My Brother WAS always a Challenge

If you click here and then find the feature on the right called "DD: Lime - Lynn vs. Louie" you will find a feature with my brother and his restaurant . . . doing a "burrito challenge". My brother is the guy talking about the burritos. His dimples are very cute in the picture and he seems to be wearing his natural hair color these days.

The lizard at the end is hilarious.

The whole thing is delightfully cheesy . . . including my brother's little speech. But it does show both (?) restaurants . . . and my brother's handwriting on some white board. Almost makes me want to forgive him for the Nickleback song on his website. Almost.

But seriously, go check it out . . . he is the most charming of the Crabbypants.

Free Keychain with Every Outing

So I'm heading quickly into the birthday crisis (and at least I'm at least somewhat aware this time) and I don't really want to talk to anyone . . . one of those days where I want to wander an anonymous mall with an ipod plugged into my ears and sunglasses. But instead, I'm going to Stately Wayne Manor to do my taxes. Because I'm too cheap to buy Turbotax myself and what better way to celebrate not wanting to deal with people? Go deal with YOUR people.

"Eat before you come . . ." is what my mother advised me last night and I don't know if that is because they don't have any food in the house, or if she doesn't want me to buy something large, or both. My parents do have the greatest collection of food that cannot be eaten nor combined with anything else in the collection.

And yesterday, I made bead lizards with my cognitively impaired students . . . and it's the first time that my regular ed students have come up with something that I don't know how to make, so I made one too. Because I'm not going to get that knowledge anywhere else: How one makes a lizard keychain out of pony beads and lanyard cord. And I was going out with Princess after work, so I planned to give it to her.

When I did the unveiling at dinner, she made me laugh so hard that I could not breathe and she continued on the car ride home. What made me think that she would want such a key chain? Did she look like someone who has big key chains? Look at this key chain (she pulls out her "Brighton" key chain from her purse) . . . does this look big? No it's not. I can't carry anything bigger than this. And what would make you think that I would want a lizard? Do I look like I like lizards? What would the glitter mafia say if I had that key chain? Did you think of that?

Clearly, I did not think about the implications. And I still have a lizard keychain, lovingly made with cognitively impaired children, who are working on fine motor skills, socialization, patterns and making choices (green bead or red bead). If anyone wants it. Or if anyone "looks like a lizard keychain kind of person."

And It Only Took a Half an Hour

Just went to the dentist. No cavities. Yay me.

Comment made: "Your brushing is good." (yeah, I only floss occasionally)

Because back in the day, I would have to sit for four hours in a dental chair at U of M . . . and there was the torturous (well, all of it was torture) "eat the pink candies and let's see where you missed". An exercise that was repeated until you "got it right" or your gums were bleeding so they couldn't see anymore. AND then you got to sit in the chair while they poked at you for four hours . . . and then there was the retrieving of the instructor to see what they missed. And that's if you didn't have a problem . . . like a cavity.

So I learned very quickly NOT to have cavities. Because student dentists never use enough novocaine and there is no gas in the U of M pediatric dental section. And they slip a lot . . . which means the drill? It goes into your gum. Or your cheek. Or another tooth. "Oops" they would say sheepishly. And they always assumed that you could not understand English. Even though I was eight, I could tell when someone was messing up, and I could certainly understand the instructor. And what they said to the instructor.

And now, as an adult, I just went to a dental office with a television that they move so you can watch. There are paraffin dips for your hands and ultrasonic tools so they don't have to scrape forever. Sure, it's still hurt like a b**ch. But it only took a half an hour. I didn't even figure out what was going on with the show I was watching. (something called Project Runway . . . and I know, I'm the only person in the world who hasn't bothered to watch it) I bet ya they'll even let me listen to my ipod if I ask them next time. Woo hoo! Will the wonders of modern dentistry ever cease?

I Didn't Even Use Extra Booze

I just made 24 individual boozey pies . . . which are interestingly arranged in my very small freezer. My kitchen is a mess . . . the rest of my house is untidy . . . and my family is coming over tomorrow. Oh, and I have to get ready for this blind date, in less than an hour.

