Snot Explosion

First morning run this morning. Actually, all my runs are "morning" runs, in that I usually run right after I get up and thus don't have to shower twice. But this was the first run in the morning . . . or before 11 a.m..

Thought I would be cold, so wore a jacket. So didn't need the jacket. Did need Kleenex though. I've been blowing my nose all night, with little success. Little did I know that all I would have to do is run . . . and my nose would run too. So I was very attractive this morning, bleery eyed, sweaty, with a runny nose and my hair all sticking up. Oh, and occasionally wiping my nose on my shirt. Yeah, I was cool.

Now I am dressed, sort of like a teacher and I will go into work after the coffee I promised myself to get through that last half mile (better than looking at the eye candy I guess). I'm on three hours of sleep and I really need another pain pill but will hold off until this afternoon. Must mow the lawn this afternoon. Must.

Okay, off to the first day of work in ages. Think good thoughts. And let's hope I don't have another snot explosion until at least this afternoon.

No More Thinking

In about six hours I will not have time to think . . . at least until next summer. There has been way too much thinking lately, so I'm kind of looking forward to the crap. Better than looking at the phone anyhow.

I just took something for the pain in my face, as I think I have a pretty good sinus infection going. Hopefully, I will get sleepy in about a half an hour. Been wanting to sleep all the time and have been letting myself, as I thought it would help with getting over this cold, but it's just getting worse. I'm going to have to suck it up and go to the doctor soon. Always fun, as I have nothing "green" coming out of my face as of yet . . . and that is what my doctor will want. Otherwise, I'll be told I'm fine and to take a motrin. Really does feel like someone stabbed me in the face with an icepick . . . repeatedly.

Tomorrow is the cleaning out of Princess' room and the begging for AP. Then Mr. Crabbypants has surgery. Then there is the working of new teacher orientation. Then there is regular orientation, with the signing up for classes mixed in. And then school starts and it's the slide until Xmas. Ahh, back to robot mode. Take off that hat and stop swearing and is that yearbook page done yet?

Be better if my face didn't hurt so much. And running is going to suck in the morning. Hmmm . . . should I take jewelry or painting? CCS or OCC?

Dingo Snack

My best friend, from sixth grade on, E1 just sent me pictures of her son Finnegan. She sends groups of pictures to an email list about every three months because she is a good mom and Finnegan, he's a cutey.

His name is not really Finnegan . . . and I'm the only person in the world who refers to him as Finnegan, which I'm sure will cause some sort of psychological damage. But really, what doesn't? His parents went on and on at their wedding about how they met in the Finnegan's Wake class in grad school and so I decided on his name before he was even conceived. He should just thank his lucky stars that he isn't a girl (pseudo-named Finnegan) and that he lives in a completely different state so he doesn't have to put up with me often. He doesn't look a thing like the sock puppet. And he can't tell the difference between me and his aunt . . . so she may get all the blame.

But speaking of psychological damage, in this last round of pictures, Finnegan is dressed in a bright red shirt proclaiming him as a "Dingo Snack". As in "The Dingo . . . it ate my baby" with Meryl Streep sobbing. Dingo Snack. Labelling your child as a wild dog treat. That's just asking for trouble.

So of course, I had to give E1 (who is a good mother and does try to do everything right) shit about dressing her son as a foodstuff. She got really serious . . . "yeah, we have to be really careful about where we wear that shirt. We don't wear it to the playground. We can only wear it if we're sure people will get the joke." I love that her two year old already has outfits that he can only wear in certain places . . . to certain parties or occasions. I bet it's going to be more old when he's thirteen and wearing fishnet shirts and black lipstick.

Turns out the aunt that I'm interchangable with . . . she gave him the shirt.

Here's the link in case you need one for the little Finnegans in your life.

"Fingernails That Shine Like Justice" II

There is a rhythm to getting a manicure and a pedicure that I'm not yet familar with. I think everything happens in the same order . . . but being a newbie, I'm not sure about the order. When to put your foot down and lift the other. When the hot towels are suppose to come. When to get the money out, which is not at the end because your nails are wet.

