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!

It is Really True, You Know

My favorite poem about Detroit, by Jim Gustafson:

The Idea of Detroit

Detroit just sits there
like the head of a large dog on a serving platter
It lurks in the middle of a continent,
or passes itself off as a civilization
dangling at the end of a rope.
The lumpiness of the skyline
is the lumpiness of a sheet stretched over
what’s left of a tender young body.
Detroit groans and aches and oppresses.
It amounts to Saturday night at a slaughter house,
and Sunday morning bed
with a bag of bagels and the Special Obituary Supplement.
Air the color of brown Necco wafers,
a taste like the floor of an adult movie theater,
the movement through the streets
that of a legless wingless pigeon.
Detroit means lovers buying matching guns,
visitors taken on tours of foundries,
children born with all their teeth,
a deep scarlet kind of fear.
It breeds a unique bitterness,
one that leaves deep deep gashes in the tongue,
that doesn’t answer telephones or letters,
that carves notches in everything,
that illustrates the difference between
"rise up singing" and "sit down and shut your face."
It forms a special fondness for uncooked bacon,
for the smell of parking lots,
for police sirens as opposed to ambulance sirens,
for honest people who move their heads
whenever they move their eyes.
Detroit is the greasy enchilada
smeared across the face of a dilemma,
the sanctuary of the living dead,
the home of Anywhere-But-Here travel agency,
the outhouse at the end of the rainbow.
Detroit just sits there
drinking can after can of Dupe beer,
checking the locks on the windows,
sighing deeply, know that nothing
can save it now.

By the way, I miss Roy Castleberry. Just sayin'.

Yuppie Artists?

Is that like jumbo shrimp?

Apples and 1986

So I figured out how to get this to work . . . though it took some conniving. The trip is great. Have some great pictures, especially of this dead thing hanging in a stairwell.

So St. Marks has these kids that hang out on the street and they look exactly the same as they did in 1986. Except that these are KIDS, not the people from 1986, who are in their 30's and 40's by now. So there is either some Peter Pan thing going on or new teenagers who "study up" on the exact style of punk 1986. I know there is some reference material but really, did we want to go back to Johnny Rotten? (1970's, I know) Heck, John Lyndon doesn't even want to go back there.

So it was like the "Hall of Presidents" from Disneyworld or the reenacters at Greenfield Village, except with punk culture. And somehow that was just as lame as the "Hall of Presidents" (sorry, mom, it is lame. You just go there because it's quiet and air conditioned) except that their were real people attached to the mohawks, instead of animatronics.

So every sales person seems to recognize me. Evidently the sales pitch here is, "Didn't I see you in here last week?" or "don't you come in here all the time?" Either that or I have a doppelganger. Scared of that.

Hey Kids!

Lived through parent teacher conferences . . . though I just realize that tomorrow I have nothing, absolutely nada, planned. Hey kids! Let's learn about free verse! And since I so wisely planned a trip for this weekend to have something to live for . . . I don't really care about tomorrow. That's terrible, I know. I'm sure I can punt with "Charge of the Light Brigade" or maybe I'll look up some T.S. Eliot or something.

Maybe I'll whip out the Audioslave song that I wanted to use for the poetry unit . . . but I don't want to do that by the seat of my pants either. Hey kids! Let's sit here in the dark and write a really long journal entry . . . quietly.

"Charge of the Light Brigade" it is then . . . oh, what fun!

Like a Real Person

I now own a suitcase that cost more than $10, thus moving me closer to the realm of the "real" people. It's very nice, black, wheelie, and has words like "ballistic" written on it. It will fit into the overhead bin and should hold the 48 mini moon pies, that I'm taking as an offering, very well. Oh, and the two towels that I am leaving there. So much for packing light.

I really just wanted to wear the same pair of jeans all weekend but I have been told that is unacceptable. So $94 dollars later, and I have a bag that is much bigger than my head. (Then again, I was told to bring more than one purse . . . I still think this is ridiculous) Speaking of ridiculous, I have a migrane which I think will last until tomorrow (if experience shows anything) and that is going to be WONDERFUL for parent teacher conferences.

Why hello, parent, please ignore the squinting and wincing . . . oh, and ignore the hair . . . please don't look at the hair . . .

Maybe I can pull off wearing sunglasses? The sunglasses look good with the hair. Anyhow, kind of makes me wish I had a primary care physician and a script for some Imitrex but not enough to actually go out and get either of those things. So I will be in a high school gym, with the floor covered with blue tarps, in a suit . . . all while holding my temple so my brains don't explode out the side of my head. Fun, Fun, Fun.

Haven't you ever seen . . .

Just paid all of my bills . . . and am now having a panic attack about parent teacher conferences. I know it will be fine but I have to panic about something. It may just be . . . gasp . . . PMS.

I've been terribly overdramatic lately, especially about boys. And now that "Sex in the City" is on every channel, all day . . . in addition to watching it myself, people keep giving me advice they have seen on "Sex in the City" while saying "don't you watch 'Sex in the City'?" I either have to watch less of it . . . or more, I'm not sure.

Spent way too much money on shoes to be paying bills this evening, speaking of Carrie Bradshaw. Oh, and only consumed, like, 900 calories today. How's that for an eating disorder statement? On the shopping disorder front, I bought a slipcover for my couch (downstairs) which I don't even need, but it was too good a deal to pass up. And I still have to buy moonpies at Costco tomorrow and maybe a suitcase. I need a suitcase right? People in their thirties should have a "real" suitcase to use instead of the one they bought at Walmart for $10? So there's another $100 bucks out the door.

One of Those Girls

I've become one of "those" girls . . . my sister pointed out as I quoted the calorie counts for soy lattes versus non-fat milk lattes. The girls who only order chicken caesar salads. The girls who share dessert three (or eight) ways. The girls who say, "Oh, I couldn't possibly eat that." Those girls.

My grandmother was one of "those" girls. She never finished a meal while eating with other people. She never ate dessert. She was constantly complaining about her weight (and my weight, and my father's weight . . . come to think of it). With the lipstick obsession (lipstick was always reapplied after eating, it was often checked at random intervals), the food obsession was just annoying. Plus my grandmother always ordered the salad with fried chicken fingers . . . it just didn't make sense.

