Giving in to My Insufferable Yarn Habit

I spent a hundred dollars on yarn yesterday.

I spent $240 dollars on an alternator for the skunk. So I guess that is worse. But I need an alternator. I'm not sure I need the yarn. But really, I think I do.

I bought some 100% alpaca for a hat I'm knitting for a friend. Went to a new yarn store and they had the yarn listed in the pattern but only in yicky colors. So had to find other yarn, which is always iffy with a new pattern. And then the very nice lady messed up my bill and only charged me for two balls of yarn when I actually had three. Didn't want to ruin my karma, so corrected her . . . which meant I had to find cash, as she had already run my card.

Then went to Murray's Auto Parts and dealt with this tall guy. I think he thought he was flirting with me (confirmed the next day at pickup of alternator) but to me he was just arguing. I don't really want to discuss alternators . . . nor did I want his vast pretend knowledge of Neons. Just wanted to buy an alternator. But he was happy to see me back. Used my name a bunch of times for good measure. Can't wait to go give the "core" to him.

Then I went to my local yarn store and dropped another eighty bucks on some: alpaca silk -- yummy, some straight worsted alpaca in black and a fun color combination for a hat that I was making for hud. Until he looked at the pattern and chose another hat. So it will go to someone, I'm sure. Burgundy and green . . . but somehow it works.

Am making the gloves from Naughty Needles . . . as well as the pirate eyepatch. But have to get the hats done first. Have about one inch of six done on the first.

Pictures later. Have to go.

Picking up Rocks

The weather is beautiful here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What I Learned Last Night

I learned that in the age of cell phones, one cannot give a false phone number. Because it's then really uncomfortable when the man of non-interest calls it immediately. And your phone doesn't ring.

So the best course of action is to just say "No".

Thank you, Nancy Reagan.

From Tuesday Night

I had to retouch a finger (thanks Dave) so my mother wouldn't freak out. She insists that is why she doesn't have a decent Christmas picture either. Cause we are all about the sticking up of fingers.

Pity, I Don't Have a More Interesting Life

I've been trying to tag previous posts and in the process, have gotten some random traffic. Kinda cool to see hits from Singapore and such . . . and to have 95 hits, when I usually have about 10. But much more interesting are the people who come across this at random and have TWO hits. One to the general address and then they click on the category "being naughty".

And I almost feel bad that they are so sorely disappointed. Almost.

And for those who read regularly, yes . . . I have a site tracker. No, I can't see you. Or my sister, who says she reads this everyday.

And most times I can just see number of hits and locations. My parents evidently live in Westland, MI. And if it really, really bothers you I can block you, just like E2.

Got One in the Closet Already

Sister on phone: "So you look like a skunk?"
"Well . . ."
"Cruella DeVille?"
"I'd prefer to think of it as kinda like a calico cat . . . but I'll let you decide."
"I'm going to get you a Dalmatian coat for Christmas."
"I already have one."

*** No actual dalmatians were harmed in the making of said coat . . . nor by this blog entry . . . nor by the writer herself. However, every dalamatian the writer has ever met has been extremely stupid . . . but maybe she is just not meeting the "right" dalamatians.

Benefiting from Low Expectations

Mr. Cat has been fed . . . and kissed at his insistence. And I washed and disinfected his bowl before feeding him, because I don't like eating off of dirty dishes, why should he? And he can't just go out and buy more dishes . . . like I can . . . because my parents refuse to give him the car keys.

He shouldn't be this lonely, the Crabbypants only left this morning. Attention whore, that Catman. He has now sulked off to someplace warmer . . . Stately Wayne Manor is cold, as you would expect it to be. I'm about to steal some socks.

I still have to go to the store and get what I'm making for tomorrow. Heck, I still have to search the Martha Stewart website for what I'm making for tomorrow. And because I only cook two days a year, I will have to buy everything. Every ingredient. Wait . . . I have sugar and flour . . . I think . . . sugar and flour don't go bad, right? It's amazing that I'm considered a functioning adult. Oh, and I have brown sugar . . . so three whole ingredients in my house . . . and I might have some filo dough . . . and I know I have three bottles of V-8, due to failure to take inventory before going to Meijer. And V-8 does go bad . . . so I better get on drinking some one of these days.

The best thing about cooking only two days out of the year? Everyone is really impressed when you pull it together . . . or it's just not burnt. Last year (was it last year?) I made a pie, from scratch, with little Martha Stewart-y leaves and everything . . . and there were the pumpkin cupcakes . . . though made too many of those. We had to eat them forever. Anyhow, I digress, it's easy to impress when there are such low expectations. Second best thing is going to touch all the produce at Whole Foods.