It's not something that I want to do every two weeks. It's a bit expensive . . . although we all know what I spend on my coffee habit. There's something about being waited on. I mean, the lady is washing your feet. Maybe it's the fact that I'm perfectly capable of painting my nails myself . . . but then again, I do have an espresso maker at home and I feel totally comfortable paying someone to make that for me.

And you have to relax, which I have a problem with . . . poor manicurist kept telling me to relax my hands and I had to think really hard in order to accomplish that for her. But my nails look really good. And they're real and mine and everything. And red . . . they're really really red.

I Run Slow

Or to be more correct, I run slowly.

Today was the day that I was to run 20 minutes straight with no walking . . . ideally running for 2 miles. I don't think that I've run for twenty minutes with no walking ever. Sure I "ran" that 5K in sixth grade because I had a deep admiration for Mr. Williams, who was a runner and wanted us all to be runners. But I must admit there was a lot of walking in amongst the running in that 5k in sixth grade. And I don't think I ever trained for more than a mile, which I thought was running the whole loop of the subdivision. (or our "sub", as we called them)

So I just ran for twenty minutes, with no walking. And right at this moment I don't feel as though I'm going to die . . . though right afterward I considered just lying down in the street and taking a little siesta. And through the power of the internet, I know that I did not run 2 miles . . . I only ran 1.5821 miles according to the gmap pedometer. But hey, I've not run 1.5 miles straight in a long time . . . if ever.

So I made it. Ran all the way through, no walking. Got over the fear and psyching myself out (every new routine, somewhere in my brain says "You can't do that"). So now I get to put on some flip-flops and go get my nails done, that and Traders Joe's for some crack trail mix. After a shower, of course.

And for the record . . . I'm old. So I'm allowed to run slowly.

Stay off the Grid

It seems like I spent an enormous amount of time in my childhood watching science documentaries about stuff scientists did to monkeys. Maybe it's because cable hadn't been invented yet and my mom figured it was safe to watch PBS. Maybe I watched them in the science portion of elementary school. I don't know. Just hours and hours of film reel in my head about the behaviorial science guys and what they did to poor monkeys . . . usually an experiment that you could answer the hypothesis with: "Well . . . duh . . ."

Guy in White Coat: What happens if we keep all the love from the monkey? (by totally isolating the monkey)
Hmmm. . . monkey doesn't relate well to other monkeys . . .
Another Guy in White Coat: What happens if we give a surrogate wire sculpture "mother" to the monkey, after we rip him away from his natural mother?
Hmmm. . . monkey really doesn't relate well to other monkeys . . .

I just remember this one experiment with a baby monkey and two "surrogate" sculpture mommies, both with reflectors for eyes (as if the baby monkey was fooled). The scientists were seemingly fascinated by the fact that the baby monkey clung to the carpet mommy monkey instead of the wire mommy monkey. Ummm. . . duh, I thought. I think I was, like, four at the time . . . maybe six.

Anyhow, I'm currently acting like the monkey pressing the food bar, so he won't get electrocuted, except I'm using matchdotcom as a food lever. I figure I should get everything out of it I can for the last days? Don't know. Can't resist checking it though. Keep pushing it to see when the yummy snack bar is going to come out. (or better yet, cocaine . . . they did one with cocaine. The monkey pressed the bar alot for cocaine . . . again, duh.) And as we have gone over, the "snack bar" is never going to come out. Perhaps I'm just doing it to keep them from electricifing the floor.

So maybe I should go outside and socialize with the other real monkeys? Okay, I'm going to go out and see the other monkeys.

Running Week Five

I am in the middle of week five in the couch to 5k program . . . and this is the first time my legs hurt afterward. My legs maybe hurt the day inbetween, but this time my knee tendons ache. I'm also having a problem with my left heel on inclines. It feels like electric shocks and I realize with my foot "difficulties" (flat feet, plantar fasciitis, and I'm pigeon toed) I should probably go to the doctor. But the doctor will just tell me to stop running, so instead I just avoid inclines.