And now I'm looking up the calories on the internet for my daily crack, I mean soy, latte from Starbucks. I check my lipstick. I try to walk everyday. And I do feel better about myself. But still . . . so don't want to be one of "those" girls . . . eehwoo.

The Dependable One and Morning

My brother, the dependable one, used to be an early bird. He would get up at 6 am every day and have coffee, read the paper, putz around doing whatever my brother does. He and my father were very alike in that aspect.
While I hate the phone calls . . . "What you're still asleep?" or "Why didn't you answer? I waited until 7 am." There was something were dependable about my brother being up on at the butt crack of dawn . . . or as listed in the Odyssey: dawn with it's fingers of rose . . . sorry, English 9 flashback . . .

But no more . . . my brother got married, to an awesome woman, who we all love very much. However, once married . . . my brother switched from morning guy to right around noon guy. This is confusing to us, confusing to me. He said that he would come help me with my thermocouple this morning ("help me with my thermocouple?" Sounds kinda dirty) and it is now 11. I got up at 8 thinking he would be here banging on the door.

Now I have to go find something else to do . . . I can't fix the thermocouple because I'm not really sure which, of all the thingies in my furnace, it is. And the thing is, thermocouples, they come in sizes. So you have to know what size to buy, which means you have to take it out of your furnace and take it with you to the hardware store. Again, I could do that by myself . . . but I don't know which thing to disassemble and take.

So my brother is no longer a morning person. One can now longer call at 8 am and know that he will be there with his coffee and his newspaper. It is a sad state of affairs.

At least there is still Mr. Crabbypants. But then again, his morningness might be just the fact that he stops breathing 127 times a night. His body might just say, "Get the hell up so we can breathe." Mr. Crabbypants being a late sleeper would really rock my world. Of course, the payback would be a bitch . . . I've gotten used to calling him at 7 am on a Saturday.

Magical Thinking

There is this lovely passage in Augusten Burroughs' Magical Thinking, from the story of the same name, about how Mr. Burroughs believes in the Baby Jesus and his pet cow. Not Augusten's pet cow but the Baby Jesus' pet cow. It's a hilarious passage, which I will quote when I get the book back . . . because I lent it out immediately.
Anyhow, I had to picture petting the cow today . . . evidently if you are friendly to the Baby Jesus' cow, he will do you favors (or the cow will do you favors) but somehow creating the image in my head of the Baby Jesus and a cow AND walking up and petting the cow, was somewhat soothing. Let it go . . . just pet the cow . . .

So when I'm muttering later about petting the cow, you'll all know what I mean.

Scar of Grape Jelly

The grape jelly is now just a scar imbedded with glass . . . someone cleaned up the majority (curious dog? wandering jelly-eating cat? did the squirrels gather it up?) so now it just looks like a weird scar on the sidewalk.

Today was one of those "kinda awful, everything is just going wrong enough to be annoying" days. There was an accident on the freeway so I sat in first gear for twenty minutes for nothing . . . I hate it when I get to the accident and it's dumb, just a smashed fender. So almost late for work because no one would move the dented car.

Then Starbucks was out of soy milk AGAIN (see previous) and I was pissed off enough to mutter the word "again?" within hearing of the speaker, which caused a panic in the Starbucks for some reason. Maybe they recognized my voice? So then the Starbucks lady felt that she had to explain, repeatedly, that there was something about Roseville and soy, and no matter how much they ordered they always ran out. I pointed out that soy didn't go bad . . . at least not that quickly, so they could really just order an extra two cases and if it was too much it would keep. All this while later to work than I should be . . .

Then I had to punch my "key card" in the door . . . thus leaving the record that I walked into the building at 7:49 which is one minute late. The teacher before me at the copier couldn't figure out how the thing worked and so recopied the same document several times. So many tries were had at making a double sided document, without staples, that I gave up and just went to my room and wrote what I needed on the board.

Then the whole "will you set up this meeting" exercise, which is like, I don't know, putting one, two . . . eight cats in the same bag. "I can't go Friday or Tuesday and so and so is only available on the second Tuesday of the full moon." Arrgh! If I were a pirate, I wouldn't have to have meetings.

Then I went to Marshall Fields with the coupons . . . and found NOTHING. Not even underwear. There was nothing good to buy at Marshall Fields. No wonder they need coupons.

Now I have to pay bills. Yuck. And I should clean the bathroom. Double yuck, with a side of yuck.

Japanese Pan Noodles

So I'm walking along, on my way to get some Japanese pan noodles, and there is an entire jar of grape jelly on the side of the road. Broken. Actually, it was in the middle of the sidewalk, like it had been thrown from a car. Who throws jars of grape jelly out their car windows? Why would anyone do that? It looked like the blob (from the movie "The Blob" which was the first horror movie I watched, ever) but in color.

The noodles were spicier than I thought they would be and I need to start carrying my stolen mag light if I'm going to be walking in the dark (don't worry, I stole it from Mr. Crabbypants). The walking a lot is helping with suppressing the urge to punch people in the face.

So that's good.

Unfortunately

I can die now . . . saw "Suck" live . . . though not really close enough, so maybe there is a reason to keep living. I don't care how old I am, the old person section really . . . well . . . sucks. Maybe it's worth it to get jostled.

So yeah, Trent (Mr. Reznor to you, lady) played Suck last night, which is actually a Pigface song but is also the secret B side on some CD I have. It's my favorite song. Hilarious, because everyone sat down for it (because it's a bside) and I'm jumping up and down and screaming . . . in the old people section. I even have the original Pigface version.

No encore . . . or no encore that we stayed for . . . my companions were on a mission to get home for some reason, so no afterglow for me. Much more fun when I was with people who wanted to guess the bar that the performer was going to go to . . . met Sisters of Mercy that way with Stu.

Oh, and women kept complimenting my hair. That was nice, I guess.

