Over the Fascination

After staying up to an ungodly hour in the morning, I am over my fascination with YouTube.com. Short lived, I know . . . I'm sure I could revisit in a month or two. Who knew that something mentioned on NPR could actually be as cool as they said it would be . . .

Woke up late (if 7:30 a.m. can be considered late) and despite this, my truck was still fixed by 1 p.m. AND it was returned with a hook-up for my MP3 player . . . I may never drive my Neon again. I may never leave the inside of my truck. Now if only it didn't use gas but ran on magical (and cheap) fairy dust. And my brother is the most wonderful person in the world for making all this happen, even though I was an hour late in getting there. (I did buy him frozen Swedish meatballs at IKEA in return . . . mmmm, Swedish meatballs.)

Z. and I lunched at the giant blue building of hellish coupleness and I was amazed at how many people don't "get" that the restaurant is a cafeteria . . . the old couple behind me kept asking "What's going on? Why are we standing here? You have to get a tray?" IKEA was crazy before . . . now it's still crazy busy, but the rude people have decided to crawl out and visit. "I don't believe we have to stand in this line to go to another line . . ." Well, lady, lots of people want Swedish meatballs and you'll just have to wait your turn.

Z. has decided that he LOVES IKEA, especially the section where you get to try out all the beds (which we skipped today). He also discovered that he likes lingonberry cheesecake. So good that I am expanding his world of desserts. He was also very excited that "he gets to come too" to move my sister to Kalamazoo. I didn't have the heart to tell him that moving Mere will involve lots of yelling, carrying heavy things, sitting in the car for three hours, carrying heavy things again, and then more yelling. We'll let him discover that for himself.

Matthew Good Band - Anti-Pop

Last one, I swear . . . but you know how I LOVE him and there are gnomes.

Plea from a cat named Virtue -- The Weakerthans

This is cool as f#$k.

Sam Roberts Brother Down

Learnin' how to use You Tube.

That's it, I'm Hiding

Remember that post about being "transition" girl? . . . well, today was the day to run into everyone. Ran into K. at the bookstore . . . did the whole "we should really get together sometime" . . . "yeah, we really should" with the unspoken "We're never going to get together and I'll never call you, bye!" between it.

Then, just for kicks, Princess wanted to go to the restaurant that Alfie manages . . . and because I'm a total masochist, I went up and said hello and got to hear all about his baby daughter. Fabulous! (actually, I really am happy for Alfie and glad that he has a daughter . . . but still)

Then while walking home got to wave at the ex's best friend on Woodward. Hey, Robbie! So sorry that I can't sell T-shirts on your tour . . . but I'm not allowed to talk to you. Then got to imagine the imaginary conversation that didn't happen once Robbie got home. "Hey, so I saw Emily walking on Woodward when I was driving home . . . whatever happened with her?"

So now I'm hiding in my house . . . lest I run into anyone else that I don't want to deal with or talk to . . . I mean John 1, 2, or 3 could be hiding in my bushes right now, waiting to have an awkward conversation with me.

Even My Feral Pets Are Damaged

I have a rabbit in my backyard . . . he is not as good as the mystery guest cats, who would come for Halloween and Summer Solstice, because he digs big holes in the yard. But mostly, he eats the lawn and keeps to himself.

Today, for some reason he decided to walk up to me . . . as if I had some carrots . . . and I noticed that he has been only showing me his "good" side for some time now. Straight on, the backyard rabbit, who we will now call Bongo, only has one eye. On his good side, which I assume I always see because then he can see me, he looks perfectly normal . . . a rather large, good-looking backyard rabbit, as rabbits go. His other eye, however, is non-functional with a large white cataract . . . making him look like a devil rabbit from hell, that is, if it glowed.

I'm pretty sure it doesn't glow . . . or I would have seen it at night when he hops around the backyard. Plus, he just doesn't give off the "devil bunny" vibe. But yeah, even the wildlife in my backyard is damaged.

That's Going to Be How Much? Just To See?

Today I spent $408.00 on contacts . . . four hundred dollars for little formed pieces of plastic to put in my eyes. Granted, they are lovely little pieces of plastic that let me see the world beyond my nose clearly . . . but still. A hundred of that was for my eye doctor "Andy" to diagnose that I am still blind as a bat, in fact, more so than last time. I love that I have an eye doctor named "Andy". And the little pieces of plastic he gave me today feel so much better than the little pieces of plastic that I have been wearing entirely too long.

Ahh, the myth of contacts. They say they are good for a week . . . and yet, I cannot help wearing them until they rip or disappear into my cleavage. Because they cost $400.

On another doctor front . . . I went to the dermatologist for the first time in ages. Picked a new one, close to home. Says my skin is "good, not much sun damage" . . . thus making all those times I was grounded the summers of my teenage years and my mother forcing me to go to the beach, wrong . . . so very wrong. Luckily, I just moped around looking like Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice. See, my underage angst did have some benefits, after all.

Did have an amusing interaction where, in my usual Dark Princess style, I told my doctor what to do.
"So you see there's really nothing we can do . . ."
"Really? Well, my other doctor just used liquid nitrogen."
"Oh yeah . . . well . . . that could work . . ."

Nothing like self-diagnosis and self-suggested treatment to establish and healthy doctor-patient relationship. And that's probably going to cost me, like, $600.00.

T.V. Will Eventually Solve All Your Problems

My mother was watching television again . . . not hard at Stately Wayne Manor, as they have a T.V. in every room including the bathrooms. And for rooms that there is no television? There is a plan for a television, cause the kitchen T.V. is too small to watch from the dining area. (so the flat panel with make the kitchen a two television room) (but there are no televisions on the screen porch yet, so it all evens out)

Evidently, there was a show on internet dating on ABC last night, so my mother emails me (to tell me to turn on my T.V. to channel seven) and wants me to check out engage.com. This is a violation of the new "talking only about the weather and air" policy that I have recently put in place and my mother is not abiding by, at all. She wants me to get out there and date some engineers . . . because that will make it all better. Sitting in the coffee shop across from a guy with a pen in his pocket and pleats in his pants, trying to come up with pleasant conversation about . . . well . . . engineering. Or his train collection. Or better yet, his mother. Yes! That will make it all better. Let me get right on that.

So, anyhoo, engage.com does not work right now because everyone's mother is logging onto it this second. Interesting concept . . . your mother gets to search the web and match you up with people, which is indeed her dream. Now if I could just get her to go out with the engineer for the actual coffee, it would be perfect.

Cause you see . . . I want to go out with someone exactly like C. (only without all the baggage), or exactly opposite C. or, when I really think about it, NO ONE AT ALL. Because it all ends in heartbreak . . . and I used to be a superhero. And I will be a superhero again . . . perhaps, unfortunately sitting with my cape and a paper cup listening to a guy in pleated pants with a pen in his pocket talk about how he had this amazing pez collection but he sold it for less than it was really worth.

Oh, well, it only took me a year to find C. . . . maybe it's just another year before I find someone cooler. Plus, my mother is working for me. And so, evidently, is television.

Oh, and It's Father's Day

It being Father's Day . . .

I just wanted to let everyone know, despite the nickname I have for him, my father is the smartest, kindest, and coolest guy anyone could ever meet. He has integrity (which many people don't have), he always tries to do his best in anything he does, and has, in the great adversity of the world we live in, raised four wonderful, strong human beings. (Okay, my mom helped . . . but still.) And he pretty much knows everything . . . or will look it up if he doesn't.

Thank you for being my father.

The Next One You Meet

When you have a "life crisis", at least when I do, in the middle of all the obsessing you start to look for patterns. And I have found it . . . and have been forever the "transition girlfriend". From the start . . .

(I'm naming names on this one . . . my apologies)

I am the girl you date just before you find "the one" and live happily (some somewhat unhappily) ever after. Let's look at the history, shall we?