In this training program, you can run by time or mileage. Not having a track in my backyard, I go by time . . . but I think my mileage is a little off. Supposed to do 3/4 of a mile at a time today and I don't think I made it in the time allowed. Are the mile roads actually a mile apart? I suppose I could look it up on the google pedometer thing. Oh, well . . . I am old, after all. (training program suggested that anyone starting the program at 35 or over should check with their doctor first . . . what? No, I'm 27 . . . really) My next run is 20 minutes straight through . . . I don't think I even did that when I was 12 and on cross country, so it should be interesting.

Hmm . . . what should I buy if I get through this week?

Oh, and I'm not any skinnier . . . website says that happens in week ten . . .

It's Like Crack . . . with Peanuts!

I have long held that Starbucks puts something akin to crack in their coffee. And that a recreational drug habit is probably cheaper than my Starbucks habit (at $3.55 a day). But now, I have found something else.

My sister loves trail mix. Keeps it at her desk. She likes this kinds she gets at Wal-mart and she tried to convert me. And she almost did, as it looked yummy with all those chocolate chips and peanut butter chips and then I read the back of the bag and figured out that I could just pour sugar straight into my mouth . . . and consume less calories.

And let's face it. I'm not really a trail mix kind of girl. I don't like my food touching other food. I don't like raisins (so let me get this right . . . you left the grapes out in the sun and now you want me to eat them?) and I'm very persnickety about nuts. Don't like coconut . . . the list goes on.

But then there was this bag at Trader Joe's (I know I'm banned . . . I figured out his days off) and it said "Nuts about raspberries and chocolate" and it was like the skies parted and shined a beam in the trail mix aisle. (TJ has a trail mix aisle . . . I know, such a hippy store) (but what would a punk rock grocery store have in it? Two aisles . . . Jack Daniels and beer? But I digress.)

Because the problem with trail mix was that I always had to pick something out. I have this problem with other mixes too. Chex Mix . . . I only eat the pretzels. And this TJ trail mix, only has four ingredients . . . which is very un-trail mix like. And they're all ingredients that I like. Almonds, peanuts, dried raspberries and chocolate chips. I could do without the chocolate chips, but oh, so good. My new crack-like product.

Speaking of crack-like dog treats . . . turns out Chuck from Dooce.com likes organic chicken strips from Trader Joes too.

And I think I have mono I'm so tired. Sore throat, stuffy nose and just a difficulty staying awake.

For M1 . . .

This is completely for M1 and nostalgia . . . shoot me if I go out like this.

Awful.

The Wonders of Matchdotcom Never Cease

In eight days, I become a non-paying member of matchdotcom, which as I remember is not very useful. Why I became a paying member, I suppose. I found it intensely amusing at first. Got a "friend" in New York City out of it. Went out on lots of coffee days, which were mostly awkward. (oh, and two bar dates, which were even more awkward) I think of match as the land of the misfit toys, which none of the boys on match found very funny. I don't know why . . . I was including myself . . .

And I find my last week incredibly freeing. I wink at will. I throw emails around. Mostly, men don't respond and quite frankly, I don't care. Frees me up to go to coffee by myself, which is much less awkward. Or to coffee with people that I have met other ways. Or to the bar with my friends, which is again much less awkward, at least until Princess starts in on me about something. (dating 80 year olds? I don't care how much they like martinis)

But today was a first. There is a way to "reject" winks and emails. I never used it. It seemed like asking for trouble. An opening for people to ask why . . . which would just be a mess. So I never, ever, hit the "No Thanks" button. I delete winks and store the emails (just in case I'm killed by a stalker, to give the police something to go on).

Today I was rejected. Not only did he hit the "No Thanks" button, which meant I got an email saying "so and so is not interested in you" (and matchdotcom is usually so sensitive) . . . he then (evidently feeling bad? guilty?) emailed me with a one sentence response -- "Thank you for the wink, but I don't think we're a good match. Take care and good luck in your search." Very nice of him, but who has the time? He must be new.

