweater to school. (hee, hee, this is a line from one of my favorite songs)

Now the sweater has a skull and crossbones on each arm . . . too cool for school but I was just wearing it into the building and then taking it off. As I was coming in, several teachers commented on it and I would say "Thanks, I made it." Every response was . . . "Really?!?"

How do you answer that? "No, actually I just wanted to tell you a made it to impress you . . . I actually have this man I paid ten dollars an hour to do dishes and make me sweaters . . ." Fast forward to the end of school and leaving with the social studies teachers. Put the sweater on to go outside.

"Cool sweater."
"No really, really cool sweater, love the Jolly Rogers . . . where did you get it."
"I made it."
"Really?!?"

So either the sweater is so impressive that it couldn't possibly be handmade or no one has any confidence that I could actually knit a sweater that cool. Not sure which. They see me knit at every faculty meeting. They see my silly hats. And yet, they are incredulous about a sweater. Really?!?

But I wanted a stretch monster . . .

There is just no way that I can top this . . .

Retraction

My sister has pointed out that I bought the goofy "in shower" moisturizer at the good sale Target in Wixom, while I was with her . . . not the German Thanksgiving guests. Sorry, Mere. It had been a long day.

And for all of you that gave me crap today about shopping at the evil Walmart and spending money there which supports their evilness . . . it turns out I didn't. I spent the money at Target, with their happy red shirts and khaki pants and their clearance end caps. I hope you'll sleep better with this news.

I'm missing ALIAS again and I have to go for a walk out in the freezing rain (well . . . not really HAVE to, more like, if I don't I'll feel like crap and I don't want to feel like crap). It's enough to make you go spend money for a membership at the Y. However, the Y is just close enough to my house that I would feel guilty for driving and yet just far enough away when it's really cold. I'll just go put on my flannel lined jeans and do it. I'll hope my father DVR'ed the adventures of Sydney and Jack.

Must Hold Off the Madness Before It Consumes Me

In addition to pricey soap use, I like this "in shower" moisturizer of late. I was running low so I bought some at the evil Walmart, while taking the Thanksgiving German guests shopping (they love the Walmart, for it's inexpensive deodorant and Saran Wrap . . . as do I, for that matter). Inadvertently, I left the moisturizer at Stately Wayne Manor and my mother kindly offered to drop it off at my house . . . since she is auditing the school district next door anyhow.

I talked to her tonight and she says that she put the moisturizer in my back doorway two days ago. I found it tonight . . . it's not that I think she's lying, but how did I step over a bottle of Oil of Olay moisturizer for two days without noticing or squishing it? Sure enough . . . found it in the doorway today when I got home. The squirrels must have borrowed it or something.

Was at school until 8:30 tonight. Was thanked by a parent for staying with her student until she picked them up . . . something that I just assumed was my job, maybe from the private school days where I would sit for an hour until someone was picked up. The parent tonight was very appreciative, which was so nice. But again, it's my job . . . I just can't abandon them in an empty school when we are working on the yearbook late.

So much madness . . . match.com is weirder and weirder. Got a wink tonight from someone with "3 or more children" and "they live at home" . . . thank goodness I don't answer "winks". Can't wait until the weekend. Except my truck's heater is broken and my brother is not going to be happy about taking it to get fixed. One of the downfalls about working at a dealership, your sister makes you take things to get fixed. My heat only works if you turn it ALL the way up and then it's too hot.

So just have to lie low for two more days. And thank goodness the squirrels have returned the moisturizer.

Obsessive Complusive Tree Control

Ha, Ha, Ha, there's a fake Christmas tree in my living room. It's color-coordinated. For now. Just like I would wish for when I was a child.

When I was a child, I always wanted a Christmas tree like they had in the store, especially Hudson's, all elegant and the same color. So unlike my Christmas tree at home with all the random priceless ornaments with all of the sentimential stuff because it was made by a three year old.

Now I have a Christmas tree with just blue and purple . . . though the star will just NOT stay straight. I can even add the bells that my mother bought for me for every Christmas when I was a child, because they are silver and will match.

It's so great to be an adult sometimes.

O Christmas Tree, Part Deux

So did I mention that my original 1950's fake Christmas tree was from my Grandma B? The one with the Alzheimer's?

The Christmas tree had directions . . . I remember reading them when I was five. But they are long gone, probably still in the fruit cellar at my Grandmother's house. My mother brought the fake Christmas tree to my house, so it was in one place and not on three different floors. The post has different colored dots on it, which I assumed corresponded to the dots on the branches, until I had fourteen leftover yellow branches and no black or white dots. I called my mother for the third time, who was a bit exasperated at that point, and she just told me to put the damn thing together and not worry about the colors. I then discovered that I did not have enough branches for the amount of slots . . . but this time I didn't call, I just worked it out. I'm wondering where all the branches went? Did we lose a box of them? Did they just get wrecked over the years and thrown away? Did they burst into flame? It's not like they are small and can hide out under the couch. And who repainted them all yellow?