Imaginary Ladder

Had one of those days yesterday . . . when something is so awful that you have to reflect on WHY you are doing things. A little bit of an anxiety attack last night, in the "ohmygodcanIdothismuchlongerandnotbehollow?" category.

Some people just need to have all the eggs and I just want to do what is right . . . what is best. If the egg grabbers don't appreciate that, well, let them sue me. Best line of the day: I think people have a ladder of inference. They go up that ladder until they find something negative enough to suit their purpose. That's just my opinion. (smug smile) After that was said, I will continually imagine climbing my ladder of inference to drop something heavy on the person below.

So, yeah, I feel like my soul is being slowly killed by people with imaginary negativity ladders . . . but I signed up for this gig, didn't I? Must just close and lock all my doors. And try not to speak to anyone. And take up kickboxing. Cause it's all gonna be okay . . .

so you didn't have to share

I was told tonight that my blog has become boring . . . perhaps it is the editing, maybe it's that my life is not all that exciting . . . don't know. Do know that being told that your posts suck . . . well, it kinda sucks.

My brain is now the consistency of marshmellow and I still have to grade ninety English Nine Odyssey tests (say that five times fast), which may not happen tonight. I'm sure they'll get over it. Oh, and if I have one more meeting I may just scream.

So tomorrow I'm going to a concert that one of my students is playing . . . at the Roseville theater. Evidently, his band is awesome. I so hope that they play at, like, 10 pm so I can fit in a nap AND I hope my feet don't stick to the floor at this place. They are headlining, so the later in the evening and Emily napping is looking good. Saturday is Nine Inch Nails . . . and I'd better be in the old people section. I want no jostling.

Z's birthday is Sunday. A whole eight going on 28, it seems. I will take him to The Corpse Bride, but may have to take my mother also. I don't know if Morna will fully appreciate Tim Burton but at least it will be a family event.

Currently listening to old "The The". So awesome, that Matthew Johnson.

"The Reasons"

My favorite The Weakerthans song at this particular moment:

"How I don't know how to sing.
I can barely play this thing.
But you never seem to mind,
and you tell me to fuck off when I need somebody to.
How you make me laugh so hard.

How whole years refuse to stay where we told them to,
bad dog, locked up whining in a word or a misplaced souvenir.
How the past chews on your shoes,
and these memories lick my ear.
How we waste our precious time marching
in the picket lines that surround those striking hearts.
How the time is never now,
and we know who we should love,
but we're never certain how.
I know you might roll your eyes at this, but I'm so glad that you exist."

I love the time/dog metaphor and well . . . it's just the perfect little song. So yeah, that's what I want. Someone to be glad that I exist so I can roll my eyes. Plus, I really need more people to tell me to f*&k off. I don't think that happens enough when I need it to . . . though it happens all the time when I'm not being disorderly.

gettin back on the horse . . .

Once upon a time, back when I lived in Northville, I went to this new chain restaurant called Noodle Bowl. I had the mushroom stroganoff and it was super yummy. I thought I saw one of my old exs with a pretty blonde wife and a new cutey-patootey baby. I played with chopsticks and talked with my mother, who had some sort of Asian noodley thing as only someplace called Noodle Bowl could serve. It was a good moment in time.

Until . . . five hours later when I was hurling up mushroom stroganoff. I puked stroganoff until there was no more stroganoff and then I puked some more. It was extremely unpleasant . . . and there was no sleep, as I recall.

When my brother heard about the incident, he said, "Hey, I did that too!" Thus the Noodle Bowl stroganoff conspiracy theory. Neither of us has ever eaten there since.

Until tonight . . . I don't know what it was, but desired to try it again. To get back on the horse. It had been long enough. So on my walk downtown, I stopped at the Noodle Bowl and ordered a small stroganoff. It was super yummy, just as I remembered. A bit too much cheese, but I'll know to order it without next time. And now we wait . . .

Why do I do this? I have no earthly idea. I could have ordered anything else on the menu (they even have things without noodles). But nooooo . . . I have to risk it, thinking as I'm eating . . . "Well, it doesn't seem to have any egg in it so it probably wasn't salmonella. Could be the cream base . . . maybe they put something in it that I'm allergic too. That would explain Dave getting sick on a different day. Hmmm, what spice could I be allergic too?" Gotta test the fates.

Crappy Poem No. 1094

while in search of bean burritos
there are two men with demons in their heads,
with their keeper
at least it seems like their keeper
could be the feather man's girlfriend

all rosaries and swaying
one dollar in his hand
and there is a lot of talking
to the demons
against the demons

the keeping of the demons in their heads
the pleading with them to stay still
and in between the order of one soft taco
please and thank you
and shut up, shut up, shut up

the feather man is giving advice
and the small one is muttering behind me
making sure that I don't see
the keeper is tired, trying
to sit everyone down

but I get up and
slurp one last slurp
walk out into the night
leaving the demon keepers
to their keeper

or girlfriend
judging by her car

Doesn't Lose Suction?

I just bought the most expensive vacuum in the universe. It's pretty and shiny and candy-like but for 500 bones it better clean my dishes and wash my hair while it's not losing any suction. I'm expecting vacuuming to so joyful that it will be like an out of body experience . . .

I'll let you know when that happens of course . . .

Oh, You're Emily? . . . I Puked on Your Car Once

Went to my former place of employment to see Mikey this evening. Shared his resume with my father and needed to debrief him. I made sure that I showed up at last call, so I wouldn’t have too many flashbacks but still ended up carding some jerk for a strawberry stoli. Hate to break it to ya buddy but you’re drinking a girly drink, so don’t try to be all manly when you show the I.D. Mikey just I.D.ed them to be a hassle anyhow.

Now it’s 3 a.m. and I reek of smoke. Will have to wash everything, including myself before I go to bed and my sinuses KILL. Stayed to talk to Sasha . . . one of the people I truly liked working and hanging out with during my tenure in the restaurant trade. Met some fellow named Frank, who then immediately admitted that he threw up on my car when he was eighteen. How charming. Caught up on all the gossip . . . the five years of gossip. Still don’t miss it.