Jeff - my high school love interest
Dated me. Cheated on me. Met Jill shortly after. Was with Jill for three years. Broke up with Jill, and dated me. Married Jill.

John - college love interest
starting dating John to get over Jeff . . . John was dating me to get over someone (the greatest girl in the world as I remember). Tortured each other for three or four years. He met someone in Chicago. Emailed me ten years later to let me know that he was marrying her . . . I think to because he wanted a gift.

John (Weasel) - college love interest
Okay, he was a bad idea from the start but . . . went out with me, went to Guam, found the "accountant", moved to Connecticut with the "accountant". He did stop back in town on the way to Connecticut to let me know that I was a really good girlfriend and a good person . . . and that he was still moving to Connecticut.

Kevin - the gay boyfriend
Went "out" with Kevin because there was no pressure and I had really bad taste in men and had figured out that I had bad taste in men. Had a lovely platonic "spend time together he pays for dinner" thing. We stop talking. He finds Kurt, the love of his life.

Al - a "thing" I had at the restaurant
Makes out with me. I swear a week later he meets Kelly, who I went to high school with, and they are married a year later.

Now I'll skip all the guys that I just went on a few dates with . . . but there seems to be a pattern. Oh, there's Mark, who I was in love with for years as an idea, who wasn't over that blond girl . . .

So what I have to fix is being attracted to guys who are pining for other women . . . I think. How do you stop being transition girlfriend? How do I stop being the "yeah, you're really great but . . . " girl? Because I took all that time "off" to find myself because I had figured out that I was doing something wrong, because I felt like shit all the time when it came to guys. And when I jump back into the dating pool? I swim over to the guy who isn't over his ex-wife OR his ex-girlfriend. I mean how could he even see me through all of that?

So I am doomed to be the transition fairy? I'll just make it my mission to go out with guys so that the next one after me will be "the one"? Because the "He's Just Not That Into You" book is right . . . guys will go through hell and high water for what they think is the one. I've seen it happen with all of my exs. Maybe I should add that to my profile - go with me for a beer and next week meet the love of your life.

I Suppose I Could Just Buy One at IKEA

My mother's new rule is that I am not allowed to talk about "the breakup" . . . it was over weeks ago in her head (though at one time she thought he was cute and encouraged me to talk to him) and therefore I should just be over it. Fine.

(and that fine is said in the same tone as when I was fourteen . . . yes, the "fine" that drove you insane and made you feel like you had to get the last word in, only to be given another "fine" to deal with as soon as you stopped talking. That "fine".)

So to get over my life crisis (which is bigger than "the breakup" as I have now added some damage to it . . . damage that has nothing to do with the actual person I was going out with, therefore, now life crisis) I decide to go with my parents to IKEA. This is (and was) an enormously bad plan because there is nothing at IKEA except:

1. cute couples with cute children
2. cute couples who are pregnant
3. old ladies in packs (if they could have brought their cats, they would have)
4. gay men (also in couples, damnit)
5. Mr. and Mrs. Crabbypants yelling at each other in amongst 3 million people
6. Swedish meatballs

While the Swedish meatballs were good, and I am used to the Crabbypants show after 35 years . . . the couple-ness of IKEA, coupled with my mother's new fascination with talking about all her friends' kids who are dating, or getting married, or the cute baby over there . . . isn't that the cutest baby? Who do you think it belongs to? AGGHHHHGH!

At one point I prayed to spontaneously combust . . . but evidently you can never spontaneously combust when you just want to . . . it's not mysterious enough or something, too explainable.

So the new rule for my mother . . . since I'm not allowed to talk about "the breakup" . . . she is not allowed to talk about babies, because I do not have one and I do not foresee getting one in the next four years (which would make me 40). So now we have nothing to talk about, except maybe the weather . . . and air.

First Day Off

Woke up at 7:30 . . . woke up again at 10:30 . . . managed to shower by 11:30 or so . . . walked downtown . . . sat in the sun at Starbucks, annoyed that phone guy and his assistant (?) were taking up the shady table without actually ordering anything . . . read the paper . . . found out Ministry is playing on the 24th (another concert to go to ALONE . . . sigh) . . . walked to the cool record store . . . found out the cool record store went out of business . . . walked back to corporate bookstore . . . read a Matt Groening book . . . thought about Matt Groening selling out . . .walked to the yarn store . . . broke my sunglasses (the red ones . . . my favorites) . . . did a "my shitty life/luck" spiral . . . decided to get over it, as the sunglasses cost $3.90 . . . had two African-American men tell me in their "special" way that they thought I was attractive, near the bus stop . . . bought a diet coke at McDonalds . . . walked home . . .

So that's been the first day of summer so far.

Can't Listen to the Radio

Anyone ever notice that all the songs on the radio are about breaking up? or getting back together? or being "lost without you"? All of them. I just bought Deathcab for Cutie's Plans (to avoid the radio) and all the songs are about breaking up . . . or getting back together . . . or being lost without someone . . .

Gaahhhhghh!

Luckily, my brother made this punk/ska CD for me a year ago and it is less about breaking up/getting back together/being lost without someone and more about PUNCHING PEOPLE IN THE FACE . . . which somehow makes me smile. So I'm smiling again.

The Weakerthans (see sidebar) are touring. The closest they come to Detroit is Cleveland on July 9. So anyone want to go to Cleveland? Cause I'm goin' . . . with or without you.

Compared to Sylvia

Princess has now compared me to Sylvia Plath all day . . . and while I secretly treasure the literary comparision (as I think I am a terrible poet), I don't think she was comparing me to her in a literary sense.

"If I read one more sad entry on your blog, I'll slit my wrists . . ." said Princess this morning. So no more sad entries, folks, cause Princess is threatening to harm herself. From now on only bunnies and kittens and daisies and frolicking.

There is a piece of salami on my porch. I think the squirrels brought it as an offering. Either that or Pam is back and wants to feed Angel salami. Not sure. But there is definitely a lone piece of salami on my porch . . . slightly petrified, some chew marks, so a bit used.

How's that for happy thoughts?

Sorry, Feeling Poetic (Two Days in a Row)

I have exactly what I had before I met you . . .
same eyes, same smile, same skill sets,
same smart-ass mouth that gets me in trouble.

And I am now to thinking
about what annoyed me.
And I can place it in front of
my thoughts of the good.
And that makes things easier.
And the patch of loneliness
left by you is tended . . .

I have exactly what I had before I met you.
Same likes and dislikes,
same goals and dreams.
You just opened a door on
a dream I already had.
What hurt was the slamming shut.

I have exactly what I had before I met you.
I don't know why it felt like
you took something away.
There was nothing to take.
That I didn't have more of, anyhow.

I have exactly what I had before I met you,
and now that I don't know you.

Shaking the Etch-O-Sketch

Ah, Summer Nostalgia . . .
My students all have it.
Suddenly, I'm the coolest.
They all want me as a teacher next year.
All the trials of this year forgotten.
Sliding the bar of the magna-doodle in their minds.
Shaking the Etch-O-Sketch.
The pleasure of revisionist history.

Yet, the silver powder is
still scraped off on my Etch-O-Sketch
like when I kept making lines,
over and over,
to see the inner workings.
And I want revisionist history
but cannot obtain it.
Looping, over and over,
like an 8mm family film.

Quote of the Day

"You don't understand . . . what Emily is saying is that her flesh is burning and she needs to get back to her coffin." -- M2 translation of what I said a moment earlier in the conversation. (I was excusing myself because my flesh was burning and I did feel a need to get back to my coffin)

M2 is such a good Emily translator . . . I should hire her to be with me at all times . . . perhaps in a little box off to the right of my head.

Let the Voting Begin

After some tutorials and some just messing around, I figured out how to "color replace" in Photoshop this afternoon (after work . . . I do still teach sorta).