Don't tell Mom that I washed the cat's bowl with her scrubby. She'll wonder why it smells like liver and figure it out eventually. It is sorta a foodstuff and I cleaned it off really well afterwards. The guilt may kill me. It wasn't the favorite scrubby anyhow.

Lifted

My hair professional and I have a deal. She doesn't tell me how to teach art and I don't tell her how to do my hair. With that being said, today when I came in I did not get the usual questions. "Are we doin' the same thing?" has been the standard question for a year and a half.

Today, I was told what we are doing. And now, I am much more blonde. Not blonde. But more blonde. Evidently there is a plan to take me into summer. I have already been shown the summer colors . . . which Jennifer can not wait to try (and they are really Elmo colored . . . and one like Grover's nose). Currently, I think I may look like a calico cat. Which, in a way, is sweet.

Let's hope my bosses think so too.

So while we were putting "the plan" in action, there was a lot of burning . . . as it takes something strong (peroxide? Do they still use that?) to turn my black hair into the blondeness. And it's back to sticking up . . . though I was assured that I could wear it down and it would be alright. It's hard to have sticky-uppy hair in the winter . . . can't wear a hat or it gets all squashed. And Jennifer got to talking, so it's too short, again. Which means it will look just right around Dec. 14, fifteen days before I get it cut again. I wonder if the plan calls for more blonde in December? Maybe I should have had her write the plan down or something.

(Then I could show it to the powers that be at work . . . see sir? There is a plan. Educators, they all love a good plan.)

Pictures later.

Okay, Totally Creeped Out

So you see that little photostream over there? Right over there on the right? With the changing pictures, that don't change all that much because I rarely upload to flickr?

Well, I looked at the flickr account because someone mentioned my truck . . . and I thought "Hey, maybe I should look again and see what people see on that thing . . ." And oh, someone has "favorited" one of my pictures and it's been viewed a 140 more times than any of the others. Why? Because he or she is into chicks in gas masks. There's a whole group of them, with a picture collection of different women wearing gas masks.

And all that time when I was joking about quitting my job and going into the foot fetish website business . . . when I should have been looking at the gas mask market. Didn't even know there was a gas mask market. Shows you how thorough my marketing research was . . .

(No, really Mom, I'm not going to quit my job . . . I didn't do any market research . . . and I'm sure that people just stay at their computers . . . no one is coming to find me because I'm wearing a gas mask. And there are no pictures of my feet. It will be fine. It's flattering in a way.)

Closing a Chapter

Funny, the things that happen in our lives that allow us to move on . . . from longing and regret. Never anything earth shattering, sometimes just a soft sound or a rustling (metaphorically, of course).

And you always want the earth shattering, the end, the finality. Want to make it go boom and poke it with a stick, which never makes it better. But instead, it is like the state between being aware and daydreaming . . . you can't make yourself be in that state or remember it anyhow.

Today I got out of bed and it was okay.

50 Pairs are Enough, Right?

I am limiting myself to 50 pairs of shoes.

This is the current number of shoe cubbies I have. While the Water Heater man was working, I did many of the little jobs that I had put off all summer . . . bleaching the bamboo rocks, moving the digitial cable box upstairs and . . . building more shoe cubbies.

I did throw some shoes away.

Well, this is not really true. I have set some shoes aside in a "throw away-donate" pile . . . so I can think about them and be really sure. They are like old friends, so we have to go through the grieving process in order to end our relationship and move on.

It doesn't help that I bought five pairs today. Some high heels with lovely open toes, showing some toe cleavage. Two pairs of ballet flats (though both very different), one pair of pointy flats (but not too pointy, otherwise I feel like an elf) and a pair of "Aunt Hazel" shoes, which is only a good description if you have an Aunt Hazel.

I also went to H&M 5nd bought a suit and a dress. Evidently, spending two thousand on a water heater (when you are only supposed to spend $500) puts me in an "Ah, f$%k it" mood, causing me to spend money at the mall. The shoes are good though.

What's up with men calling me after midnight? Makes me think that they went trolling earlier in the evening and it didn't work out, therefore I am the backup plan. F.Y.I. . . . I don't answer the phone after 11 p.m. Even if I'm interested.

Learning With Nemo

So I'm sitting at FR's computer, because I couldn't wait to check my email and see if someone wrote me back . . . and there is a Pixar learning disk . . . "Learning With Nemo" next to the computer. So I now know FR's secret. She needs to learn with Nemo on the computer.