The thing about restaurants is everything works with lighting . . . when you turn them on you’ll find cockroaches, the way the people really look, how dirty and nicotine stained everything is . . . and it’s kind of the same with the personalities. The regulars who were actually into coke and young strippers. The charismatic sous chef with a horrible drug problem. The prep cook that sold heroin out in the alley. All floating in alcohol, like the ancient pineapple that they make the infused vodka with . . . they never change that pineapple . . .

Mikey evidently has a "present" for me . . . and I’m hesitant to find out what it is. Mikey loved that restaurant . . . got me fired in the process of loving it and it was the best thing to happen really. Otherwise, I’d still be looking at cockroaches in flattering lighting while breathing in secondhand smoke and waiting for something to happen.

Good to know I’m so famous that one remembers my car though . . . ahh, Mohawk days.

Umm, this might sound weird and disorganized, but . . .

For thirty some years I have resisted the Franklin Planner people. My mother being a member of the cult of Franklin, I have been to their stores (mall churches). I receive their shiny catalogs, with pretty stretched dead cow in decorative colors holding bits of paper and books that will evidently make my life more complete with just seven daily habits. Every couple of years or so, my mother tries in vain to convert me . . .

While I have never actually bought a Franklin, I have at least ten empty planners of different flavors stuck in a drawer, mostly because they have ancient addresses in them. I wrote these addresses on the day I bought the planners. After the address book fest (which only will include things from my memory, I won’t go back and look at the other abandoned planners . . . which is why I am storing all of them) it just never comes together. I never write in them again. I’ll carry them around for a week or two, put receipts in them though I’m not sure why. My mother’s always has neatly filed receipts, so I assume that you are supposed to be putting all your receipts in them.

But this is a woman who has every receipt from every purchase since 1968. No really, she admits it on her blog. (see sidebar) (Yes, I know it’s weird to have a mom with a blog when you are over the age of fourteen) It’s like she is going to have to prove it’s all hers to get into heaven or something.

Once we were in the Franklin church . . . I’m mean, store . . . and my mother convinced me to buy one with all the fixin’s. The bill came to over $150 and I believe I returned it the next day. Thank goodness for the receipt saving gene.

So I cannot make use of a planner. I’m too right brained, too disorganized, too lazy to carry the damn thing around . . . however, it would have been nice this morning if I could get over it. I am finally at a time in my life where I have a lot of appointments. Doctor’s appointments, hair appointments, union meetings, work meetings, Starbuck’s blind date meetings . . . Before I just wandered through life, calling for things at the last minute but now I have high maintenance hair, high maintenance nails, high maintenance sinuses . . .

So I wake up this morning at 5:30 a.m., on a freaking Saturday, because I am in a panic about my hair appointment. Did I make it for this week? Or next week? It’s very hard to get a Saturday appointment and if you miss one . . . well, you’re off the list AND you piss your hair professional off. No one wants to deal with that. It's very hard to find a good hair professional who will take requests such as "I think I'd like it colored like Elmo on Sesame Street" and not laugh at you or simply refuse to do it because that's insane. So at 5:30, I’m digging through my purse to find the little card they gave me. I’m searching the truck, while wondering if I even took the truck last time I went to get a haircut. I’m searching the internet for the phone number of the hair place.

I give up and go back to bed. I then get up at 8:30, and decide to drive out to Milford anyway, just to be safe. If I have an appointment, I’ll be on time . . . if I don’t, I’ll hang at Stately Wayne Manor. I’m in Milford by the time the place opens and my phone call begins with “Ummm. . . I know this sounds weird and disorganized but . . . do I have an appointment today or next Saturday?” Turns out my appointment is next Saturday at noon. I’ll have fresh red for the Nine Inch Nails concert.

So it dawns on me . . . this is why people join the cult of Franklin. If I had a planner, and wrote in it, I wouldn’t be searching underneath the seats of my truck at 5:30 on a Saturday morning. (I did find stuff I needed, like the Audioslave jewel case that I was missing) I wouldn’t have to panic when the doctor’s office calls about an appointment I made four months ago, which is the next day . . . and I already have forty-two other things to do. I might know when things were . . . be able to plan a week . . . not have journals due the same night as the hockey game I’m attending. I could have a place for all the receipts I receive that I could then organize and file once a week. I could schedule time to “sharpen my saw” . . . I’ve always wanted a sharpened saw, right?

Yeah . . . right. Get real. Never, ever going to happen. That would be like . . . well . . . putting the pens with the other pens.

Supposed to Be

Talked to K yesterday and told him about my book concept . . . he asked how old I was now and then said "oh, honey . . . yes, it's time". Kind of depressing coming from him. He told me how he promised himself to be in a relationship by forty and that's how he ended up with C . . . but I don't want to end up with anyone. Ending up = settling, in my mind . . .

"Only Half Naked" is the book title derived from a conversation at the azure foul this afternoon at book club.

Funny, I was so adamant that A not call me until he got home in a week and now I kind of miss him. I don't know how that happens so soon . . . I think it's the "absence makes the" trick. I could just call him but that would be breaking rules and I am all about these silly rules made up in my head. I need a break anyhow. I need to go to Target and just wander around the aisles for nothing (or Meijer . . . it's getting late). I need to sleep. I need to not talk for a while.

MSU/U of M game tomorrow . . . we are going to get killed, only because we look like the better team this year.

Miss Jenny Cleaves

(Disclaimer: This is NOT referring to anyone specific. If you are looking for Jenny Cleaves, hit back on your brower and click on another link)

Just a story from the wickedness of last night . . .

My friend's brother evidently will make fun of her if she is showing any cleavage by calling her "cleaves" which quickly moved to "Jenny Cleaves" or "you're being a Jenny Cleaves". It is all a bit fuzzy.

So blurry story short, there was a woman last night that was having far too good a time . . . for any human being. She was having some sort of surgery at some later date, though we were never clear about what kind of surgery (come on, I'm having surgery in November and I don't think I get to have that kind of fun). There was dancing on tables and chairs and another woman kept licking the surgery lady's cleavage for the multitude of men watching . . .