So here are the contenders for next week's hair choice. I'm a little fearful . . . I do still like the red, but I want to go with something fun for the summer. If they don't look as good as the red, say so and I'll stick with it. Plus, something in my gut tells me I'm too old for blue hair.

Stages of Grief

According to Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, there are four stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining and acceptance. She was taking about the process of death but the death of a relationship applies.

I think I may have slipped toward the anger stage.

No Matter How Much Mayo You Use

"No matter how much mayonaise you use, you still cannot make chicken salad out of chicken shit."

Kinda describing my week.

Even if you use shit from "family chickens".

Not My Words

One foot in front of the other. One foot back to counter it. Days like these, you've got to find it in some other way. It's all or nothing baby. Avalanche, start inside of me. Avalanche, down through the trees. Avalanche, start inside of me. Avalanche, hell down through the trees. If everyone's a casualty. Then take your time, there ain't no trouble. If the weather's fine and we're feeling crazy. There's always drinks and dancing in the rubble. I'm spinning and you're spinning. And the world's spinning and we're laughing. And I'm charming, the devil's charming. And we're ruined but we're building. And I'm selling and you're counting. The world's stopping but we keep going. And we're ruthless and we're cunning. And I'm heir to it all. Days like these you've got to find it in some other way. It's all or nothing baby. This key to your kingdom. This key to your heart. Neither one a doorway. But both of them a part. So one foot in front of the other.

Somehow it makes me feel better . . . Thank you, Matthew Good.

Focus and a Sunny Afternoon

Okay, back to center.
Thank you for the reality therapy, mother . . . I'm lucky to have you.
Thank you for the hockey-like hip check, Princess . . .

No sense in being over eager for what is going to happen in life. It will either happen or it will not happen. I have a great job, great friends (who put up with all this bullhockey), and a great family (though brutal at times). All of that has happened.

School is over in a week and a half. My sister bought a great new house. The IKEA in Canton opens tomorrow. Alittle retail therapy and I don't have CD's all over my house (though I have yet to alphabetize them) and I realized that you could probably buy 7 different versions of the song "Suck" on Napster or something.

And despite what my mother says, I have really great hair . . . just ask the girl at the gas station.

Break up the Pity Party

Part of this is being pissed at myself for being such an jerk in my twenties, for not having the self-esteem to date "nice" guys. Wasting so much time. Not figuring out how cool I was until now.

Part of this is grieving for a friendship that is now a vacuum.

Part of this is that I thought someone thought I was special . . . and I wasn't wrong. But now I have to jump back into the pool. And I'm cold and tired. I'm thirty-five. And let's face it, there aren't that many people in the pool anymore.

Rest assured, I'll jump back in. I'm tired of being alone. But I have to hurt. Sorry. Have to. I'm giving myself a week.

When you find someone who respects you, makes you feel special, thinks you're cool, looks at you with a smile that makes you feel like you are someone . . . hell, I don't care if it was all pretend. It was worth every minute. And as much as I hate to say it, every minute of the pain.

I learned a lot about what I want. Thank you.

This Morning

I swear to god I was coming to grips last night . . . and now there is this morning. And tomorrow morning will be better and the next . . . until it is all a fond memory. But right at this moment, a piece of my soul is missing. And I don't know where to find it to put it back.

And I want to know which morning I can roll over and go back to sleep.

I keep telling myself that I was love with the idea of him . . . but in the abstract, the idea of him was pretty much a mess, so pretty much I actually loved him. I let myself fall in love with him. And now that's gone. And it will never be the same.

There is an Ani DiFranco song, "I used to be a Superhero, no one could touch me . . . no not even myself. But you were like a phone booth, that I somehow stumbled into . . . now look at me . . . I am just like everybody else."

How I long for the day that I'll just roll over and go back to sleep . . . or maybe not wake up at all and yet, how I hate that someday I'll just roll over and go back to sleep.

He didn't feel the same. I get it. Doesn't make this moment in time any easier. But I almost hate the fact I that I know that it will get easier.

I Hate

I hate that I had to wear sunglasses on a walk . . . in the twilight . . . because I am spontaneously crying.
I hate that I was sitting on my parents' porch this morning at 6:30 because I couldn't be in my house.
I hate that I threw all my refrigerator magnets on the floor because he was the last to spell something out with them.
I hate that I don't know whether I can't eat because I'm upset or because of the stomach flu.
I hate that he gave me the stomach flu.
I hate that I want to crawl back into my hard exterior shell that I'm so good at wearing.
I hate that I'm going to have to get back on the "playing field" of a game that I don't like playing anymore.
I hate thinking that I will die alone.
I hate that we broke up because I liked him more than he liked me.
I hate that I let my guard down and liked him in the first place.
I hate that the center of my body just aches . . . and again I don't know if it's the damn flu.
I hate that no one (not even him now) can do anything about how I feel . . . that it's just going to have to be time.
I hate that I can't hate him, because he is really a good guy. (but trust me, I'll work at it)
I hate that we had what could be described as a "good" breakup . . . if there is such a thing.
I hate that my heart feels like tinfoil that's been crumpled up and stomped on.
I hate that I feel like I am wasting time being upset . . . but yet am still upset.
I hate that despite the fact that I projectile vomited and broke up with my boyfriend (yes, I said boyfriend), I still have papers to grade.
I hate the fact that someday I'll have to run into him and I'll have to act blase.
I hate that I had to say, "Then this has to end."
I hate that my mother said "You just tried too hard." and "It was only a matter of time."
I hate the fact that my mother may have been right on both counts.
I hate thinking that she was right.
I hate the "what ifs" and the self-doubt that I have right now.
I hate the fact that I'm considering that maybe being the "crazy cat lady" is easier than going through this ever again.
I hate that I have to consciously remind myself of what a great life I have and what fabulous friends and family I have.

I hate that I feel so alone.

It's Called a Breakup Because It's Broken

Just have to remember that . . .

Still really hard though.
He is/was really cool. I'll miss him.

Final After Effects

My brother seemed to think that it worked well with the sunglasses.

Plymouth-Canton elementary schools have "fun fairs" as fundraisers every year. Being a child of the former President of the Gallimore Elementary PTA, we went to the fun fair (heck, we worked the fun fair) every year. I remember it as a highlight in my elementary school education.

Now as an adult, I may like the fun fair even more (despite the illness this year) than when I was a child. I don't have to work at any games. I can buy all the tickets I want. And, as an extra added bonus, I can leave whenever I want, too. Sure there isn't as much running and leaping . . . and they won't let me on the Moonwalk.

I think there should be an adult time at the fun fair . . . serve alcohol and let the adults play on the moonwalk. Throw it from 10 p.m. to 4 a.m. They would make way more money.

Trip to Mad Scientist's Lab

He definitely had a "vision" with the blood.

Bugs in my Stomach

When my friend had the stomach flu this week, I was sympathetic . . . I offered oatmeal, I offered to go get stuff. I had no idea what all the moaning was about.

Now that I have left the fun fair early and spent the last 3 hours of my Friday night balled up in a heap in the middle of my bed, I have some appreciation. The fact that I just hurled my guts out with NO warning . . . made me really have an appreciation for how sick he felt.

A temporary thought . . . death probably feels better than this, right?

I think it only lasts 24-36 hours. If you don't hear from me after that, send the calvary.

Must go lie down now.

Dyke Spikes and a Death Spiral

I am death spiraling currently . . . looping on a line of text I read yesterday, which caused me to delete things and wait to return phone calls. Trust me, you didn't want me to return the phone call.