And now the questions fill my head. How can you tell that we aren't a good match? Did I miss something in your profile that said you were looking for a 20 year old or a devout Christian? And it doesn't even matter . . . but see, once you get that "reject" email, you can't help it. It still churns in your head. But really, if I don't meet another man on matchdotcom . . . ever . . . that will be totally okay. As it turns out, I really was a "matchdotcom disaster". (which is my nickname in our little single girl group)

And the poor Baptist guy who emailed me today. I'm not emailing him to say that we aren't a good match. I think a little mystery is good. At least better for his self-esteem anyhow.

New Pictures

Okay time to vote on what the new picture should be for all the various icons, the nine days of dating site I have left, etc. If you hit refresh a couple of times, one of the pictures with black hair should show up. Click on it and you can see them all. If you click "browse", you can see them all at once.

Yes, I know my eyes seem to be looking in different directions in, like, two of them. Just don't vote for those . . . my vote is for "new hair 18", but what do I know?

And now that I have posted it here . . . I'm not sure I like it. Well, just go look.

Okay, I'm Back

Once upon a time, there was an Emily that gave little thought to what others thought of her. She wouldn't have cared about her super short hair . . . cause if boys didn't like it, well, that was their problem. She didn't care if anyone looked at her. In fact, she preferred if people didn't notice her at all. She wore tennis shoes to work. She didn't worry about makeup. She was passionate about her job and her family.

And then the year of "yes" happened. And quite frankly, dating has made me stupid . . . and whiny and weak. And the year of yes . . . it's being cut a week short.

So I'm back. And I don't give a flying f- what you think.

How did this come about? Well, let's see. While wallowing in my misery from last night (poor me, sniffle, sniffle) and deciding not to talk to anyone today and just stay in bed, I check my email. Two guys from matchdotcom, one wink (has a ridiculous username) (ironic when I make judgement about compatibility from someone's username) and one enormously long email. And the enormously long email may have cured me.

What was in this miraculous email? A man who knows way too much about me to be healthy. Lists usernames from both dating sites. My myspace account, which has nothing personal connected to it. Hell, he's probably reading this right now. Admits he has spent time gaining this information. Gives me more dating sites to look at him. Gives me his phone number and full name.

I think he has emailed before . . . or winked and I have ignored him. He lists his age at 39 but looks at least 10 years older. Has pictures of his daughter on matchdotcom. Is an ubergeek, by all accounts. And is so interested in me that he collects information. Has noticed me. Wants to know me. And I want absolutely nothing to do with him.

I'm sure he is a good provider. He would probably take my advice on his wardrobe and haircut. I could go buy him some new glasses. He is well read. And probably smart. And if I'm so lonely, why don't I want to jump on this train? I should call him up . . . and yet, every cell in my being says no. Something about him admitting that he knows all this. You'd be dumb not to notice that everyone is on the same dating sites and myspace. We're all tech geeks, or we wouldn't be here. But it's different if you admit it. And something about the need.

And we all have to admit that I've been repulsively needy for the last two months.

So I thought about that. I've been looping on what I wrote to RB for a while. Ruminating about what I learned from the situation. (and don't say "not much" . . . I can hear you, Princess) You know what? I don't really like most people. I'll be polite to them. I'll be nice to them. I always try to act with integrity towards other people. But except for a few, they mostly bore me. Or annoy me. Which is why I didn't want to be noticed for the most part, because then I would have to talk to other humans.

Don't get me wrong . . . I find the superficial banter and reactions of others interesting. I'll talk to anyone that I don't know very well, just to see what they'll say. Almost like I'm testing to see if people will be interesting. And sometimes they are . . . I know a lot of smart, witty and great people (before you start thinking that I'm a total sociopath). But dating . . . it makes that test your job . . . your life goal. And I'm not one to do anything half-assed. And so after going out with lots of men (and mostly being annoyed) I found one that was interesting to me. And when I became too much (because I am intensely intense) and we parted ways, I got scared. It took me a long time to sort through the sand of humanity to find that broken toy. And I didn't even see all the ways he was broken. Panic and need.