I am now working on the light problem. Because there is always a light problem.

Next year, 6ft. fake Xmas tree, prelit from Target, $29.99 . . .

Were fake trees flame retardant in 1953?

But the Great Pumpkin was Just Here, I Swear

Oh, Christmas tree . . .

So I think I am going to dig out the original 1950's fake Christmas tree from the basement and put it up tonight. Lights, ornaments, all in the picture window . . . the whole shebang. I also have Christmas (excuse me, "holiday" as not all of my planned recipients are Christian) cards that I may, in fact, get around to sending this year, but only because they are either mildly smutty or mean. Those of you on the list will have to comment about if that is really true.

Thanksgiving update: The turkey was awesome, thanks to my brother D. and Alton Brown. We had way too much food. I got to the end of "James and the Giant Peach", although Z. had wandered off by that point . . . I had forgotten that the peach ends up in NYC. My mother, sister and I spent just enough time together to get sick of each other. My father's German friends kept him very busy and gave me a reason to go to the mall on Black Friday because I certainly don't need any more stuff but there is no Abercrombie and Fitch in Germany.
Speaking of Black Friday and A&F, while we were in the store getting shirts for Mr. R's son, the music was so loud that even the saleperson had to shout "WHAT?!?" when my sister asked for another size in the color we were sent to get. Such a ridiculous store, but not as ridiculous as Ruehl, another store owned by A&F. Ruehl's marketing strategy includes: keeping the store as dark as possible, paying teenagers to "hang" outside the store, having no sign whatsoever so you have to guess if it's even a store or just a place were teenagers lean, and having no employees inside the store . . . so if you actually find something under $100 that you might want to purchase (after taking it to a light between two giant fake plants to actually see the product) you can't buy it. Totally way cool.

So things to be Thankful for: my family, all my friends, my nose still being on my face, my somewhat challenging (and somewhat annoying at times) employment, making enough money to have expensive soap and a Starbucks addiction, and being old enough that I don't HAVE to shop at any Abercrombie stores (Hollister, Ruehl, etc.) due to extreme peer pressure.

The above mentioned expensive soap, which I purchase at Bath and Body Works . . . this time I tried a new scent, "Fresh Vanilla", and have discovered that it reminds me of the smell of Play-doh. So I'm walking around smelling like Play-doh. Hopefully someone finds that to be sexy . . . but somehow I don't think so . . .

Laughing in the Face of Domesticity

Let's face it . . . I did not follow in my mother's home ec-y becky footsteps. My sister received all the genes that are remotely interested in Martha Stewart. Cooking to me involves a box with the words "Lean Cuisine" printed on it, or better yet, it involves waitstaff and busboys.

But somehow, I got stuck with dessert this Thanksgiving. It's not my fault that my sister's boyfriend keeps blowing up her pies (something about not knowing what burner is on . . . ever . . . pyrex doesn't stand up to direct heat well and then there is molten pie and glass all over, physics, ain't it wonderful?). I can manage sweet potatoes. Arranging the marshmellows in intricate patterns somehow keeps my interest and the rest is just steaming and mashing.

So I'm making a pie. This does not involve steaming (the only thing I'm good at) or mashing (the other thing I can do, but I make a huge mess) and there is no arranging. My pie currently looks like this:

However it not even close to done cooking and it is midnight, so I may fall asleep and set the house on fire with it. I went to Whole Foods Market and ended up buying the apples for it because they were so pretty. Here are the apples:

And now my kitchen is a mess and I'm not done baking . . . I'm going to make pumpkin cupcakes in the morning. Of course, my kitchen is pretty much always a mess. Oh, and I now have to bake something else because I have all this stuff -- baking powder, flour, eggs, -- and I have to use them up before they go bad. So it's the amazing 70 dollar pie and pumpkin cupcakes. Would have been cheaper just to go with the "someplace with waitstaff" idea.

Oh and my hair is ORANGE to go with the pumpkin cupcakes . . . have to fix that tomorrow also.

I Have Free Cats in Miami

You know you have good friends when they are willing to put you in your place once in a while. Every so often (okay, once every five minutes or so) I need to be checked. In the last few days, my friends have lived up to the challenge.

I tried to rib Princess (a.k.a. Maverick, as she now would prefer to be called) about Ohio State winning and I got a football lecture to end all football lectures. It was like she was trying to bore me to death with insults about Michigan State's poor coaching. I couldn't get away. And thus I was taught my lesson.

Now whenever I say something remotely . . . let's just say I'm distracted most of the time and have about seventeen thoughts going in my head at any given moment. Every so often something comes out of my mouth that no one but me (and possibly my family) could possibly understand. My friend M2 usually does a good job of translation but lately she's just been saying "That's going in the book . . . " I don't remember what it was yesterday. Today the comment that made M2's book entry was "I have free cats in Miami."