On a lighter note, it turns out that my haircut (at least when I stick it up) has a name. "Dyke Spikes" is what it is called by my students. Before you think I was offended in class or embarassed by a teenager, the teens were actually describing another student's hair, when I caught the word "dyke" which is not appropriate for my room. A conversation ensued about how they were really talking about "dikes", you know, the kind that hold back water and you stick your finger into . . . yeah, right. Anyhow, the boy's haircut is very similar to mine. (the students were so kind. they wouldn't admit that his hair was like mine . . . no, not at all)

So I have a dyke spike haircut . . . wonderful.

A Touch of Oompa Loompa

So every so often I am overcome by the girlyness . . . and do something totally insane that I KNOW is insane. This week one of the insane acts was to succumb to that combination of marketing and moisturizer called "Healthy Glow", which I will henceforth call "A touch of Oompa-Loompa".

The whole premise is that you put self-tanner in moisturizer . . . a "touch" of it, and over what is supposed to be several days, you overcome the pallor. Relieved of the pallor is actually what the advertisers want you to think (and Princess . . . who hates pallor. Hates it.) As I cannot tan; for two main reasons, being a. I go from white to lobster to white again . . . no matter how many times I repeat and b. my father just had a huge chunk of skin cancer dug out of this face; I figured that I might try "the touch of Oompa-Loompa" lotion.

While I do not currently look anything like an Oompa-Loompa (though I might get closer if I dye the muppet hair green), I could see where it could go in that direction. There are streaks of what look like sorta tan . . . which I'm sure are supposed to blend in with whatever streaks I add tonight. I guess if you get enough streaks, they blend together in an Oompa-Loompa like glow (a light-skinned Oompa-Loompa anyhow) . . . but that may be too much maintenance for me. So much for my adventure in girlyness for this week.

Thank god I went with the "touch of Oompa-Loompa" and not with the fake eyelashes . . . I could have put my eye out by now.

Re: Dear FBI

My Mom's blog is hilarious today.

Crocs

"So Dad, what do you think about Crocs?" my sister asked my father, after a conversation about his loafers.
"I don't like them."

"Do you think he knew I was talking about shoes?" my sister asked my mother as my father walked away.
"No, he thought you were talking about animals . . . your father, he doesn't like crocodiles."

"So Dad, you're morally opposed to crocodiles? What have crocodiles done to you? Have you even been in contact with a crocodile?"
"Crocodiles? Oh, I thought you were talking about crocks . . . you know, the ceramic kind? Your mother keeps buying them and they keep breaking all over the place . . . big mess."

So my father is getting two pairs of Crocs for father's day . . . a pair with holes and a pair without holes . . . so he can wear them to the Wal-mart instead of his loafers w/o socks. It will be better that way. Mere will not get him any crocks or crocodiles, honoring his dislikes.

Evil Bunny Barrette

Suggestive Bunny Barrettes

In getting ready to go out yesterday . . . I found the correct bunny barrette. The one that would be right side up. It took some digging in the "hair accessory" basket, but I found it. And I found it because I knew that it would annoy Princess. I spiked up the hair. I put on a fishnet shirt under my tank top (too much skin with just the tank). I put on Birkenstocks . . . because I just couldn't do heels for Gilbert's and a Piston's game. All would be annoying to Princess though.

Evidently the shirt and Birks were all good. The barrette, of course, got comments. First there was the questioning about where I got the barrette (Target, hair accessory aisle) (Troy Target . . . all Targets have slightly different stock, according to their markets). Then there was the questioning about what I was trying to "say" with the barrette. (that I'm weird enough to wear a bunny barrette at age 35?) Princess insisted that the bunny was suggestive . . . bunny ranch, Playboy bunnies, the fact that bunnies have sex all the time (I added the last one, Princess would never say that) . . . that someone wearing the bunny barrette was a secret symbol to the world that I wanted to get laid. There was questioning about what other animal barrette came in the package (Princess already knows the answer, everyone had the same barrettes in the seventies). How the butterfly would be much less suggestive . . . (I'm not sure about that).

We didn't talk to anyone but the waiter, who wasn't particularly interested in serving us, let alone flirting with us. So evidently, the bunny barrette is more subtle than a neon sign, despite what Princess says. And I was in bed, by myself, by 11 p.m. on a Saturday.

It's Official

They say that Memorial Day marks the beginning of the summer season . . . you can break out the white pants and shoes (but who would want to?), it stays light until 9 p.m., there's a bonfire in my parent backyard with smores. But really the mark of the start of summer was this morning, on the way to Lowe's to buy some flowers.

"So drive the Milford road way, so we can go to Dairy Queen and have flurries for breakfast." my mother says.

The real start of summer is when you can have a nerd flurry (or as the Dairy Queen lady corrected us: Blizzard) for breakfast.

The problem is I don't really want a whole nerd flurry . . . ever. Even for breakfast, when I have the rest of the day to burn off all the calories (176 million, I'm sure). I only really want half a small nerd flurry at any given time. But you can't share a nerd flurry . . . because no one (except me) likes ice cream whipped with nerd candy, unless they are maybe under the age of, say, four and a half. And I don't hang out with a lot of four year olds. I suppose I could just throw half of the nerd flurry away, but that seems wasteful of the nerds and flurry. And Dairy Queen just doesn't make a "snow shower", they only make blizzards, which are way too big.

But on the plus side, I don't have to think about eating for the rest of the day. And I found some black flowers at the Lowe's for my backyard. There are black flowers, who knew? So Addam's family. I can hardly stand it.

So summer is here.

They Even Have Cupcakes

So I'm out in the land that is suddenly on the map . . . due to all the news coverage and a now destroyed horse barn. Figured I'd come back tomorrow and troll the bars, hoping to pick up some F.B.I. guys. Maybe at the Dairy Queen.

No one at Stately Wayne Manor knows exactly where the farm is, that is being dug up in search of bones that are probably not there . . . but as we recall, there are bones everywhere here. Perhaps Z. and I were actually playing with the bones they are looking for. Deer bones, Hoffa bones, who can tell? Oh well, Z.'s mom threw out the bag of bones ages ago. Destined for the landfill off of Five Mile, I'm sure.

Quiet night with the 'rents. On a Friday night . . . I'm so lame, but I haven't seen them in a while and I missed them (and the yelling . . sorry Dad).

It has been brought up that it is strange to call your father "Mr. Crabbypants", especially to his face. But it must be understood that it is said with the upmost respect and love. And he is a crabbypants . . . sometimes. And sometimes, being called a Crabbypants will knock you down a notch when a person is being crabby. Just sayin'. He does the same for me. Honest.

Finally, Someone Loves Me!

Thanks to the tech guy at work, I have a gmail account!

iamthanu@gmail.com

I've been waiting forever for someone to invite me. Gmail is like a good street address . . . you'd must rather say that you live on say . . . Cranbrook Road, rather than 14 Mile. I feel so included in the cult of google. I feel so loved.

Scary Movies

I watched a really dumb horror movie last night. And not as in the parody, Evil Dead like genre, but a horror movie that took itself seriously. "The Hills Have Eyes" They must have bought out all the corn syrup and red food coloring in the state of California. A lot of it seemed to be gross for the sake of just being gross, shocking for the sake of being shocking. And there was this whole "Democrat gets mad and kicks a**" theme, where a pacifist main character is so overwrought by the killing of his wife and the stealing of his baby that he becomes a killing machine. I suppose it could happen . . . evidently it is curiously common in bad horror movies. But I never watch horror movies, so I don’t know this.

The reason I never watch horror movies? Because I am a wimp. I startle easily. I have to close my eyes through most of the scary parts, or what I think are going to be the scary parts (I don’t know, I have my eyes closed) which I judge by the music. I’m kind of okay with the gore . . . I can conceptualize special effects (I know they’re not real) but then whenever I close my eyes for the rest of the day (or worse night, when it’s dark) I will see certain scenes in my head.

After the scary movie (or book for that matter), I have to lock all the doors and check them, and then check them again and check all the windows and check the basement and then sit in bed with the four D cell mag light in my head so I can beat anyone up side the head who might come to get me.