I should probably state, for the record, that this was a neighborhood bar in Dearborn. There was not supposed to be any of this funny business. But in amongst the free show, the cleaves term came up.

The bar was very cool. Little neighborhood place in Dearborn which another friend suggested. Howell's bar (since 1941) . . . pretty happening for a Wednesday. And evidently, pretty hedonistic if you are having any surgery the next day.

So today at work I was an accidental Jenny Cleaves and will now relegate this Gap tank top (oooh, sparkles!) to a part of my bar wardrobe. Luckily, I wore a jacket so I was not overtly cleaves. This is what happens when I only get two hours of sleep to start the week. My judgement goes all wonky and I end up being cleaves . . .

"jenny cleaves" and "cleaves" copyright MW and CAW 2005

Alien Babies and The Flying Spagetti Monster

First off, you have to check out the Flying Spagetti Monster . . . or rather The Church of The Flying Spagetti Monster. I'm seriously thinking about joining because I always wanted to be a pirate. Being a pirate is definitely something I can believe in, because "pirates . . . they're not trustworthy".

Second, whatever came out of my head this morning looked like an alien baby when I spit it onto the pavement. I have to get rid of this pestilence . . . I'm beginning to think I have mono or something. And if you see a bright chartreuse alien baby in the parking lot at work, don't step on it . . . it's mine (and it may eat you alive).

"We're All Monkeys in a Long Line"

Nothing like a good Matthew Good quote.

Okay, now I'm feeling much more balanced. Still full of snot but less woozy/dizzy. Had a two hour nap and then went to a school board meeting, which was kind of a nap session in itself.

Have to redo my nails . . . remember the nail obsession? Some of them are so long that they look fake at this point. Also have to dye the hair and mow the lawn. All this in between meetings . . . so many meetings. Meetings all over the place, one tomorrow and two on Wednesday.

AND I have to get to someplace with noise so I can grade journals. I have reverted to my old college ways, where I need movement and noise to study and concentrate. Best if I have the Mp3 player going in addition to whatever noise is going on in the place. The whole keeping my brain too busy so it slows down alittle idea (like knitting in faculty meetings).

And I must get more sleep . . . at times when people are supposed to sleep, like now for instance.

Banned

I am banned from coffee drinking after . . . say, 8 a.m., and I am no longer allowed to go anywhere on Sunday nights. Did get some antibiotics today and had a lovely conversation about the yellow goo in all parts of my head. "Oooh, yeah, I can see that bony growth" is really not something you want to hear while someone is looking up your nose. I also lost my car/house keys for about 15 minutes (okay they were not lost . . . I just didn't remember that I had put them there) and I had this panic attack about a kid stealing my keys. So much so, that it occurred to me to go look to see if the truck was still there but I was AFRAID to . . . but what would I do if it was stolen? Found them right in the drawer where I put them this morning but I am so tired that I can't think. It's all fuzzy.

Bought another color of hair dye yesterday and will try it tonight after the board meeting, if I wake up from the nap that I'm going to take in about ten seconds after I finish typing. While it's fun being a fabulous disaster . . . I think I may need some time off. Stay home and clean my bathroom or something, maybe do some laundry. Nap some more. Must get more than two hours of sleep. I'm not in college anymore and I'm certainly no spring chicken.

Best Lines of Homecoming Dance

Number One: Who is that lady with the bright red hair? She has a camera around her neck . . . She's a teacher? I'm not judging or anything . . .

Number Two: (Emily [muppet hair teacher lady with camera] to DJs) Hi . . . I'm a teacher here (to compensate for the hair). Is there any way we could play something maybe upbeat and clean? Cause we've had a whole string of dirty and I think some of the kids would like to dance to something just fun.

Number Three: (Emily to DJ girl) (again) So could you play some Ska?
DJ Girl: Is that a band? Or is it a song? Emily: No, it's a genre.

Off to Homecoming . . . Again

I am doing penance for not being interested in anything having to do with "school spirit" in high school. Six years of homecoming duty for being too cool to go to homecoming in the first place. A whole evening of awful music (oh, boy! The "Skeet, skeet, skeet song again! Because I don't know what "skeet" means . . . I'm an adult) and horny teenagers packed into a gym. All this and a sinus infection to boot! It's gonna be a blast!

I did do my annual "shop for a Homecoming dress four hours before Homecoming" mall trip and found something this year for fifty bucks. A bit too much cleavage, but hey, it was fifty bucks . . . I can wear a sweater. Gotta go though, since I'm already 30 minutes late. Will post pictures if I get anything interesting.

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.

You'd Think They Could Just Do Inventory

The upside of having worked in the restaurant business is that you know to tip well, and when to do that. The downside is getting poor service when there was no need to . . . and knowing that there was no need. The ultra-downside is having a brother in the business also, and knowing the intricaties of having all your chicken stolen at 3 a.m. (stupid padlock) and actually having chicken for your customers by the lunch rush, cause the customers . . . they want chicken burritos and they don't care about your freezer burglar problems.

So everyday I go to the Starbucks in Roseville because 1. it has a drive through and 2. they are much like crack dealers. Realistically, I think a drug habit may be cheaper at this point but just so much more unseemly. Now everyday I order the same thing . . . a grande (though at times I rebel and call it large) soy latte. Everyday. Yummy soy goodness with caffiene mixed into it. They should just see my truck pull up and wave it out the window.

Now every Monday, they are out of soy milk. So we have to have this conversation with the talking box. "Hello, what do you want?" (that always annoys me because I was once a well trained McDonald's employee and you never, ever ask the customer what they WANT . . . that would be vulgar. It's always may I help you?) The Monday person always starts like this . . . the other days are better. "Yeah, I'd like a grande soy latte, please." Best not to confuse the obviously not very well trained employee with "large". "We don't have any soy today." Never soy milk, just soy. Like they have pods somewhere that they are squeezing or something. "Ummm, then give me a non-fat vanilla latte instead." They then repeat it to me but in Starbucks speak, because there is a certain order to things at the Starbucks. Funny, they can't say "can I take your order" but they make sure to repeat my order in Starbuckese. "Vanilla latte, non-fat . . . pull up for your total."