It all started with a conference that is located in Miami. There was discussion about how I couldn't go (no more sick days) but how I have a place to stay in Miami but you would have to like cats because my brother, he has, like, nine of them now so I can't really stay with him because I'm allergic to cats and that's just too many but if you like cats . . . I have free cats in Miami.

I'm not sure about the format of M2's book, if it's just a list of dumb things I say or if it's chapters of my freakishness. I hope I get a cut of the profits so I can stay home and paint.

I do have access to free cats in Miami. They would have to go to good homes, of course, and shipping would be extra.

ACK! Breeders!

At the evil corporate crack . . . I mean coffee . . . dealer this afternoon, there were breeders in front of me in line. They came equipped with a stroller the size of an SUV and a three-year-old with absolutely no manners or self-control.

While I realize that three-year-olds are developmentally unable to have self-control, that's what there are parents for . . . but these breeders weren't parents, they simply saw themselves as creators, or money machines. So "princess scream", as I will now call her, is climbing into the cooler and throwing packages of milk on the floor while her creators stared at the Starbucks menu, plotting to order the most complicated things on the menu. They took such a long time that the efficient (I know, sometimes that happens at Starbucks) barista had already taken my order and was well into making it. I had trouble getting around the SUV stoller while they were deciding on the free cookie. At this point I just want to pay AND scream "It's a free cookie, you idiots, just take one!" but I stop myself.

I have to go around the SUV again to get my drink and Princess Scream is now screaming about the free cookie and then they figure out that they have forgotten all about the kid in the SUV stroller and maybe we should get him a cookie too? Don't you think we should get him a cookie? Excuse me? How do we get another cookie? Can we get another cookie?

Of course they ordered Princess Scream some sort of complicated drink also. They wander aimlessly, with the SUV stroller in the way as much as possible, until they manage to find a table, with no chairs. By this time, I am sitting, reading my paper, sucking down soy latte goodness. I have no need for two chairs, so I offer the chair to the breeder that is standing. What does he do? He gives the chair to Princess Scream, so she is the only one sitting. Her male creator is standing in the middle of an aisle, her female creator is on her knees on the floor but Princess Scream has a chair. Don't forget the SUV stroller blocking the aisle.

A kind gesture is a kind gesture. I gave up the chair to the male creator of Princess Scream and he had every right to do with it whatever he chose. However, someone is going to have to be Princess Scream's teacher one day. And I feel for them.

Ironically, I then read an article about a restaurant in Chicago that insists that parents keep control of their children. Evidently, it is causing quite a stir with a bunch of breeders protesting. I think it sounds like heaven.

Later, while shopping for underwear at Marshall Fields, a family is digging through the clearance lingerie while their three-year-old sings and plays with the underwires on the lowest rack. I don't want to shop for underwear with three-year-olds and I think it is very creepy that "Daddy" is looking for a thong for "Mommy" with the daughter in tow. Makes my skin crawl.

What ever happened to either babysitters . . . or parenting?

Now I Smell

Unfortunately, all the people I grew up with (and some that grew up with my parents), who listen to Bauhaus, still all smoke. A LOT. This was not so annoying when I was "one of them" but now I am not, so my brainwaves alternated between what Mr. Crabbypants would say ("kill them all now since they seem to want to die anyway") and wishing there was just a "smoking section" so they could all go there . . . which would not be near me . . . a smoking section in, say, Toledo.

They all wore the same outfits as they did in 1985, except for the couple that thought they were in the Matrix. At one point, I had to walk away because I was laughing too hard at the conversation I was eavesdropping in on and I didn't want them to notice. This man actually said "well, I don't mosh anymore . . . because well, you know, the . . . piercings" (with exaggerated hand gestures) and I thought "no, you don't 'mosh' anymore because you're too damn old and you would hurt yourself". And then I started laughing. And then his boyfriend started to notice that I was laughing.

We were all fat, including the lead singer (sorry bud) and at one point I noticed a woman resting her beer on her stomach, while standing . . . and she wasn't pregnant. At least I hope not because she was drinking a beer. Now I'm not svelte by any means . . . but come on, don't use your fat as a table.

I only knew three people in the whole place and was not talked to by anyone. One would think this would be my night to pick up people, but no such luck. Two of the familars were former students, one working security and the other working the T-shirt line. The other was this guy that keeps looking at my profile on match, who teaches in a nearby school district and knows who I am . . . he's a journalism teacher and I'm a yearbook teacher, we shared a bus once to a conference. I don't want to date him, by any means, but it seems like he could just call his buddy Ake and get my phone number instead of checking my profile once a week. People are so weird.

I now have to take a shower, as I smell like an ashtray. Amazing how sinus surgery takes away all your tolerance for second hand smoke. More on the concert later.

Peter Murphy isn't dead?