Last night, I screamed three times (a least), hid my eyes for about a third of the movie and it must have hurt when I squeezed C. when that guy jumped on that other bloody guy without the finger (guess you had to be there). Yeah, so I’m a wimp. But it was really fun and I would have never gone on my own.

Well worth having to picture the geeky guy in a freezer full of body parts, every time I close my eyes.

. . . but Mercutio started it . . .

I was asked the age old question today, while reenacting Act III, Scene I of Romeo and Juliet. "Why do we have to learn this?"

"You have to admit that it is a good story . . . "
"Yeah, but in twenty years I won't need to know this."

I went on to say that we were analyzing great literature, which is a skill that everyone needs, and that it was about the process of that analysis, rather than the story or the analysis itself.

"Plus, we get to play with these plastic swords . . . " and that seemed to make more sense to them. (My mother buys me presents for my classroom at the dollar store . . . one day they had play swords . . . priceless for death scenes)

I get really into teaching Romeo and Juliet, but I have to admit that I understand it much more being through adolescence rather than in adolescence. It is different looking back at the implusiveness of youth, rather than trying to reflect while in the middle of it. Plus there are all those raunchy parts . . . which I so didn't get in ninth grade. And so I stand, with plastic sword in hand, trying to get across that Romeo and Juliet marry nineteen hours after laying eyes on each other because Shakespeare wanted to explore that teenagers just don't think, about consequences, etc. in a room full of teenagers who just don't think about consequences, etc. Kind of ironic.

What I've learned? They pay more attention with the plastic swords and death scenes.

There was NO way . . .

I was doin' ninety. I drive like a grandmother (E2 shouts this from the rooftops). And yet, as the cop pulled me over and walked over with her very short hair and regulation hat (on correctly) . . . I knew I was going to get a ticket. For some reason, female policepersons do not like me. Do not like me at all. I would like to blame it on the hair . . . but it was before the hair. Maybe it's how I smell, but probably it's my attitude. Well, definitely it's my attitude.

"Do you know how fast you were going?" Of course I knew how fast I was going . . . well, that's not true, I don't actually know exactly how fast . . . but I slowed down when I saw your blue car with the flashers, didn't I? Which is what got me in trouble. The car in front of me was going faster, but didn't slow down as fast, or as obviously. In my guilt (at going 72 mph), I slowed down and changed lanes behind a truck. I really had to slow down to get behind the truck, which Ms. Policewoman took to mean that I was going really, really fast. As E2, ask my brothers . . . I never go really fast.

So I was written up for ten over. I have to go to court three hours away. I think it's two points. All for going to Kalamazoo on a Saturday morning. I really should have stayed in bed.

My sister's house it cute though . . . so well, worth the trip. The trip that will now be called the "$1000 trip to Kalamazoo" (by the time the insurance company gets done with me).

Being of the Crabbypants

I just had to sign something that basically said that I wouldn't be crabby anymore . . . it was symbolic and some sort of "team building" romantic "can't we just all get along" thing. The latest mantra is "if we're just more positive, things will be great!"

While I'm sure this worked for many, many organizations . . . Enron for example and (I know, I never thought it would come out of my mouth) the Bush administration (sorry, George, really) . . . it really just brings out my oppositionally defiant streak. I now want a T-shirt that says "I'm not feeling positive" (this was a note written to me in a meeting today) so I can close my door and people will just leave me alone. So I won't get lectured about the power of positive thinking. Give me something positive to think about instead . . .

Oh, and people touched me today. Put their hands on my shoulders from behind. I wish I had a picture of the look on my face, because I'm sure it was priceless. I'm sure it was something between shock, horror and the visible plan painted across my face that I would soon punch someone.

Description of my Dysfunctionalness

"So let me get this straight . . . you're like . . . you're too far away, come closer . . . no wait, you're too close . . . now you're too far away . . . no, too close . . . nope, too far . . . "

Even though the poor guy is standing still . . . metaphorically at least?

Yup, that's pretty much it. Ack, too close . . . but wait, no, too far. I'm going to start carrying a paper bag in my purse, for all the hyperventilation.

Better than some things I could carry, I guess.

Are You Sure?

People say things that they don't mean, all the time. And there are some things that you can not take back . . . no matter how much time passes or how much you tell yourself that you don't care.

Even more complicated when you think you mean it . . .

Best lyric of the day:

"between the lines of fear and blame, you begin to wonder why you came . . .

Let him know that you know best, cause after all, you do know best . . . "

-- The Fray, How to Save a Life

Now I Don't HAVE To . . .

The H&M opened Friday in Ann Arbor . . . it's Sunday and I've already been there twice. The bigger store is opening at Lakeside on June 2 and I'm half thinking of working there. It would keep me off the streets and give me a 25% discount.

Ikea is opening in Canton in 23 days. So it is the summer of shopping (like last summer was different . . . before these stores). Now I don't have to travel to New York, Chicago or, in the extreme, Paris, to shop. Not that I won't do that anyway. I don't even have to leave the state. I may become provincial . . . except that most of my friends have left me, so I have to travel to see them.

So glad that Detroit is kinda becoming real.

Mother's Day

"Could you stop sending me flowers for Mother's Day? The cat just eats the flowers and then I just have chewed up looking flowers."
"I didn't send you the flowers, Mom."
"But your name was on them."
"I know. They didn't help pay for the ring, so my name is on the flowers."
"So just wait until the cat dies to send me flowers."
"Well, you know what we're going to do if the cat dies . . ."
"Send me flowers?"
"No, we're going to get you another cat. J. has loads of extra ones."

Good Stuff

Especially on the radio commercial . . . "STOP . . . MONKEY! THAT . . . TICKLES. . . STOP, STOP . . . MONKEY . . .OH THAT FEELS SO GOOD . . . NO, THAT FEELS BAD . . . MONKEY PLEASE." Or something like that.

Just push the red button, he's there for emotional support.

Have one bad day on the internet

". . . and then you didn't post the next day, so I called to make sure that you hadn't committed suicide or something . . . " says my sister on the phone this evening. "So you better post after saying something like that."

I'm still alive and kicking and occasionally screaming. Didn't mean to worry you. Had a bad day . . . and didn't post the full amount of rambling thoughts that I had written. Sometimes I do that, to protect the possibly innocent. Or to not let the guilty know that I'm on to them. Or to not hurt anyone . . .

But yeah, still here. Just busy.

Whole lot of Suck

You know those moments that you know so exactly what you don't want . . .

Yeah, that's been today. All over the place.

It Might Be the P.M.S.

You know those moments when you know so exactly what you don't want . . .

Yeah, that's been today.

I don't want drooley dogs.
I don't want to be anyone's default girlfriend.
I don't want to think that you will just keep going out with me because you've never broken up with anyone.
I don't want to hear about your pining for Heidi, the fabulous ex-girlfriend.
I don't want to stand there waiting while you talk to your ex-wife.
I don't want to know that you thought about asking "super-mega hottie" out.
I don't want to know that it was only the picture on her desk that stopped you, not thoughts of me.
I don't want to know that you are fundamentally unhappy . . . and that it means that I don't make you happy.
I don't want to do this.
I don't want to feel this.
I don't want to cry about you . . . or about me and how inadequate I feel right now.
I don't want to break up with you.

I do want to be the center of someone's universe. I want someone to appreciate my quirks and think that I'm really cool. And I want them to be the center of my universe and I want to think they're really cool (even if they really aren't . . . I'm not all that cool either).

And so it's back to the drawing board.

Kill Them All

I have killed exactly four ants, one in my kitchen and three in my living room. Another ant crawled across Imaginary Boy's hand the other night . . . and I couldn't find him as he fell to the floor. So five ants. Five ants in my house.