This is only on Monday . . . and I know I could go the the Starbucks near my house instead. Park my car, go inside, wait in line (Roseville hasn't discovered Starbucks addiction yet), get my own cardboard wrap, go outside, walk to my car, start my car and drive. But the drive through means I don't have to have too much human interaction. Those who have met me . . . we all know how we don't want Emily and too much human interaction.

Despite what the doctor's said when I was six, I can drink milk. I'm not allergic to it (just everything else minus cockroaches and chocolate). However, I do not like to drink milk. Even mixed with caffieney goodness. So during third hour something was wrong . . . and it was wrong with my mouth. Finally, I figured it out. I had dead animal taste in my mouth. Now I know that they don't kill the cows to milk them . . . but maybe it's the vegan in me (ignore all that steaking eating). It was definitely a "ehwweh, I have animal on my breath" feeling and I had to go chew some gum and you all know how teachers feel about gum chewing. It's a sign of the apocalypse, the gum chewing.

Now I know that the world does not cater to my weird food rules, like "family chicken" and "I don't want to know that it came from an animal" (again, ignore all the steak eating) or the whole "I could just eat soup" kick. But I used to help with inventory at the bar and I know that my brother keeps track of what he sells everyday. (Today he made some "killer" sangrita. Evidently, not necessarily good but really strong) One would think that someone would figure out that they run out of soy milk every Monday and order an extra case on Friday. In fact, I know that is someone's whole job . . . that and making sure that the drive through people don't say "whatdawant?". There is no need for it. If I wasn't addicted, they would definitely lose my business.

By the way, if someone steals all your chicken . . . you go to four Publix stores and buy them out of chicken breasts. I don't know what the Publix does after that, however . . . because they would be out of chicken.

What do you mean you don't know what Pottery Barn is . . .

For my mother's birthday I bought her Pottery Barn ledges. Actually, I bought her PB ledges and a squirrel with a spoon because I went in to buy the shelves and saw the squirrel and HAD TO HAVE IT . . . right now, right now. I believe it's a squirrel shaped salt cellar, which my mother doesn't need, but somehow a squirrel holding a tiny bowl with an accompanying spoon is something my mother definitely needs. He is now living on the kitchen window and taunting the real squirrels . . . "ha, ha, I have a spoon!"

Mom and I put up the shelves without Mr. Crabbypants, despite our mutual astigmatism. Our astigmatism is usually used to get out of doing such annoying things such as hanging Pottery Barn ledges, because we do not see straight. However, with Mr. Crabbypants, there is yelling. The shelves would be very straight and my nerves would be shot for being sworn at for not giving him the pencil at the right moment. Mr. Crabbypants yelled at the television in the basement instead. My sister somehow joined in this activity so they were both yelling at the television, while my mother and I rolled our eyes upstairs and tried to see straight with the help of those little level thingies incorporated in the shelves.

After the shelving, which you cannot screw in too tight or they won't hang (lesson learned), we brought out all the boxes of baby pictures. My mom had a whole wall of them two houses ago, which I remember vividly. My sister then did the "I'm the youngest and I didn't get enough pictures and Emily has all the pictures and it's just not fair" thing but I think we are even because she is way cuter and always was. My mom is going to need about seventy-five more Pottery Barn ledges to put all the pictures up on them. She will now spend the next several weeks arranging and rearranging the pictures . . . which keeps her from making me help her rearrange the furniture. Plus it's free fun. And the little wooden squirrel taunts the cat . . . "ha, ha, I have a SPOON!"

My Friends are Lunatics

My high school had open house tonight. I am not going to talk about open house because that would be talking about work however, I did miss my current school playing my former employer at junior varsity football and I'm alittle bummed.

After a school event with parents involved, the teachers usually go out to a book club to read some books and talk about our day (because being the moral, responsible, role models, that we are, we cannot go to bars and have drinks). Word at dinner was that we were going to a book club relatively near the school but in another municipality. I'd been there before . . . wasn't impressed, but hey, books are cheaper at a dive book club.

I was late since I was coaching yearbook again (they tried to sell yearbooks at the open house). I pull into the parking lot, which is packed, thinking this is odd . . . it wasn't EVER this packed when I was here before. I was on the phone though, so I just parked. Then I noticed that the only vehicles in the parking lot were pickup trucks and motorcycles. Oh, and an old school bus that had been spray painted blue. Obviously spray painted bus . . . not a good sign. Loud music blaring, biker dude walking towards me, and I notice the sign - "colors and patches are not allowed on the premises." Colors like what? I'm wearing a red dress (to match my hair . . . I was thinking that the parents wouldn't notice the muppet hair as much if I matched) so am I allowed to come in? Again, just not a good sign, especially when I don't know exactly what the sign means.

I go in. There is a guy that I'm sure is an alternate to the Hell's Angels sitting at a table with a wad of money in his hand. A blonde chick, and I do mean chick . . . as in that's what she likes to be called because that is nice . . . is standing next to him, talking closely because of the blaring music.

Now I would probably be okay if I had my regular, covered in paint, clothes. But I have my "open house I have strange hair but really I'm conservative" outfit on. Ponytail man looks me over. I'm thinking, "They have a cover? What the hell?" "Ummm, I'm supposed to meet a group of teachers here." He laughs, but it is a short kind of chuckle. "Yeah, one teacher came in and looked for people but left . . . You're welcome to go in if you like." It was like I was being invited to hell.

My teacher friends are lunatics and/or closet bikers and I feel sooo set up. So much for going to book club with them. Luckily, I was driving a pickup truck too or I would have been mugged by the people kicked out for having "colors" and "patches" who were waiting in the parking lot. I can't even imagine what came off the blue spray paint bus. Lunatics, I tell you.

Blood Red Does Not Equal Vampire Red

Who knew? Special Effects brand "Blood Red" does not look a thing like Manic Panic's "Vampire Red". My hair is now too dark for my liking.