I am going to see Bauhaus tonight alone. While I would love to stay home and sulk about how I don't have any friends (at least any friends who want to go see Bauhaus . . . I do have wonderful friends), the guys in Bauhaus must be . . . let's see . . . about fifty or sixty by now. Plus all the wear and tear from the drugs. So I'm figuring that they won't tour again and this is my LAST CHANCE.

Bauhaus had broken up by the time I could drive, so I've never seen them. I've never been to Peter Murphy . . . never seen Love and Rockets. So this is it.

My brother pointed out (because I was calling him to see if it was totally lame to go by myself to a concert) that they are an "eighties has-been band" and that it would probably be totally lame. While I agree that it will either be wonderful, or ridiculously bad . . . I have to go. I'll stand in the back and try not to draw attention to myself or my "I'm here alone"-ness.

It's comforting that there are 89 other people who still want to see Bauhaus. 89 people is much easier to deal with than, say, 500. (I was assigned "general admission seat" 89, so I'm making an assumption, which I didn't buy because the service fee was more than at the door tickets) So 89 other freaks like me that want to see Petey propped up on the stage, singing "Terror Couple Kill Colonel" in Detroit one last time. I'm getting all misty.

Watch the luck.

I haven't had a random bleeding incident in a whole 24 hours.

Of course, I say this in print and I will have a nose bleed of all nose bleeds during ALIAS, just you watch. All this tempting of fate.

Oowwuch!

So I went to "Todd" this morning to have my "scars scraped", which sounds nicer than it actually is . . . as if that were possible. According to "Todd" and his fiber optic hose, the right side of my nose looks okay. Evidently the boney growth is gone and it is healing well. A little "debris" (it frightens me, so I didn't look) but otherwise the right side . . . it's going well. The left side of my nose is a whole other story.

I knew this, however, because of the random nose bleeds. They are not like the nose bleeds that I never got in elementary school. I didn't ever have a nose bleed until I was well into my . . . well . . . whatever, it was recent. Even when I might have broken my nose, all those times. The random nose bleed starts with a STREAM of blood that is very, very red. Arterial red. Bright red. As my friend remarked, it is very NEW blood. So bright red blood pours out of my nose, just like a horror show. This makes going back to work very interesting, especially with the whole biohazard panic.

The first time was at work, although after school. I sneezed and then it wouldn't stop. I had to drive home with tissue stuffed up my nose. Most of the time, you don't think about how other people can see you in your car. When you have a wad of tissue packed in your nose, you are suddenly very aware.

Next, I decided to go for a walk. Started with the blood streaming about half way to Starbucks, but after a week of this, I just held a tissue up to my nose and kept walking. Cleaned up in the bathroom of the Starbucks. I'm sure people assumed I'd been beat up or something. "Oh look honey, the battered person just washed up in the bathroom." I'm sure it was appetizing.

According to "Todd", the left side of my nose is still "a mess" with "scabs" and "swelling" and all that good stuff. He took out some of the stitches but left some intact, so I won't grow a hole in my septum. Thanks. He also scraped out some scar tissue in my sinus cavity so that it won't close up . . . I didn't know that "closing up" was an option, so I'm now a little paranoid.

Oh, and it hurts like hell. It fact it hurt so much last night that I woke up from the pain. So I'm back on the pain moderation. So now I have to go involuntarily pass out again.

The random bleeding may go on for "a while" according to "Todd". While I would like a more definitive answer . . . a while means that it will eventually stop. Everything else turned out well . . . and I was given the phone number to order my copy of the CT scans. Whhheeee! Back to work tomorrow.

Space Connecticut

My brother D. and nephew Z. joined me in R.O. for Cuban sandwiches (can I put any more initials? C.S.s maybe?). During lunch, we got to talkin' about Z's parent teacher conferences . . . evidently school is not going as well as it could. This is not a new situation for Z, as last year he just seemed to drive his teacher crazy along with the other SEVENTEEN boys in his class (they wanted that lady to retire, didn't they?).

This year, Z is currently trying to convince his 2nd grade teacher that he is dumb. When you ask Z a question and he doesn't feel like answering, he replies, very convincingly, "I don't know?". Aunt Emily then replies, "That's crap." and he answers the question but sometimes he uses it as a stall tactic . . . sometimes he just doesn't feel like answering. But his teacher is assuming that he is being truthful in the not knowing anything. So she suggested a reading tutor and a math tutor.

It eventually came out that Z is only interested in the "fun" things at school, like, say, lunch, recess, writing books and colorin'. If the activity is deemed unfun, like math . . . well, Z does it as quickly as possible (and with the least amount of effort) so that we can get to the next thing . . . which is hopefully more fun. Makes perfect sense to me.

So I asked him if he wanted people to think he was a space cadet. He answered that he did not, in fact, want anyone to think he was a "Space Connecticut" but that they should hurry up and get to the fun stuff.

So for all you space connecticuts out there . . . I think school should hurry up and get to the fun parts too.