I need some uncrabby pills. Right now. Or booze. Or something. A Hallmark greeting card? I don't know. An attitude adjustment.

And I would like to take some pictures, maybe get something up on ravelry and there just isn't time. I promised myself this would be a one drink affair, but it's not going to work out that way. It never does. Plus, that would be wasting a big bunch of pretty and the putting on of high heels in snow.

Maybe makeup will make me feel better. Doesn't seem fair to the rest of the work when I am this Crabbypants. Oh, wait, I haven't eaten anything today (well, except boozey pie remnants) so maybe that will help.

Now let's just hope that those suckers come out of those foil cups.

Update: It's 6:20 and Gwen Stefani is right . . . the magic is in the makeup. I feel slightly better and more confident about facing the world. I probably should eat something, but they have nachos el magnifico where I'm going (you didn't know they served Nachos in Hades?) (I know, I know, bad attitude . . . stop it) and my brother is close so I can go visit him after and shoot Z with Nerf darts. Nerf darts will fix most things. Well, and sometimes they break stuff . . . and that's cool too.

Quote of Day, part deux

"So how's it going with that? Are they still dating?"
"Yeeeah. Turns out that she kinda lied about her age. She's a bit older."
"Older? She fudged her age? That is so not good."
(10 year old at table interjects) "She what?"
"Sometimes women fudge about their age."
"Fudge?"
"You know, they don't really tell the truth."
"Oooooh, well . . . there's no truth in fudge. No matter how hard you look. And that can get messy."

Excellent. And so true. No truth in fudge.

Historial? Home Tour

This weekend I went on a historial home tour in a city that will remain unnamed so that my mother "the Director of Homeland Security" will not throw herself down on the floor and scream about how you are all going to read this and then immediately find her house and break into it.

We have been to the historical unnamed city home tour for about four years running. There are usually about six sites around the unnamed city, which about four thousand glitter mafia ladies and ten dating divorced couples (evidently a good date?) descend upon. This year, it seems that they ran out of historical . . . and so just went with homes.

It's very hard to be a snotty-snotty-know-it-all and it is especially hard when you are descended from a snotty-snotty-know-it-all and you both go on a tour run by middle aged ladies with nothing to do. Because the historical home tour in unnamed city did not bog itself down with facts all that much . . . and that made us argumentative. Because we were right, dammit AND we were standing in a house built in 1989.

That's right . . . built in 1989. On the historical home tour. But it was decorated in Early American Colonial (as opposed to late American Colonial?) with Norwegian accents. And the homeowner made all the quilts. Surely that overtakes the whole built in 1989 thing?

I managed to keep my mouth shut through the "haunted house" lecture at the Tavern that was a guest house. The house wasn't haunted, but people look at you funny if you say such things. I mean maybe they can come and go . . . but it wasn't haunted at the time of me standing there. Because I would know. And you are welcome to look at me funny.

At the second house we got to see the "original wall" which was the ONLY thing that was left from the 1800's in that house. Everything else was Ethan Allen. Or Amish . . . except that it was pronounced AAAA mich. Long A and a mich. I wonder where they live, those woodworking people. Oh, and they were so nice, they came all the way up to Michigan and installed the dining room table that they made by hand. At Macy's, they just call that "delivery". And yes, it was a beautiful dining room table.

At the third house, my mother tried to argue about the banquette. Poor lady was sticking to the script and my mother was contradicting her performance.

"Interesting thing they did with the banquette."
"Oh, no, this was here. They didn't do anything with this."
"But usually, in this era of house, there was a banquette. The bench would have been along that wall."

But the lady was sticking to her story. The Formica counter and bar stools had been there since 1927. Because her paper didn't say they weren't original.