I enjoyed the vibrant "Elmo-ness" of the vampire red . . . hence the muppet/fraggle hair discussions. Now it is just really blood red, which seems a little dingy in comparison. Don't get me wrong, my hair is definitely still "bottle head" but just not as shocking as last week (though there were those orange days last week, this is an improvement from the orange). Perhaps it will fade.

The other problem with Special effects versus Manic Panic is that it is (according to all the punk kids at school) supposed to last longer. This is great, if you get the right color, but not so great if you assumed that blood and vampire would be close to the same thing (we all know what assume means). So I'll have to deal for . . . it says on the bottle . . . three to six weeks. Taking into account the lack of truth in advertising, probably a week or two. The Special Effects stuff is more gooey, this being better in the not dripping and looking like you have a large head wound catagory. So I may try the "Devilish" color to see if that is more Elmo like. Considering my problems at Noir, this should be an interesting conversation (as if every conservation at Noir isn't interesting).

"So what color is Elmo colored? Excuse me, girl with blue hair and patent leather bra, which of these bottles will give me Elmo colored hair? You know, Elmo . . . the muppet? He's on Sesame Street, owns a goldfish name Dorothy? Elmo? At the Target, the Tickle Me Elmo? Yeah, I want that color . . ."

Can't wait. Could just order Vampire Red on the internet. But then I wouldn't be able to torment those Noir employees would I?

My Nephew is not a Cheap Date

I had the pleasure of babysitting Z this afternoon.

Since I live so close to Royal Oak and if Z had a choice he would just eat McDonald's, I have started the tradition of taking him out for "new food", meaning restaurants that his parents (bless their hearts and patience) would never take him to eat. I also allow him to order off the adult menu, which makes him feel very grown up and gives me the behavioral nagging of "if you order off the adult menu, you have to act like an adult." This cuts down on the wiggling and the dipping under the table (except to get our napkin 27 times).

Today was the Belgian restaurant on Main. Z considered the Fish and Chips, which would be new, as his mother does not eat fish ("NOTHING FROM THE SEA!" my brother will shout about her, "she touches nothing from the sea . . .") but settled on the steak sandwich. The steak sandwich turned out to be a bad idea . . . it had onions on it and evidently Z hates onions. He has the kind of loathing (already? The kid is seven) that if an onion touches something, well, it's just ruined. He choked down half the sandwich for me and politely asked for the rest to be wrapped. He liked dessert much more and we had a very good discussion about the word tart and it's two possible meanings.

We then went to the "skeleton store" again and watched a German couple buy matching red patent leather outfits. We walked up to see the real train on the tracks. We went to Old Navy and bought a skeleton shirt. We discussed the coming movie "The Corpse Bride" and how we both very much wanted to see it . . . his mom is going to let him go because it is PG. We did some homework: Reading about a funny octopus and answering many questions. We bought more scary stuff at Target . . . one dollar spooky fingers, one for each of his fingers with long black nails. They glow in the dark. We discussed Germany -- Mr. Crabbypants does not live there, as Z thought, but goes there often. All in all a great day. But not cheap at all.

Vague Desire

Lately, I've had a vague desire to go to church. Been rumbling around in the back of my brain for a couple of weeks now and I should just go . . . which would get it out of my system very quickly, I'm sure. Unfortunately, I've been programmed by Mr. Crabbypants (both in genetic material and 18+ years of intense behavioral training) that you cannot go to the late show. The First United Methodist's have an early "show" at 9 a.m.-ish and a late show at 11-ish. Through my behavioral training I have been taught that only the lazy, slouchy, disorganized, un-goal oriented, who may, in fact, be more evil, Methodists attended the late service. Again unfortunately, this behavioral training from Mr. Crabbypants did not break my liking of sleep -especially on Sunday morning. He tried, he really did . . . but I can only get up early on Sunday morning if he is here to yell at me AND there is large amounts of coffee.

Now the Royal Oak F.U. Methodist's (hee, hee, I had no idea that would work out that way if you shortened it) have a Friday service at 5:30 p.m. which is perfect for the "I want to be holy for a while before I go and change for the bar" but quite frankly, it is in conflict with my football/photography coaching sessions. So I guess next week I'll have to meet the lazy Methodists . . . how bad could that be? Before you go all questioning motives and intentions, I really don't know why. It's certainly not to meet any Methodist men . . . I'm way more into Catholics for that. My mom did this too. Every so often, our family would go on a "church kick" where we would go to church for several months. One time we kept it up for several years, during which I think I was president of the church youth group or something. I was quite the "God Squad-er" in ninth grade but I just couldn't keep up with the "testifying" . . . it seemed too much like forcing people.

Maybe I just miss the singing. So next week I'll try to get up early again. I am currently on the two alarm clock plan, as I can sleep soundly through my regular alarm clock (lack of sleep? or just used to it?). I might need three for a Sunday morning though.

So Darn Busy . . .

. . . considering I have nothing to do . . .

Funny how this whole "get a life" plan is being derailed by my actual life. Haven't signed up for classes . . . remember the art class and the yoga class? Yeah, just haven't gotten to it yet. Weekend is already booked, with nothingness . . . go to Noir and get more hair dye (shudder at the amount of hair dye to keep me happy and not orangey), spend the afternoon at the union office, wrangle the mother since Mr. Crabbypants is going to Germany, make it to the yarn store before closing . . . the yuppie yarn store not the craft store. I have no use for the Michaels or Jo Ann crafts, have to go to the Yarn store for the fancy-smancy natural yarn, or "fiber" as they call it. Oh, and the presentation on Greek history and Homer that I have to prepare . . . since I just found out that none of my students have had any world history (today was . . . you know, the fallow field from Medieval times? no? well, okay, once there were these people called serfs . . . no, not surfs . . . )

Sure, I'm home on a Friday night but I just got home from a football game . . . where I smiled and waved at what seemed like a thousand students and parents. I coached my first yearbook kid (an investment, he's a sophomore) through a football game (get closer, take more shots, try to focus the camera). Luckily, he has a very good eye. Informally coached some cheerleading (it's time for the defense cheer). Me coaching cheer, ridiculous.