Hmmm. I wonder WHAT she is learning? Did Nemo plot to take over the world? Was Nemo busy trying to convert people into democrats? Did Nemo make fun of his friends over pantyhose? What IS she learning with this fish?

Mackin'

I so could mack on a 24 year old tonight . . . he invited me up to his place, above "Catching Fireflies". 6 foot 7 and red hair and just cute as a button. Taking all my energy not to get in my car and go back but I don't want that anymore. I dated 24 year olds when I was 24 . . . don't need to "date" them now.

Still it's very flattering to have the offer. Thank you, Paul.

Maybe

For matchdotcom blind date no. five, I went out with the nicest guy in the universe . . . and I said all the wrong things. It was amazing. It was like being able to see the road I should take in the conversation and yet veering off into the woods anyway, without four wheel drive or anything.

The best "I can't believe I just said that . . . " moment was the end of the date. I walked him to his car (I had walked and wouldn't let him drive me home) and he said, "Well, so . . . should we hang out again?" To which I replied, "Maybe." That's right folks, I said "maybe." I could of just stabbed the guy and took his money because that would have been less painful than "maybe."

So yeah, I'm a jerk and I can't even help it.

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.

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?

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.

This is Fun! (Insert Evil Laugh Here)

I'm in Michigan Electronic Library Training . . . and much like the kids I teach, I'm "multi-tasking".

Yahweh is gonna be mad

So I made a run to the grocery store this evening. The very local grocery store. The store nearest my house . . . that I never go to because it's in Oak Park. I might be mugged or something, or not have to pay $4.00 for soup like I do in Royal Oak. I went to the low rent Farmer Jack because I am sick and I wanted popcicles and I wanted them NOW. Cool popsicles to soothe the awful throat sickness that is coming from the lurking sinus sickness. (Not cool when you have a cyst in there too and a deviated septum that won't let anything out)

Now I'm making Oak Park sound like a hole . . . and it's not really. The Farmer Jack is conveniently located, well lit and had everything I wanted (unlike the evil Meijer). While making my selections (yogurt, water, strawberries, cool whip, lean cuisine’s and soup that was on sale), several odd things happened in the Farmer Jack. First, a unsupervised small child stood next to me and danced at the yogurt fridge. I don't know if it was the music or that he could see his reflection but he was doing a damn good robot while I was deciding to go with plain vanilla or creamy French vanilla (got some of both, thank you). Just this six year old, doing the robot to some eighties song on the P.A.. Wonderful. If God appears to people in the grocery store, I think that's how he does it.

As I am walking to the soup aisle, there is an orthodox woman with her three girls next to me. The oldest has to be about twelve, the youngest four or so and the oldest is pushing the cart. Now living near the "Jewish Box Store" (Jewish Costco?) on Greenfield, I do not raise an eyebrow to wigs and skirts or all the walking on Saturday. I just drive more carefully on the Sabbath. However, the littlest girl points at me and says "Look at that lady's hair". I do raise an eyebrow at her but no one says anything. There is no mother grabbing the finger and saying in a hushed voice with clenched teeth, "Don't point, it's rude" (what my mother would do). There is no sister admonishing "I know it's weird but shhh . . . " (what I would have done to my sister). Just the pointing and the yelling about my hair.

Other than the look I give the kid (my students' call it the ______ stare of death'), I say nothing. I walk down the soup aisle. Suddenly, it's as if the orthodox foursome has to be where I am. The follow me into the soup aisle. They block the aisle at the pancake syrup. They block the aisle again at the bread. Each time, one or the other daughter stares at me, occasionally pointing. The mother doesn't notice since she is too busy blocking every aisle I'm in . . . and quavering about the cheapest pancake syrup. Funny, I never thought, at the time, why aren't they in the kosher aisle? (They have the most amazing kosher aisle in this Farmer Jack . . . every kind of matzo, every kind) Finally, I am at the checkout . . . and they stand behind me. The middle child, in addition to staring coldly, audits my cart items. Evidently, only sinners buy Lean Cuisine.

Now I know that this hair is a cry for attention. Heck, I've been pointed at before I even had muppet hair. But even the mothers at the Farmer Jack on Warren in Detroit would admonish their children for pointing at me because I was the only white person in the store. (No really, the child did say "Look mommy, a white girl" when I was living in Detroit and went to the store . . . humbling really, because how many times did that mother have to deal with "oh, a black girl" in her lifetime?) But really, repeated pointing? Repeated stare downs? What am I? A circus act for orthodox kids? . . . Don't answer that. All I know is the Methodist version of God is way against pointing and staring. I have to think the orthodox Jewish God feels the same way. At the very least, no one is for pointing and staring multiple times.