But you know what? I like getting through a day without talking to anyone. Okay, I gave the waitress my order and told her twice that I didn't need anything else. I said "Thank you" to a person who held a door for me and to the girl who ran me up at the coney island. But otherwise, nothing. Just me and my head. And for the most part, it's quiet.

And I don't have to worry about what I'm wearing, or if I'm cute enough, or what the person across from me is thinking. Or if I'm a good enough girlfriend, or if someone is going to call me . . . or what it means if he doesn't call me. The waitress doesn't care about my hair. The bookstore employees are probably annoyed that I'm up to chapter 24 and still haven't bought the book, but they'll never voice it.

Back to what is perhaps a self-centered existence. And it feels soft and warm and safe. And I feel the need falling away. And I'm back.

Faith

The girls came to Royal Oak . . . which was very nice of them.

And we had a nice evening. And I was questioned (if not chewed out) for talking to RBBF.
"Aim higher" was the theme.

But how do you aim higher? No one talked to us. There was no one to talk to. And Royal Oak is so plastic . . . and truthfully, in my twenties, I did plastic . . . boobs up to there and underwear on the outside. And now . . . I just feel old.

Princess said that my mother just wanted me to date a "normal guy". But the only normal guy she could come up with as an example was some eighty year old psychologist that we used to work with. And I really don't think my mother was picturing me running off with Dr. H.

And what Princess doesn't understand is . . . I used to not care. I had accepted my fate. I had accepted that I would grow old and be alone. I had cared for my old people. It was okay. Until I figured out that there would be no one to care for me.

And now, I'm just lonely. I have great things. Great job, great house, just bought a bunch of great clothes . . . I have great friends that listen to me bitch and love me even though I'm a pain in the ass. A great family, whom I love . . . and who love me. But still . . . lonely.

And everyone tells me that you just have to have faith. The lego that you are supposed to click with is out there. And I am losing that faith . . . or maybe I didn't have it to begin with.

I never wanted it to be easy. I don't want Prince Charming to show up on my doorstep. I wouldn't believe him if he did, even if he had I.D. But I didn't think it would be this hard. And it is this hard.

And I'm tired of going out . . . dressing up and drinking . . . and having it be the same outcome as if I had stayed home in my jeans . . . and talked to my friends on the phone. And what my friends don't understand is that RBBF is in the same place . . . and it's nice to hear the male perspective of that. It's nice to hear that someone else might be fed up with the games and tired. Because I'm tired. And 35. And in my mind, I should have two kids by now. I know that I can't go with my mental picture . . . but still.

How can you keep your faith that everything happens for a reason (especially when it's been a miserable week)? And despite the "aim higher" lecture I received this evening . . . I just really want someone who can make me laugh and that I can stand for more than half an hour. And knowing me, I think that's a pretty high standard.

I guess I just want a reason to believe. And I didn't get it this evening.

Stately and Wayne

First off . . . for some reason, I really want to go to this concert tonight. And despite my attempts to flirt with disaster, I still have no one to go with. And it was bad enough going to shows alone with good hair. I may just stay in my house for three or four months 'til this crap grows out.

Or, screw it, I may just go.

So I'm out at Stately Wayne Manor waiting patiently for the sprinklers to be "done" so I can take a shower. Evidently, there is no consistent water until then . . . and I have to stay dirty. We've talked about my father and his morning issues in the past ("you're wasting the day . . .") so I generally don't sleep in when I'm here. Plus my dad, he makes a lot of noise. Somehow all of the noise is connected to coffee, but it basically sounds like he's cutting down coffee trees with all the grinding and buzzing.

My mother expected me to sleep until noon and was quite upset that I was up so early. She had plans to garden.

I think the next plan is to ambush my sister . . . she won't be thrilled . . . but it's complicated by the fact that my sister lives three hours away and I want to get home for a silly rock show that I'm not going to go to. So, yeah, I think the plan is . . . drive three hours, go through my sister's house making faces, look at the dryer vent (or lack of one), nag about some things, leave a bag of crap and some coupons, go out to dinner, drive three hours home. Or the new plan may be just to go to Briarwood . . . there's an H&M there.