Now we all know there is no such thing as five ants. For those of us who have not lived an ant battle in person, I'm sure you've see some show on PBS where they show you an ant's life. And it's not all cute and cartoony and "let's cooperate with the dancing circus ladybug." It's swarmy. They come in swarms. As my brother pointed out, "Those ants they're shifty, you can't trust them."

Now I don't know why the ants want in my living room. As a rule, I don't have any food in the house (though lately I have been grocery shopping . . . I do have an orange on the table) and I don't know what they think they will find crawling around my living room. But they just can't be there. They're not welcome . . . I have major ant damage from childhood.

When we lived in Wyandotte, there were a lot of secrets to our house. One being that when the sugar rationing of the 1940's happened, whoever owned the house decided to hoard sugar. Up in the attic, where the sugar police wouldn't find it. That would have been fine . . . I'm okay with needing sugary goodness, except that when the rationing was over, they left the sugar. Or forgot about the sugar. Or thought that the rationing would come back? I don't know. But the ants found the sugar and then the rest of the house, and ate it. We did not know this . . . I was five, so I was blissfully unaware of most things, except that my Mother was perpetually at war with the ants. And the ants were everywhere. And the ants would not stop (and my Mother is not one to give up and be carried away by ants, either). I can still remember the taste of Diazinon in the air each spring. The hockey puck orange ant traps (that we used as hockey pucks). The yelling at the ants. It was worse than the Amityville horror . . . with ants.

My parents found out about the sugar much later. I think they decided to sell the house (among other reasons) when it was discovered that the house was pretty much just wall paper and siding with nothing in between, because the ants ate it all. I hate ants. I feel my Mother's disgust and hear her screams. They make me anxious . . . if they are indoors. I don't even really like them outdoors.

So I have just treated my foundation with enough Triazacide to kill anything that walks within a foot of my house. The butterflies can flit in other people's yards . . . must . . . kill . . . the ants.

Sad thing is . . . I was once recruited for the Entomology program at State (I think because they wanted more girls) so I understand Integrated Pest Management and some Bug Conservation. But with ants, I just don't care. Sorry environment . . . and spiders.

Two Closets of Nothin' to Wear

Shopped for hours yesterday, with no luck. No dress for tonight. Yes, yes, I know I have four dresses from friends weddings, plus the five previous prom night dresses and all of the "affairs of state" outfits that I have stuffed into my closet. But it wasn't about having nothing to choose from . . . it was about bribing myself into being excited about Prom. It's always so much better with a chipper attitude, otherwise I am tempted to go catch the smokers . . . and no one wants me to do that. Not even the adults in charge.

Being an adult shopping for prom dresses is much more complicated than if you are in high school. It can't be too dressy, as you're not there to upstage anyone. I think floor length is way too much. Not too "Jenny Cleves". For some reason the "alternate length" trend meant there were old lady dresses that were way too short. And black is nice . . . you really just want to blend into the wall for the most part. The dress is really for the book club afterward anyhow.

So I will have to make do with what I have. I didn't even get new shoes . . . because, quite frankly, there were a few contenders but none of them were on sale enough. Found a great fifty dollar dress that was actually $182.00, but it was only fifty dollars worth of good to me. And you can't get the shoes until you know which dress. So I will dig deep . . . I'm sure I have shoes that I have forgotten about.

I drew my forehead too

What I would do all day if . . .

If I wasn't the English teacher.

My Eighth Prom

Part of my penance for being naughty is that I have to do things . . . things that I didn't like to do when I was in high school, over and over again. Like the movie "Groundhog Day" but with rah, rah stuff. I wouldn't have been caught dead at a powderpuff game in high school (my high school even had one . . . I just saw it in my yearbook. I had no idea that we even did that at PCCS.) and now I go to every one. Never went to Homecoming . . . now I'm there with a walkie-talkie telling kids to "leave room for Jesus".

This week is Prom, my eighth, counting the two I went to when I was actually in high school. And I hate to admit this, but after five proms as a quasi-chaperone, I've gotten good at it. I always buy a new outfit . . . gives me something to do and gives the kids something to talk about. I only come for part of the festivities. We don't need pictures of the whole thing. I only dance after most of the children have gotten back into their obnoxious limos and left for their hotels/parties. The nice kids stay . . . and we have a nice time. Someone will request some ska and we'll jump around in our party clothes. I always go out to dinner afterward, thus giving me a real reason to dress up.

So prom won't be that bad. Always show up late and leave rather early . . . remember that it's not your job to chaperone (I'm not on the list), just to take the pictures.

Men and Comments

As a public service announcement: If you click on the "(random number) pieces of clothing on the floor," you will get a pop window with all the comments about the entry above it.

Mr. Crabbypants just thought that was a gauge of my anxiety level . . . or my chaos level. He thought when it said "0" I was having a good day and that my room was very clean. It in fact means that no one has made any comments about that particular writing. And while having a gauge of my level of chaos might be interesting, I would be embarassed by how high it was all the time, so I won't publish such things. I'm kind of afraid of what Mr. Crabbypants is now going to comment about, now that he has discovered this new function of blogging.

As an another aside, the "pieces of clothing on the floor" is a reference to my general disarray . . . not to any randiness. Get your minds out of the gutter.

Wasting Daylight

It's now 1:45 p.m. and I still haven't showered . . . or changed out of my pajamas. My father did wake me up at some ungodly time to announce that he was going to work (on Sunday?), which brought me back to my childhood. "Get up! You're wasting the day." He would announce when I was a teenager . . . and really wanted to waste the day, as there was nothing else to do in that God-forsaken town I grew up in, except watch the corn grow or get into trouble.

With my hair all askew, I have made Ramen noodles for my mother and I as lunch. Amazing how you sometimes crave the Ramen . . . especially if you don't have to eat Ramen, as I did for most of my twenties. My mother calls the Ramen fake chicken favor packets "goosh", as in two packets of noodles and one packet of "goosh". Now that we are full of Ramen, we might go get a fire ring (oooh, fire . . . ) and maybe a Nerd flurry or two. (Problem is: Nerd flurries are always too big, even if you get the small size. Nerd flurries need to come in their own special size because of their overt sweetness. Still way good though.) So wasting the day at Stately Wayne Manor . . .

Went and picked up my diamond, which mesmerizes me and I sit and play with it, so it sparkles. Miss talking to "imaginary boy" even though it's only been a day and half, so it's way too early to be going through withdrawal. My sister is going to make an offer on the dreamy house (way better than my house, and I am pouting) and we are going to look into "containment" options. Have to grade a pile of papers and get ready for the week but probably won't because sitting here "wasting the day" is too much fun. I'll let the lawn try and mow itself today (I know that won't work . . . but still.) And now it's 2 p.m.

Thank goodness it's light until 9 p.m.

Concussion and Asbestos Angst

We managed to get to Kalamazoo on time and looked at four whole houses . . . with my sister AND Mr. Crabbypants in tow. It seemed like we found "the one", the house that you walk into and just know that you have to buy it. Perfect 1940's bungalow, with everything original . . . which is a plus for the decor, minus in terms of the furnace and electrical. But this house was so cool that the tribe was willing to overlook the furnace (and that never happens) (we might negotiate on a bad roof and give on the windows, but it has to be special for the furnace to be original). The cabinet hardware was the best I have ever seen and it had the original stove, which I so want to steal for my house. Cute as a button.

But then I just had to go into the attic. "Oh, M. this is bad . . . really bad." The insulation looked like kitty litter . . . and for some reason I know that kitty litter insulation somehow equals asbestos. It's like a gift. It was so sad, my sister and I in the little attic, looking down at the toxic kitty litter, which was going to be the deal breaker of the house. As I called for my mother and the realtor (CP was taking a nap in the jeep at this point), I was so distracted by the sad facts that I clocked my head on the top of the gnome door to the attic. HARD. So hard that I couldn't move. So hard that I just had to close my eyes to keep the stars from coming. So hard that I was slightly nauseous. So hard that I yelled "Monkey f@#ker" in front of my sister's realtor.