So it was a lot of walking through people's houses, with people who didn't know them giving tours . . . "and this was her great-grandmother's sliver of dial soap, saved through generations . . . this is a picture of the owner's niece's uncle's great-great-aunt . . . the carving on this goes back to 1919 (never mind the plastic) . . . "

Okay, so that one was true. We toured a very nice house built . . . well, I forget, but it was before the Civil War. And it is freshly painted and full of Pottery Barn. And the ladies were amazed by the Pottery Barn.

"Oh, how clever! They made this into a T.V. stand."
"Well, actually it is a Pottery Barn T.V. stand. (I point to the other pieces of furniture) And that's Pottery Barn and that's Pottery Barn and that's Pottery Barn."
"But how do you know?"
"Ummmm. I get the catalog."

So we get to the dining room. And there is a chandelier. And I am fascinated by it because it is EXACTLY like the chandelier I have in my dining room waiting to be painted. It's strung with more glitter, but exactly like it down to the plastic candles . . . except that mine has faux drips. So it's nicer. And the tour guide says, "And this chandelier is original to the house." And my head almost exploded. But I held my tongue. Because I had seen how well the banquette conversation went and no one wants to look dumb in front of eight glitter mafia . . . and me.

So I gathered lots of ideas. And someday will straighten my house so someone that I don't know can give tours.

"And these are the owner's grandmother's end tables . . . original Formica from 1962. And here is the owner's grandmother's plastic mirror . . . given to her by her employer, Dr. Egan when she retired in 1978. And here is the wooden bureau that the owner's grandmother found and then cut the legs off of, because it was too high and bugging her, which the owner's mother refinished. And here is the owner's great aunt Hazel's buffet and the other great aunt's marble coffee table and the owner's aunt's bed." So basically, just a bunch of stuff that the owner's mother didn't want in her house anymore but the owner cannot throw away . . . because then she would have to fill her house with Pottery Barn, like everyone else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Can't Wait Here

I picked Princess up at the airport last night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have You Seen This Boy?

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

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

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

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

"No. Why?"

"He's missing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They're Creepy and They're Kooky

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

God, I look like my mother.

Rained Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheese on My Sweater

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slurp Geek

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There's this Show

I don't watch television much anymore. Something of a time crunch in my current existence.

But today, I felt icky . . . and I'm coughing up some vile things . . . so I decided to pass on working out. Nothing more embarrassing than hacking up a lung while lifting weights. So I sat on the couch and started with a movie.

The movie was suggested by a person, that I know, who said that I would really like it. And I did like it, until I figured out the plot twist . . . with an hour yet to go in the movie. So then I slept through the rest. Really, once you see the bottle put in the suitcase, it's all over.

Once I woke up, I watched some t.v.. I watched my favorite show, NCIS, because Mark Harmon is hot and I like to know that someone Dark Princessey like me has a job (Abbi). I watched Law and Order . . . and remembered why I don't watch Law and Order. Again, with the obvious plot twist noticable in the first fifteen minutes. Then I flipped between CSI and this show that I only watch with my parents. Boston Legal . . . I think it's called. Has the character, Denny Crane, in it . . . with the "mad cow" disease that he uses as an excuse for everything. He reminds me of Mr. Crabbypants. So much so, that when he is being crabby, I now chalk it up to mad cow.

I only watch this show with my parents, who have several seasons on DVD. My father and I will do marathon sessions, with wine . . . I think we could have cigars, if my mother would let us. Anyhow, watching it alone made me miss them. And the show isn't as funny without them somehow. Which is why I don't watch it.

So where should I go for my birthday?

Tide Envy

I religiously use two kinds of laundry detergent. Tide Coldwater for darks . . . and there are a lot of "darks" because otherwise my heart would have to be a different color . . . and Tide "Clean Breeze" for everything else. I do not trust the cold water stuff for everything, because whites, well, I just can't wash them in cold. Warm maybe, but not cold.

I was hooked on the "Clean Breeze" scent stuff by my sister, who proclaimed it's goodness a couple of years ago in the middle of the Target. Been using it ever since.

So last weekend, in a rare Target clearance browsing sister event (as she now lives in K-Zoo and I get speeding tickets going to K-Zoo) I mentioned that the clean breeze stuff was hard to find.