Craftsman boyfriend

So I'm off the pain moderators . . . which is totally by choice but still kind of sucks. I just was having trouble getting out of bed. Bad thing, not getting out of bed. A lot like being depressed, so we (me and the mouse in my pocket) had to cut out the depressants. It hurts . . . and now I CARE that it hurts.

"Todd" will take the stitches out next Wednesday. I look in the mirror and tell myself that "yeah, your nose IS straighter . . . " but I don't think my nose is really any straighter. I haven't had a random bleeding incident in a day, but that will probably change as soon as I get back to school and my blood pressure spikes.

It really feels like someone scraped out my left maxillary sinus with something sharp. Oh, yeah, someone did last week.

Taking a week off of the match.com. I changed my profile and it seems to be attracting . . . well . . . the profile of my ex-boyfriend from college, who was a tool. I mean I didn't see it at the time but he was really a tool. Ask anyone who knew me at the time. And if I need tools, I'll go to Sears and buy some. So someone needs to re-write my profile, pronto!

I had these up my nose

My splints have been removed and they were very careful not to let me see them, even though I know they look like this but with way, way, more blood. I almost asked for them but I don't think the nurses would have liked that.

I'm going back to work on Friday. Happy medium between my mother's desires and work's desires. Honestly, I feel crappy (though when has that ever stopped me from going to work?), woozy and I randomly bleed all over the place. It's the random bleeding that really is the problem.

According to "Todd", my ENT, it will be better now that the splints are out. But that was said right after he tried to suction more skin out of my sinus. So at this moment . . . it is NOT better, though I could smell some macaroni and cheese. Todd says everything very matter of factly . . . like, "Well . . . the reason you can't smell is you had splints blocking your nasal passages, plus those big clots (looks at chart) . . . oh, right, I did a left endosopy on your maxillary . . . well, that explains all the blood . . ." I love it when Todd forgets what he's done to my nose. Makes me feel like a person, not just an object in the Beaumont machine. Really.

I had a list of questions, because I was woozy and didn't want to forget, and that really annoyed poor Todd, who evidently just wanted to suck out my brain with that little stick he had. My aunt Leona was right though . . . I did want the TWO pain moderation pills . . . if not four. So I have to go see Todd again in a week and he did promise to suck more blood out then. I have some sutures up there too. Great. Uh-huh.

I'm still in pain . . . but the pain moderation pills just makes you not care. I'm in pain, I just don't care that I am in pain. Ah, a whole new attitude for me.

Wicked Cool Bruise

I want someone to come and take me for a walk. I hate sitting in the house for this long, even with the time compression of narcotics (excuse me . . . pain moderation, get it right). Today did fly by with the napping. There was intensive napping.

There was so much napping that I'm not sure how work is going to go on Wednesday . . . I tried a pain moderation free day today, which I thought would help with the dizziness. Turns out that I'm now still dizzy AND in pain, so that is just not going to work. We'll see what the doctor says tomorrow. My mother doesn't want me to go back until next week (or the week after) . . . and she made some good arguments: Schools are germ factories, I come into contact with way more people than in a usual office job, students are highly unpredictable and prone to bonking your nose, if I get an infection, it's really close to my brain, etc. But then the good arguements, and the momness of it, all made me cranky. I can't go to school if I'm still bleeding . . . I think that will be the rule for now.

The splints might be taken out tomorrow. I made the mistake (again talking to my mother) of looking up what the splints looked like on the internet and tomorrow will be a TWO pain moderation pill day for sure. My father is coming to take me to the doctor.

So this is what sucks . . . usually I don't mind being alone because if I don't want to be alone anymore I'll go to Target or Starbucks or the mall. But in experiencing the shopping trip of yesterday . . . I really did almost fall over. I had to stop and rest several times. I really HAD to hold on to the cart. So now I'm afraid to go out and about. I would love to go for a walk, just to move, but I'm afraid that I'll get halfway and have to stop, or worse . . . I'll just fall over. I'm also afraid that I'll make the bleeding worse and the goal is to STOP bleeding. Gotta stop with all the bleeding.

So I'm stuck in my house . . . full of bloody tissues and television is sooo dumb and the internet is full of scary stuff, like what the pieces of plastic in my nose look like and I can't focus enough to read anything but Martha Stewart and I'm done with knitting, plus it isn't a good gift if you've bled on it.

Okay, focus on the positive . . . I have a wicked cool bruise on my hand and I'll maybe get a copy of my CAT scans tomorrow. Oh, and I can sorta smell vanilla lotion . . . a little bit.

And you guys say I never look at the bright side.

Biohazard

So I left the house . . . I had to go buy more popscicles and Puffs since no one left any on the porch. No one really ran and hid their faces, though there was this toddler who was looking at me funny, but I think that was just because of the mouth breathing (or mouf breafing, as I now say it).