After recovering from the shock of my made-up swearing combination, the realtor assured us that it was "just vermiculite". She then made a big show of calling up her house inspector "John" who assured her on the phone that they still use vermiculite to insulate houses and that it was "perfectly safe" and "vermiculite is not asbestos". And I hoped she was right, because quite frankly, I didn't want to be right about the toxic kitty litter in this great perfect house. A house that June Cleaver would be proud of . . .

And this was all well and good, until we arrive back home and used the evil internet. All vermiculite produced before 1990 was gathered out of one mine (the Libby mine) which also had a huge vein of asbestos mixed through it. They didn't bother to remove it from the vermiculite because they didn't know . . . so any vermiculite you find mined before 1990 is potentially full of asbestos and therefore toxic cancer-causing kitty litter. You should be okay if you don't touch it or take a stick and poke at it (disturb the kitty litter) but then how do you sell the house to the next person?

So outdated furnace we can swallow . . . cancer-causing kitty litter, not so much. So now my sister gets to research how much a haz-mat team is. And these things are good to know.

My head still hurts too.

Family of Writing Techies

For those of you haven't recently . . . you should really read my mom's blog. It is really funny.

Bits of lint and cat hair.

Misnomer . . . or Just Average Smart

My mother was speaking about her possible future grandchildren last night at dinner. "I'm just afraid that your brother J.'s kids might regress to the mean . . . I just hope they're not disappointed, what with M so smart and J so smart. They might, you know, get a kid like you . . ."

"So what are you saying Mom? I'm not smart?"
"Well, you're average smart (looks at my face) . . . I mean you're really smart in a right brain kind of way but . . ."
"So you ARE saying that I'm not smart. Geez, Mom . . . "

So as it turns out, I'm not smart in my mother's opinion. Kinda ruins the whole name of the blog . . . any suggestions? Other than "Mymotherdoesn'tthinkI'mreallysmart.blogspot.com", because that's a little long.

My Fancy Tulips

Thanks Mom!

Chihuly

Now with less sarcasm?

"Well most of your blog was about how you didn't have a life . . . so now you have one." Having a life makes one very tired. And doesn't leave much time to write. And lately, I haven't had much that I want to write about . . . well, nothing that I want to tell the entire internet about anyhow. Perhaps I'm too happy to blog?

Okay, the new music obsession is The Dresden Dolls, which I bought on a whim (because it was less than nine dollars . . . and therefore "free"). I had checked their stuff out before, but I really like the new album. I'm teaching English 10 next year . . . thus climbing slightly out of the primordial ooze that is high school English. It's like I've grown little stumps and crawled up on the sand. Or grown lungs. I need to dye my hair. My neighbor tells me that I'm doing a "great job" . . . I'm not sure what he means, at being a single woman? at mowing my lawn? at being friendly to him? Anyhow, I'm doing a "great job" at something.

See? This is just boring . . . no enchanting sarcasm . . . I feel so blocked, or edited. (I'm doing all the editing myself, by the way) What was that Nirvana line again?

Oooh! A Sparkley!

So I went to the mall on Friday . . . had a nice lunch, went to the Gap, same old, same old. Walked by the engagement ring display (of the 4 thousand of them located in the mall) and paused a minute . . . thinking "hey, I may never really get one of these". And there was a little ache. It was the store where my first "real" boyfriend worked (when he finally graduated from high school) and even fifteen years later, I'm leery about standing too long in one place near it. (rumor is that he "went gay" and moved to California -- Good for you Guenter!)

Went to Marshall Field's simply because I had a coupon from the paper and was somehow genetically drawn to their fine jewelry counter also (theme of the day). I do like to look in the clearance section . . . gotta love "scratch and dent" gemstones. Of course, the lady swoops down, wanting you to try things on so you will hopefully fall in love and she will make the sale. I rebuff her and move on to the diamonds and then the emeralds . . . when I see "the ring". I had picked it out three years ago when my brother was shopping for engagement rings. Very 1920's looking, with filigree. It's a little high . . . and had an emerald instead of a diamond but I love that ring.

I don't know if it was the turning 35 angst . . . or the "be careful what you wish for" angst . . . but the lady was still there, hovering. "Do you have this ring (pointing on the glass at the emerald) with a diamond?" She did . . . and let me put it on and priced it for me. And I bought it. I hesitated, don't get me wrong. I looked at the clearance section again, tried on a nice ruby for less but still went with the diamond. Bought it and sent it off to be sized. It's little . . . only a quarter carat and I can wear it on my right hand . . . and I can be over the ring angst.

But then I had to shop with the ring gone for a week to be sized. I almost went back to get it . . . but went to J. Crew instead and then my mom called. Not the best influence about the sparklies, my mother. "A ruby for $200? You can't get a ruby for $200 . . . " she says.

They had the ruby in two matching rings, which I thought would be nice . . . we could have matching rings. She did give birth to me and all. So I went back and bought them both. Gave one to my mother as a "giving birth to me 35 years ago/Mother's day present". May be able to sucker my siblings into paying for some of it. If not, oh well. She's worth it . . . and it's super cute and it matches my hair. Didn't get it sized so I could wear it (and it needs to be sized) so I will drop it off when I pick up my diamond.

So I have Sparklies . . .

I don't suppose they get used up or go bad. Thank goodness I get a raise next year . . . at this rate, with the jet-setting and the fine jewelry, I'll never have a garage. I'm a "material girl", who knew?

It's Here

Despite the fact that I always tell the internet my birthday is on the 27th . . . it's here. I'm 35.

Of course, I'm going to tell everyone I'm 28. So this is "thirtysomething". It helps that I had a good time on my date yesterday . . . I haven't freaked out yet. Well, except for that projectile vomiting, being hung over for two days thing. And I guess I'm okay with being a whole Melissa-Ellen combo but I would really like Hope's house . . . and Michael Steadman.

Now that anyone under 35 has no idea what I'm talking about . . . I have the very big plans of going to the Secretary of State and the allergist. Maybe to Somerset for some shopping.

In a Handbasket

Are we noticing a hell theme to the post lately? Wonder what that is about?

I am now on day two of the worst hangover in my entire life. Day two has been considerably better in that 1. there is no throwing up 2. there is no being trapped on a plane for six hours (with the possibility of throwing up) 3. I managed to get down some solid food.

Yes, yes, Vegas was fun. The last night was a little too fun, so I will be abstaining from alcohol for say . . . a year or two. At least. As Mr. Crabbypants said, "You're too old for that . . . how did that happen?" and I know you are all wondering . . . how did that happen? Well, first there was a phone call from school and a newspaper article and then there was some major self medication, with mixing and things that were "on the rocks", which looking back was so not a good phrase.

Princess and E2 are the greatest girls ever and they wrangled me with grace . . . which considering the damage I have done to my liver (did I mention that we are on day two of the hangover?) was not easy . . . or pleasant, I imagine. So now I am on the good girl plan.

Once Upon a Time

We all grew up listening to fairy tales. Fairy tales about how Prince Charming isn't always apparent in the form you meet him in . . . a frog, a beast, a underemployed web designer with two kids. And in those fairy tales, the protaganist . . . or princess, if you will, doesn't KNOW that he is really Prince Charming. And yet, it still works out in the end.

Saran Wrap Hat

I sit here discussing cheesecake recipes and music with my brother J, in my self-fashioned saran wrap hat (keeps some heat in), waiting for the blood red dye to set so I can annoy the housekeeping staffs of Vegas with pink stained pillowcases.