I think the sprinklers are done. Off to get clean.

Hot Colorforms and Dancing in My Backyard

Managed to peel the paint off the rest of my cabinet doors tonight. Now just have to sand and paint. I may have doors and drawers by the end of the summer. My only accomplishment.

So I'm looking rad in my cut-off shorts and wife beater . . . both of which are too big because of the running . . . and my short, short hair and my respirator with my headphones plugged in . . . and when I get to a good song . . . like "Anti-Pop" . . . I start dancing with my heat gun. Oh, and I forgot the blue leather gloves. So I look absolutely ridiculous . . . and don't care one bit.

And I really want a certain boy to call . . . which means he won't call . . . because I want him to . . .

So I'm going to take a shower, to wash away any possible lead dust (might explain the dancing) and maybe go see State Wayne Manor.

Allergic to People

I have developed an allergy to other people. I suppose if I notified someone, they could give me medication or shots, or something.

I'm done with their defenses and their silliness and their talking on their cell phones too loudly in public.

I have become a Miss Crabbypants.

And if you call me, the message will inform you that I have developed an allergy to people and cannot come to the phone. Just leave a message. I'll take a Claritin and get back to you as soon as it kicks in.

Someone told me that my hair looks "very Joan Jett" . . .

Yep, allergic to people. Giving me hives. And a headache.

Done.

To add to the angst, I tried to be nice to a person that I should've ignored totally from the moment I met him. And it went well for 1.5 emails. And then he was what he is . . . and all the resentment came out and I clicked "send". And it wasn't even half of what I wanted to say.

I'm sorry that you are so stuck . . . somewhere where the focus always has to be on yourself. It's a shame.

And yes, I am acutely aware that I am not perfect . . . far, far from it. If I were perfect, there would be no emails to send, because I would have ignored it as soon as it got ugly.

Matt Good wrote something that I found of interest . . . makes sense to me in this situation:

Our acts determine our true wealth.

When someone says that they love you, and you know that they mean it to their very core, that there is no doubt in any cell in your entire body that they are unconditionally sincere – then you are wealthy. There is no question that, for a time, financial wealth can secure the placebo of love, but it cannot create it. It cannot manufacture true love, just as it cannot ensure or secure happiness. To give ourselves to others openly and honestly, and to conduct ourselves with integrity and concern for the feelings of others, even if complete strangers, represents the sum total of our riches.

As I sit here looking out the window, lost in the haze of twilight, memories, and the talons of despair, I see a city filled only with poor people.

And I wonder how that happened.

see rest of entry here.

And I'm not so sure that I know what love is . . . anymore. Pitiful that some asshole can make me doubt that.

And it will all be okay. Tomorrow is another day.

sesame street

makes me feel a little better.

Understanding the Angst

From this:

To this:

I look like a bad version of my Aunt Wyneth.

Hair Regret

I am experiencing major hair regret.

I HATE it.

And I feel sick and think I have a fever . . . and my hair looks fugly. And it's so short that it's going to take forever to grow out. I want to cry. A lot.

Shit.

Buy Stock in MAC

The muppet hair is gone. It is now straight black. And SHORT. Really, really short. So I will have no problem with the picking up of girls . . . it will be worse than before. But considering my feelings about men in general at this point, maybe I should think about enjoying more the company of women. Except that I don't like women either . . .

Maybe I should avoid people altogether.

However, to compensate for the now super-duper short dyke hair, I went out and bought a bunch of makeup. Figured it would either help, or at the very least, confuse everyone thoroughly.

Pictures later . . . when I put all the makeup on.

No Pants . . . Ever

I'm going to have to get some elves . . . or little sewing mice . . .