The newest pain extravanganza feels as though someone has slammed a fork through the roof of my mouth and just left the fork there. Oh, and I can feel the splints now. The store was okay as long as I held onto the cart . . . kind of like when I would bring my grandmother to the store, who really needed a walker, and I would prop her up with a cart. So I propped myself up on a cart and purchased popscicles.

I also bought the large pack of Clorox wipes, as I am one giant biohazard. I have managed to get my medications on a six hour schedule, so I will be involuntarily passing out in about 15 minutes. My pain meds have to be refilled at Beaumont, so I guess I will be exploring the hospital tomorrow . . . and they said people went back to work the next day. They so lied. Because the people I work with care that I'm coughing up blood and they don't want me to be at work like that. Gotta go get another wipe.

The Ones with NutraSweet

Thank you's to all who have called to make sure I am not dead. Post-surgery morning number three . . . I don't know how my cousins did all that mouth-breathing in the eighties. I have wicked chapped lips and my throat hurts like hell. Oh, and the occasional waves of nausea are great . . . really great . . .

I can't figure out what the nausea is from and I have to keep rinsing my nose out with saline, which is just about as fun as when you squirt water up your nose . . . because it is squirting water up your nose. No fun at all.

Bring popscicles. I'm running out. I like the no-sugar-added variety pack. And Puffs Plus with lotion. The doorbell still doesn't work so knock loudly.

This won't be up for Long

Mmmm. . . facial surgery is fun and pretty.

Darn it!

My nose looks way cuter three times it's normal size . . . no, really, I'm not being sarcastic or anything. It's a little wider and it actually looks better. Maybe because the swelling evens it out or something.

A bit better right now . . . I'm at home. Got a cup of tea. Have all sorts of weird stuff in my nose and throat and I'm all shakey from the Darvocet. I haven't had any "pain moderation" in about six hours and may cut back to one pill. Right now, it feels like a really bad sinus infection as long as I don't move my nose. One "Samantha witch" twitch reminds me quick though. Hot showers help.

Not smelling anything isn't so bad. Not tasting anything sucks . . . it makes you think eating is a really good idea, until you get to the middle of the thing you are eating . . . and then you just kind of lose interest. Not being able to hear is not all that great either.

Take my contacts out and I only have the sense of touch . . . good thing that inservice I had the other day "taught" me that I have 43 other senses (ummm. . . . cough, cough, cough, bulls$%t).

Have a Tissue

So my mother invites me to her house . . . and she uses that "I'm your mother and I'm always right" voice when I hesitate and she says, " . . . well, you could stay here and relax, I suppose." Which really means pack your stuff and get in the car.

And that I did . . . so now I'm having a bucket of blood mixed with snot allergy attack from the damn cat and I really, really want to go home but am dosed on davocet and have no car. No escape. No escape from Stately Wayne Manor . . . or Witch Mountain for that matter.

And I itch all over. I'm hoping that is also a cat reaction but am having paranoia that it's the Kleflex or whatever heavy duty antibiotics that they have me on . . . I'm waiting for the blisters and the skin sluffing or what have you that happens when you have a bad reaction to antibiotics. Oh, and in my drug haze (did I just say drug haze? pain moderation . . . that's what I meant) I heard my mother wrong and thought I was only supposed to take one antibiotic pill a day, when I was supposed to take four a day. So this all could just be infection settling into my brain.

I can't sleep, but everyone else is asleep . . . so I'll just wait until my dad gets up at 8 a.m. and talk him into talking me home, with the lure of the Trader Joes dangling before him. Cheap wine, daddy, take me to Starbucks and then home and there is cheap wine. (he would call it inexpensive . . . 7.49 for Columbia Crest Twin Vines is a darn good deal) I can't even lie down for fear of drowning. And my face HURTS. And I still have to wear this nose diaper (my mother prefers "nose bra", just for the record) because of the oozing of blood.

I can't taste anything. I can't smell anything. I have to breathe through my mouth, which makes my tongue all dry and yucky. I have to use a sippy cup because using a glass just gets the gauze all wet. If I could taste anything my mouth would taste like, well, blood. I have all these weird scrapes in my mouth from the tubes, I guess. Oh, and I can't talk because you have to use your palate to talk . . . and I can feel the clots above my palate and well, I don't want to "disturb" them. So, yeah, day two . . . pretty miserable. At least I got my contacts in . . . wearing glasses pretty much sucked too.

I have to sneeze (darn cat . . . darn mom) but can't because my brains might fall out.

The Horror . . . The Horror

Actually, it's not all that bad . . . I have a bone to pick with Beaumont again, but other than that I'm not in too much pain or anything. It's just the blood . . . all the blood. Massive amounts of blood everywhere. You know what they say about head wounds.

We had a bit of a confidentiality problem with my mother in the room . . . something about the male nurse saying "oh, and you quit smoking . . . that's good . . ." Now I'm sure my mother knew I smoked at one time, but we really did not need to be reminded of that this morning. Especially since it's not like I quit smoking last week, it was four years ago. We also shared that I was not pregnant. There was a lot of sharing. Too much sharing. And he could have just said "and you don't smoke" and gotten his answer.