Later I will have to find something open so I can eat (Is Starbucks open on Easter Sunday?) and I am celebrating this lovely Christian holiday by again pretending to be Jewish and ignoring it totally. (I asked my mother if she wanted me to come over . . . "why bother?" was the reply. So much for family togetherness) I do have to mow the lawn . . . so maybe that can be seen as a celebration of the resurrection (in that I'm causing the grass to grow more? hmmm). I'm sure I'll probably use the Lord's name in vain a couple of times to get the lawnmower started.

So I'm definitely going to hell . . . at least that is my status today. In my saran wrap hat.

These are going to be fantastically short

As I have to sneak onto a computer, between jobs at Stately Wayne Manor. Soon I will have to move the dining room furniture . . . again. Luckily, my mother vacuums VERY thoroughly so I have some time.

My parents are very much like a republican version of the Osbournes (I know I have brought this up before) and there is much swearing and the yelling of "Norma" loudly, instead of "Sharon". My mother does the same routine of alternating between ignoring her husband and kind of gentle patronizing that Sharon does to Ozzy. (by the way, they both read this) And amazingly, people look at us pretty much the same way in public, even though my parents are in Nautica wear instead of black and tattoos.

My father informs me that I have not "captured" the amusing and interesting quality of the pickle conversation. Something about the "spirit" of the conversation . . . or the pickles . . . or Walmart carrying the pickles, or something. Sorry I missed the mark. I'm sure you all wanted to be here, in person, to experience the pickle conversation firsthand. Perhaps my father should start blogging, so he could share these thoughts with the world firsthand. Don't get him started on the Oldsmobile minivan . . . they just should have started over if they wanted those specs.

The vacuuming has stopped. Have to go move furniture.

What is it we are waiting for?

"Do you have to be here to watch it print?" says Mr. Crabbypants, in an attempt to rush me to Costco because it's Saturday and we must have a Costco fix.

My taxes are done, for all those who were concerned. I am getting a big check from the federal government. My money, I know . . . but I was never much of a saver. Better to get it all in one chunk.

Selection of Pickles

It has been mentioned by two people this week that someone should just follow me around with a camera . . . so someone just needs to write up the package and send it to California, I guess.

Today, at dinner:

"Walmart has Heinz pickles now . . . "
Me (being ever so polite): "Oh?"
"Yeah, it makes me want to check at the Howell Walmart . . . they might have an even larger selection of Heinz pickles. Meijer used to have a great selection of Heinz pickles, but they don't carry them anymore. Heinz used to be big on the West side of the state, what with the pickle factory and all."

I had a whole conversation about pickles . . . and not just any pickles, Heinz pickles. It was like I was in a commerial. Or a bad episode of "Everybody Loves Raymond".

I haven't done my taxes yet . . . how's that for procrastination?

Priceless

Coffee from cute Starbucks boy -- $3.55
Flight (non stop for Princess) and Hotel in Vegas -- $497.00
2 cans of Kilz for the dining room -- $15.87

Being on Spring Break as of 11:10 this morning . . . priceless.

Good Intentions Line the Road to Hell

Isn't it funny how I can pick one sentence from a conversation . . . a sentence that I did not react to at the time . . . and now loop precariously toward the death spiral about it. And I suppose I should just have another conversation, to clear everything up, but I don't want to. I don't want to know what it meant. I don't want to talk to anyone about anything at this moment.

The sentence was meaningless and nothing was meant by it. It wasn't malicious or hurtful . . . maybe just truthful, but it is now looping in my brain. It won't leave. I wasn't promised anything and everyone (especially M2 . . . thanks) has been very upfront about their thoughts. I suppose I will just have to let it play itself out. I will have to play with the various possible meanings and intentions until something turns off my head. I will have to mull and make jabs, turning the subtle impossible nuances over and over until I am utterly sick. All this for one sentence, which again probably meant absolutely nothing.

So yeah, that just sucks.

Procrastination

Despite my fear of the Asian manicure lady, I'm still finding ample opportunity to pick at my cuticles.

Spring break is in three and a half days and my brain feels like mashed potatoes. Still haven't done my taxes (which isn't to my advantage . . . I'm getting money back) and have these cockamamy plans that I'm going to do all this work on my house over break. Remember when I thought I was going to take all the plumbing apart in my bathroom and put in new cartidges and seals? Yeah, those "I have no water" plans, because we all know that I won't be able to get things back together once I take them apart (plus, all the parts are from 1949).

Mr. Crabbypants has cabin fever and therefore, is even crabbier than usual. Insists that he will be able to drive this week, which I think is a bad idea, but no one is asking me. Had a lovely time yesterday with my mother at the outlet mall.

It occurs to me that I probably need a bathing suit to sit by the pool in Vegas (it didn't occur to me that we could gamble until, like, yesterday though) and for some reason, the entire garment industry has decided that everyone should wear bikinis this season. So not only am I having a hard time finding something to wear, my anxiety level is growing about what I will have to see on other people at the pool. I would, quite frankly, skip the whole pool experience but I want to see Princess' face when I pull out the 45 SPF sunscreen.

The Carver

A whole day of fashion and "personal beauty" (Princess' words, not mine). First to Target for shoes (flip-flops . . . you have to bring them, who knew?) and reading material (Vogue and Marie Claire), then to Coney Island (mmmm . . . coney island), and then to the nail place.

No one speaks English at the nail place, so there is no idle chit-chat . . . at least no chit-chat that I can understand. You have to "pick your color" first, a concept I did not understand but there is a rack of nail polish and you go to pick one. I don't know what happens if someone else has your chosen color, however I'm a novice, so I didn't have one to begin with. I chose "I'm Not Really A Waitress" from O.P.I., which I had coveted at the Target a few days ago. Got a manicure too.("Thank God", says Princess) ("Her cuticles were in rough shape.") So my nails are even . . . and bloody, which I don't think is supposed to happen. Evidently, if I come in every two weeks this will not happen next time. ("Considering that she eats her fingers, it was a wonder that the girl could do anything with them at all." Again, Princess.)

So while "carving out some friend time", as penance I also had my cuticles carved. Serves me right for opening my mouth. Did get some wicked good shoes for book club tonight though. Might be slightly cold and I'll have to read many books to not feel the pain of the heels but well worth the effort.

Have booked Vegas. Someone should warn them to be ready for us.

Must Remember

Must remember to stop writing random things on random pieces of paper and putting them into random piles, which I then give to people. Must keep more randomness to myself. Except for on this, of course.

Carving out some time . . .

I don't understand how people find time to date . . . or find time to date people they like. I'm exhausted, and slightly cranky (though Princess might argue about the "slightly", considering my behavior at the track meet today . . . but it was freakin' cold), haven't graded things that I was supposed to grade, and need to do major hair and nail maintenance. I've penciled this all in for tonight, plus a walk. Of course, it's already 10 p.m.

As I was making plans for this weekend, without thinking, stated to Princess that I was "carving out some time for her" . . . which I will not live down for weeks. Perhaps months.

Oh, and I'm going to Vegas for my birthday. Surreal, but Yippee!

I am my Mother's Daughter

Maybe it's because my mother is (was) a home ec teacher. Maybe it's the damage from her being so "left brained" (a.k.a. anal retentive) that I had to have "outfits" and could only wear certain shirts with certain pants -- otherwise they fade in the wash differently, don't you know. But I only have one way to clean.

I cannot straighten. I used to be good at shoving things creatively into spaces that I thought my mother wouldn't check . . . under the bed, in the closet, the usual. I don't bother with that anymore now that I have my own house. I just step over it. But when I clean I do this obsessive "must clean under the couch" move everything, dust the ceiling, thing. Which I am in the middle of right now. Living room is almost done. Just have to do one more wall and vacuum one final time.

Then it will be on to the kitchen and bathroom. Maybe I'll have Princess come over next week to deal with the dining room, though I can't imagine her stripping furniture. It's too hard on the nails.

I do love my Dyson.