"Oh, I use the purple cap stuff." in a tone like she had used it forever.
"Purple cap stuff?"
"Yeah, the frebreze lavender stuff."
"You changed Tides?"
"I don't know. I picked it up one day. It smells good."

Now just to clarify, I don't think I'm the kind of girl that goes for persnickety detergents . . . I know that deep down (or maybe not so deep down) I am that kind of girl. But I don't like to admit it. So using a specific kind of Tide because my sister said it smelled better, somehow negated the fact that I couldn't just buy regular stuff. And we won't even go into my brand loyalty problems . . . that's from my mother. If they stop making Tide? Well, I'll just have to persistently buy new clothes.

"But you told me the clean breeze stuff smelled good . . . "
"Yeah, this stuff smells better."
"So purple cap kind? Cause I only bought clean breeze because you endorsed it."
"You buy Tide because I say so?"
"Well . . . yeah."
"That's so weird. I had no idea I had so much power . . . over your laundry choices."

Not So Fabulous Anymore

Whenever my father gets bad service, or is unsatisfied with something, he will proclaim that the establishment is "off the list".

(I don't know where the list is . . . in his head? written on some piece of paper on his desk? which looks exactly like mine, by the way. I come by my organizational patterns honestly and directly through genetics)

Well, the city of Ferndale . . . it is off the list.

It seems when I was in attendance at bad blind date no. 423 (the "oh no, you're skinny enough to date" guy) I received a parking ticket for having an expired meter. I did not have enough quarters on the night in question and figured I would "chance" the last half hour before 9 p.m. When I arrived at my car at the end of the awkwardness, I found a parking ticket which informed me that I had a week to pay $6.00. Seems reasonable to me. I did play parking roulette.

As an aside, or perhaps more accurately, another aside, I have never, ever paid a parking ticket on time in my life. Maybe it's my desk organization style . . . or my life organization style. But I always pay those suckers late, and happily pay the extra money . . . because I was late.

But this time, for the first time in my life, maybe because I'm getting things more under control, maybe because I'm more grown up, maybe because I didn't want to pay the outrageous late fee; I paid this ticket ON TIME. Quite the turning point. I dropped my six dollar check in the drop box. I even made sure that the check cashed. A new high point. And all was forgotten.

Yesterday, I received a letter from the "City of Ferndale Bureau of Parking Enforcement". Hmm . . . did I forget about a ticket? No. The nasty letter and bill contained in the envelope says that I now owe $42.00 for a ticket received in November and then proceeds to tell me all the awful things they are going to do if I do not pay $42.00 right now, right now, RIGHT NOW. But I paid the ticket. So I call the number on the nasty letter, which leads me through a maze of automated voices, none of which will help me or direct me to a human. Then I call the City of Ferndale police department . . . because they are the people who wrote the ticket, right? Nope, I have to call the court but the court is not open. Says I should call during "normal business hours" . . . and I don't know about them, but I work during "normal business hours" and I work far away from the City of Ferndale and their money-hungry parking violation department. So now, I have to go to the court building, in the currently non-fabulous city of Ferndale, during "normal" business hours to contest an obvious clerical error, because I have a printout of the cancelled check. And frankly, paying $42.00 would be easier, and cheaper in the long run, than doing the badgering that I'm going to have to do to get this fixed.

But I won't. I paid the damn ticket. On time, no less. So I will go. I will get a sub. I will drive to Ferndale during "normal" business hours. And I will be polite as possible. And I will stare lovingly into their eyes, as I slide the copy of the cancelled check through the slot in the safety glass. And I will smile at my reflection, as I muse about how this may be why municipalities need safety glass . . . to keep me from throttling someone. I will nod with mock concern and sympathy as they tell me there is nothing they can do and I must fill out form 5623A in triplicate and turn it in with copies of my license plate, driver license and a pint of blood gathered during the new moon on a Tuesday.

Because it's the principal of the thing, damn it.

And Ferndale. The whole city of Ferndale. They are sooooo off the list. At least before 9 p.m..