The whole thing was surreal. Various RNs would come into the room and ask the same round of questions (except for Skippy "you quit smoking") and then they would check your answers . . . toward the end, after they checked my mouth for "dentures, loose teeth, caps or appliances" (toaster, in your mouth?) for the tenth time, I wondered outloud if we could skip a step and they could just check without asking. Since they were going to check anyhow.

So now I have this nose sling, that is attached to my ears, holding gauze against my nose . . . which has just stopped bleeding profusely. The clots down the back of my throat were the worst, followed closely by the blood dripping from the gauze because I was bleeding so much. My nose is now swollen to three times the size but you can't see it because of the nose diaper. Other than that, I feel okay. Look hideous, but feel okay.

Supposably, I have splints in my nose, but I can't feel them. I don't think I have any packing either, as I could breathe really well in the recovery room. I can't breathe now but boy, it was great in that recovery room. Turns out I really couldn't breathe out of the left side of my nose ever. So when you open that up . . . well, I think I was on an oxygen high or something. But again that was before the buckets of blood and the clots. Hideous . . . don't look at me, I'm hideous.

So if anyone wants to visit, bring a blindfold . . . or a mask. And popscicles. And a grande soy latte.

Probably be better if you just leave them on the porch and run though. Just saying. I have pictures . . . but I have to wait until I think they are funny . . . which is not quite yet. Maybe tomorrow though. They are hideous . . .

Paranoia IS Genetic

Having lived with my Grandmother for those years . . . every so often a Reichen trait would shine through the Alzheimer's fog. Mostly it was how she explained things happening in her world. "That girl that lives with me (which was me by the way), she comes in at night and STEALS my clothes . . . because she doesn't have anything nice to wear, you know. Her clothes are awful."

I did steal her clothes . . . to put them directly in the washer. We would laugh and laugh at the thought of me stealing my 89-pound grandmother's sweatsuits to wear out on the town.

But in the shower this morning, I had a very "Reichen girl" thought. In thinking about what to wear to surgery . . . since I have had all these phone calls and problems . . . I came to what shoes to wear. "Better not bring the ones with the orthodics. Someone could steal my shoes." slipped into my head out of nowhere. Then "I'd be out 400 dollars then" scooted by. The paranoid Reichen part of my brain was taking over.

The slightly more rational part of my brain knows that no one is interested in my shoes, let alone the inserts in my shoes (lovingly made by feet-loving gnomes in Ohio). But the rational part of my brain is weakened by a migrane (which I cannot take drugs for) and for want of a soy latte (that would help with the migrane for sure).

So you do live on through your offspring. I'm not sure that paranoia would be what my grandmother would pick to pass on(though I do have her creativity and strive toward her sense of fun). Scary that I might soon desire to make creative deserts such as chocolate jello . . . but that is for another entry.

No, I haven't had nose surgery yet . . . four more hours.

Pre-Surgery Consult Part II

So I was a bit stressed today, as I am leaving work for four whole days and a lot can get destroyed in that amount of time. So I prepped my students . . . giving them all the gory details, so they would, hopefully, feel sorry for me and behave. I know there are teachers who can leave and just let it go . . . I am not one of those teachers. So I give them all my email and lecture them on guest teacher etiquette. I leave 42 extra handouts. I have plan A, plan B and emergency plan C. I left the substitute an actual bin of stuff. Not a substitute folder . . . a BIN.

So in amongst this I get my surgery time call. I thought they were going to just tell me the time, so I answered the phone . . . "okay, 10:30 check-in . . . third floor to the right . . . waiting room . . . " and the special instructions begin. No metal, no jewelry, no pocketwatches, we might let you wear underwear but probably not . . .

So the lesson bin is done. I found my keys, right on the stairway door where I left them last night. The jewelry is all off. I still have to take a walk and I'm going to get Starbucks at midnight, darn it. What the heck, I'm going to be forced to sleep all day as it is . . . oh, and my mother decided not to spend the night, which is why I can write this instead of vacuuming underneath everything in my house. Yesterday, I was vacuuming like a maniac, moved my bed and everything. Tonight, not so much.

It's really simple . . . just going to break the inside of my nose, suck out some stuff and stick some splints in there. Happens every Monday and Thursday . . . I hear anyway.

Pre-surgery consult

So no makeup . . . but I can shower and wear deodorant . . . and brush my teeth, as long as I spit everything out . . . no nail polish either. So I guess I can smell good . . . just not look good?

Oodles of Yayness

I received a package from my friend M today . . . new music for me to listen to gleefully! I will now have to make intricate playlists to return in kind. Love it! So awesome . . .

I now have "Love Cats" by The Cure. It sooo makes me want to break out the entire Smiths collection, maybe rat my hair and mope for a while.