I'm tired . . . beat even. Have to catch up on the sleep I have missed all week. Have to sleep.

So this whole "getting a life" plan . . . I may already have too much of a life . . .

What a Great Halloween hat

It is time to start making hats again . . .

Once upon a time, last year in fact, Princess and I were at a high school football game of some flavor or another. This was unusual because Princess loves the football and I have to take pictures of the football. It was finally cold enough to wear my favorite hat and Princess exclaims, "Oh, how nice! You're wearing your halloween hat. How festive!" I then had to inform Princess that the hat with skulls on it was my regular everyday hat . . . that I wore all winter . . . and not a hat for the holiday of Halloween.

What this leads to? It is my favorite shopping time of the year. The time of Halloween merchandise, which I then use as all year round clothing. Old Navy has wicked cool skull socks, I really should have bought two pair. I have yet to find the right bat T-shirt for the year but I know it's out there waiting for me. And one dollar bags of bats for my classroom. Always good to have things hanging off the ceiling.

Goin' to the yarn store this weekend for some red yarn. Gave away all the devil hats last year and didn't keep one for myself. Soon it will be cold enough to wear the skull sweater I made this summer. Yippee! And I should probably wash the fuzzy kitty hat. Ahh, Halloween . . . the most wonderful time of the year.

Put the Dog in the Basket

As I scream at the television, hoping that the Air Force helicopter personnel will hear, "Put the dog in the basket put the dog in the basket please put the dog in the basket please god let the dog go in the basket", the dog finally goes into the basket with the person's arms wrapped around him and goes up.

My mother admitted to me that one of the first things she would pack, should she ever have to evacuate, would be Sammy's ashes. (Thinking about it . . . I probably would too) Mr. Crabbypants insists that he would put everything important in a plastic bag and bury it in the backyard. This is why we don't let them live in areas with hurricanes. The black outs and ice storms are enough . . . Mr. CP keeps breaking bones in the ice storms because he goes out to get the paper.

My brother however does live with the hurricanes . . . with his girlfriend, six cats, two dogs and evidently two tanks of fish. He is a small business owner and often stays in spite of evacuation orders. He stays partially to keep an eye on the store and potentially to make some money when everything else is closed but often he stays because of the pets (the kids, as we call them). You cannot take your pets with you to a shelter. Since every one of this animals is a rescue (except for the fish . . . I suppose he rescued them from the store), J would never leave them to fend for themselves in a hurricane. Often they go to his girlfriend M's parent's house, who are saints for taking in the zoo, but her parents also live in the Miami area so in a catagory 4 or 5 it is not far enough. My brother would be one of the people standing on his balcony with his cats, dogs and fish in little plastic bags. (though since he lives on Miami Beach, I suppose the surrounding water would be ocean . . . so he could let the fish go) But looking at the pictures of Gulfport, MS, there probably wouldn't be a balcony to stand on.

The news is now saying that the dog didn't even belong to the two men who were just rescued off the roof . . . I wondered why they weren't holding the dog . . .

Have to turn off the television. Have to get the NHS people to run a blood drive. Have to talk to the people at school about having kids donate. Have to get a group to donate their Christmas break to Habitat for Humanity.

I was so pissed at WJR on Monday morning for suggesting that other countries should come and help "us" with the situation. We are the richest country in the world, I thought, certainly we can handle this. I was wrong. Let's hope that our government comes to it's senses . . . take the aid, get more organized, communicate better. And put the dogs in the basket . . . and the cats too.

Snake and Jake's

Back in the days when I was fun . . . and I had a friend in law school at Tulane, I would go visit New Orleans. It is how I know that I love to vacation by myself. S would get up and go to school and I would wander the streets. Amble with no direction in mind, making no compromises for anyone else's agenda. Sometimes I would go to the French Quarter, to the East End, far past where the tourist shops were. Sometimes I would stay on Magazine Street. Sometimes I would walk the Garden District.

I flared my fake vampire teeth at Anne Rice's mansion. I talked to Voodoo and Hoodoo priestesses. I sat and watched the Mississippi. S didn't get home until at least 3 p.m. and we would sit under the hum of the air conditioner, nap by 6 and then go out into the night. And stay out all night. With "to go" cups.

His first year we went to some Irish place near the house. By his third year, we would go to Snake and Jake's, a very hip dive that was in someone's garage. It was painted red, I think, with random Christmas lights strewn about. S insisted that he saw the lead guy from "Thrill Kill Cult" there at the bar one night.

That trip, or the trip before, we went to see The Toasters and S ended up somehow finagling having a drink with Bucket, the lead singer. S was so good at meeting famous people, or maybe just people we thought were famous. S and I got in a fight that night, so angry that he intentionally spit on my boot. I was sure my world was going to end.

S is married now, with a wonderfully cute daughter. He no longer lives in NOLA, a place he told me that he would never leave, once . . . but things change and people grow up and nothing stays the same. I miss him terribly, the panicked late night phone calls and the long drawn out discussions of nothing and everything at the same time. The coffee and the scotch . . . or the smell of it, since I didn't like scotch. The hum of the air conditioner in the background while we talk of the possibility of the translucent lizards in his bathroom . . . are they real?

I never moved to New Orleans, though I could have I'm sure. I would have been welcomed at one time. I just couldn't leave my "career", my family (as much as they put the "fun" in dysfunctional), my life . . . Perhaps New Orleans was so romantic that I didn't want it to become everyday.

And now it is gone . . . covered in water. The neighborhoods I once walked with water up to your knees and helicopters. People dying in the streets, surrounded by filth. People looting and shooting and behaving badly.

S was always leery of the levees. "This place will fill up with water someday" he would say to me. Turns out he was right. And the genteel place where people would say "hello" to you was they passed you on the street has changed. Filled with water.

Not to be too preachy, but please consider donating to the Red Cross . . . or better yet consider becoming a volunteer, for the next time something happens. "Think globally, act locally"

Get Well Soon NOLA . . .