Icy

My father, Mr. Crabbypants, suffers from what we call "White Panic". The white panic is an obsession with sidewalk cleanliness in the winter. It means shoveling when there are just flurries on the ground and salt. A tremendous amount of salt. Because where there is salt, there can be no ice.

Evidently, Berkley had an ice storm this morning. I woke up to a thick layer of ice on my cars and driveway. The sidewalk? Well, because of the construction and diggers, there is a bigger lake than usual. Iced over, of course. And my reaction to this? I went back to bed. No white panic here.

This evening, it occurred to me that I should do something about the iciness, lest the mail person slip, fall and die on my porch. I don't do well with guilt . . . and slaying the mail person with ice negligence? I think there would be some guilt. So while spending my bi-weekly $100 at Meijers on liquids and yogurt, I picked up some salt. Because I've been taught that salt will fix it.

It was treacherous, taking the liquids and yogurt into the house. And then I started with the salt. I have a very nice scoop, made from a wiper fluid bottle, as all the scoops are made in my family, for everything. And you know what? The salt has done nothing. A bit more traction, that's it. It's just sitting there.

Let's hope that it's sunny and warm tomorrow. And that the mail person is careful, with spikes on their shoes. And my apologies to Mr. Crabbypants. Because if he saw my walk, he would disown me.

But look at the paint

I have press credentials for the Auto Show and I'm taking it very seriously. I'm hoping to get a guest column somewhere . . . at least my brother's website (see link: Dave's car thingy). And although I despise the hype that the Detroit media foams up every year, I'm now, very slightly, part of the club. Almost makes me want to stalk Christian Slater for a picture. But not really.

Maybe there will be free food. And pretty paint colors.

So expect pictures of pretty paint colors . . . and any free food . . . in the next few days. My brother is wireless, so I can post from anywhere. And this will frustrate Mr. Crabbypants (also part of the family press corp) because he really wants me to appreciate the cars, the actual cars and their pieces parts. Their engines and exhaust systems. And I just "ooooh" at the paint. Sometimes the design. Ultra-frustrating is when I am fascinated with the booth . . . and don't even look at the car. Both D and Mr. Crabbypants hate that.

So it should be interesting, the right brain vs. left brain perspective of the family fun time.

Shiny Things

So I now have a knife . . . that will actually cut things. I am the new owner of this, which I am considering never taking off my body. I have new red lipstick and a "Cooky Book" (I was the only sibling not to have one) so I can whip up six dozen Snickerdoodles if I have to. And new homemade socks.

The Z. pictures were a big hit and Mere liked her sweater (it was a good color). We almost threw out Dad's wine wh0-ha's . . . the Crate and Barrel lady hid them with the decanter and I forgot about them. Oh, and I fell down the stairs with a bottle of wine in one hand and my glass of wine in the other. Ouch. And wine explosion.

Fell asleep watching Talledaga Nights -- The Ballad of Ricky Bobby

So today will be the "Grey's Anatomy" fest (which I am not watching) and waffles . . . and sitting around doing nothing. Z. is gone to his grandparents, so there are no action figures to play with.

Merry Christmas to all . . . hope you opened some Avatar action figures too.

It's still dark

It's my first day off . . . and I'm up before it's light.

My father is picking out glasses this morning and has invited me . . . and well, I couldn't resist. The man is perfectly capable of picking out his own glasses but, if someone asks me for my opinion, I'll give it to him. He was an AV aide in high school and sometimes, just sometimes, it shows in his glasses selection. And I get to go to IKEA.

When we came up with this plan, I pointed out that IKEA was going to be like a demilitarized zone. People will be ill-behaved. There will be shouting, or at least some pushing. It's three days before Christmas. And my father, he is does NOT suffer fools gladly. He will tell them how to behave. Loudly. Which usually leads to more shouting . . . and potential shoving. Luckily, he is really intimidating, otherwise there would be shoving.

So happy, happy dad wrangling. And getting up at the butt-crack of dawn.