New Hat and Neighbors

This is the new hat purchased in New York, which no one will ever see because we cannot wear hats in school, for some mysterious reason. Bought it from the hatter across the street from J's apartment and it came with instructions . . . I was shown lint brushing and everything.

I will eventually lose the feathers. In my memory this hat is very much like one I used to steal every chance I got. So now I have one of my very own. The picture was taken by M in the lobby of J's building, with the doorman rolling his eyes. Such silliness.

Went to Royal Oak this morning for coffee but forgot that it was the citywide trick-or-treat fest. It was like the heterosexual suburban frat/sorority culture took over for a day. And children . . . children everywhere you looked or stepped. Funny how I was thinking about how much my uterus ached for one earlier and then this . . .

The good news was all the stores were open. Got some Lamb's Pride Bulky for a hat I am planning and some hair dye . . . though Noir was out of colors again. I know I'm the only one who buys it but still . . . at least I'm loyal. Had to buy some candy, in case some children show up at the house (the last two years has just been a cat . . . a different cat each year but just cats).

Walked back and met the new neighbors. With ache being the word of the day . . . I now ache for the former tenants, very cute engineer boys. The new renters are NOT cute engineer boys . . . the introductory conversation started with "that van won't be there long . . . just have to get all the parts off it. It doesn't run and I got tired of fixin' the trans, you know . . ." Great. Let's start with the van that's up on blocks. I love being a homeowner.

A Little Shopping Center on Every Corner

Once upon a time . . . my parents moved to the boondocks, or what their collected families thought were the boondocks, way out in Plymouth-Canton. It was a very confusing time and there was much discussion about how to get to the farmlands of Canton. Taking Joy Road all the way out was often an option.

As an aside, before Stu (and others, I'm sure) gets pissed off . . . I grew up in Canton, the poorer (and lesser in some opinion) of the two suburbs of Plymouth-Canton. My parents eventually moved to Plymouth . . . but I am a Canton girl, if that matters to you. Just so I don't hear Canton under everyone's breath when I say Plymouth. By the way, Canton now has better McMansions and better social amenities . . . have you seen their pool?

So while driving Joy Road all the way from Wyandotte one day my Great Aunt Hazel made a startling observation, which she then shared with my parents. "There is a little shopping center on every corner out here" she informed them. My parents, who knew that they had not moved to the permanent boondocks and that there would soon be McMansions built over the little shopping centers, nodded and smiled. And then they made it the family joke . . .

I know I'm taking a long time to get to it, but that's how I felt in New York this visit. Except that the line was "there's a little Urban Outfitters on every corner" instead. When did Manhattan turn into a mall? As I described it to my father (who says he hates New York), "it's just like Somerset, with a couple of rats thrown in to give the tourists something to talk about." Actually, I only saw one rat and that was in the subway . . . and he wasn't very big.

Everything was relatively shiny. Everyone was . . . for the most part, nice. I was only accosted by a woman in a Burberry coat because I was criticizing her parenting skills (one should not let two year olds take the stairs by themselves on the subway). (Molly got the brunt of it . . . and she wondered why the lady was screaming "I saw that face you made . . . " until she remembered that I was behind her) (But the Burberry lady was British, not a New Yorker)

The Starbucks employees were always shocked by MY politeness, especially when they f*#ked up my order, which happened more than you would think but . . . yeah, maybe Disney did take over the place. It seems like they put something in the water. So basically, I can't move to New York because it is way too nice . . . that and it seems that I could just move to Somerset and get some smallish rats.

"In Love With a Bad Idea"

My current fav song . . . Matthew Good of course . . . especially the "princess sticky magazine" because it is just SO graphic. Plus there are just so many bad ideas to be in love with . . .

Broke my fast of not calling boys . . . bad idea . . . called S and found out his number had been changed, without so much as an email . . . bad idea . . . took my profile off match and then changed my mind like five minutes later and put it back up . . . which may in fact be a bad idea . . .oh, and gave my blog address out . . . bad idea . . .

So I have to move on. In spite of the bad ideas and the email I received from another boy once I got back to Detroit (wishing me luck . . . and saying, oh, by the way, it's your fault . . . and I'll still read your blog . . . great). On to blind date no. 4 (if anyone takes me up on that) and then only 95 to go.

The Joy of an Afternoon Nap

After the adventures of the past week, I have been a bit sleep deprived. I hit the wall today while proctoring a test . . . I was having trouble focusing my eyes. So I didn't bring any work home and crashed as soon as I got near the couch.

Now that I am out of the coma, I realize that I may, in fact, be sick again. I have eaten two popscicles and am moving on to tea for my throat. And here I thought sleeping would fix the problem . . . so I still feel like crap, despite the afternoon coma.

Ahh, but tomorrow is Friday and anyone can live through a Friday. And this weekend is clear, just house straightening, laundry and sleep. Gotta get ready for next weekend's surgery coma with the straws sticking out of my nose. Fun!