It seems I have what is called a "low rise" . . . and to complicate things, long legs. So in order for things to fit in the waist, and not have my waistband at my boobs, I have to shop in the petite section. Except then when I put the petite pants on (which by the way, I'm anything but petite . . . so petite section, a bit of misnomer . . . but short people section sounds so blunt) they are about 1/2 inch too short, so I look like I'm waiting for the flood.

So I have a choice of a waistband to my boobs and a tailor (to shorten the pants) or looking like Steve Urkel. Well, either way I would look like Steve Urkel, with boobs. I love the fashion industry. So I bought no pants. I have decided to wear only low rise jeans and skirts. It's my new look.

On to bras. Finally broke down and went to the expensive store . . . had the lady measure . . . I know, mortifying. Turns out I was right about the size, which means I get to add new underwear to the shopping list. Which would be great, except that it doesn't come in my size . . . anywhere. So I can chance it on the internet, or call Pam Anderson and see who makes her bras. She will be in town soon for her third wedding.

I know, I know, there are whole blocks of time on E! television with shows about women buying my size boobs. Maybe if I go to L.A. all the bras come in a size 36 DDD. Did manage to buy one at the expensive store.

So school shopping is not going well this year. My waist is too low, legs too long and my boobs are too big to fit into anything. Oh, and things keep popping up that I already have from the 80's and 90's. I saw bodysuits at American Apparel. I still have bodysuits from the last time they were in . . . and pinstriped jeans . . . and leggings. And I'm not going back to any of them.

So feel free to make fun of me in my black skirt and blue t-shirt. (and probably converse tennis shoes) (sorry, Princess)

If anyone knows where to buy some sewing mice, like in Cinderella, please comment and let me know. I'll treat them really well.

Too Dumb

I came up with the bright idea that I could just run to music . . . find songs with the right timing for the correct week (I'm on week four) and then I wouldn't have to even wear a watch (which I am finding to be sweaty) and there is not all that looking . . . damn, fifteen more seconds? I'm going to die in 10.

So I made a really short playlist of exactly what I needed. I even found songs for the 90 second walking intervals . . . helps when you have 500 CDs sitting all over your house (I don't even have them all in my computer . . . currently just uploading whatever I'm buying. I have a tremendous backlog. God forbid if I ever get a new computer . . . or (gasp) switch to itunes or something) Problem: Windows media had to "convert" some of my tracks, so they didn't load in the same order and I don't know how to change the order of the songs on the mp3 player (read the manual? What manual?). And of course, I'm not using the software which came with the little silver thing . . . because I like it as much as I like itunes. And I have what could best be described as an allergy to itunes.

So the homework for the week . . . in addition to maybe showing my face at work this week (ugh) and finding pants that freaking fit . . . figure out how to make the order of my playlist stick. Oh, if everyone could have my life and it's insignificant problems. (yes, not sarcastic . . . making fun of myself)

New Friend

I went to the Urban Craft Fair today. Bought a new friend . . . which is soooo much easier than making new friends I assure you. He will live on my couch. I love him.

Partially because of his personality . . . he has a very quiet demeanor and agrees with me frequently.

And really, because he is a pirate sock monkey . . . and who doesn't love that?

He even has a peg leg, poor thing. Need to get him a sword and a parrot though. Working on it.

Good Bye Muppet Hair

The appointment is on Tuesday. I dyed my hair "devilish" for the last time yesterday.

And it makes me sad. I like my hair.

I love that small children look at me in wonder. I love that random African American women compliment me in stores. I even love that a group of sullen teenagers in my neighborhood yelled that "Goth" kids suck . . . even though I'm 35. I love that I am easy to spot in a large room. I love that my hair doesn't look like anyone else's hair.

And all of that will be gone on Tuesday. The "rebellion phase" will be over . . . and my hair will be a "normal" color . . . and I will go back to being a "normal" person, as much as I can ever do that.

And it makes me sad. Like Superman being relegated to always being Clark Kent. I guess it couldn't be forever . . . and my shower can't be pink forever.

So Tuesday, I will be "normal" again.

Not The Best Attitude, I Know

The last person to look at my online profile answered "Lord of the Rings" as the last book he read.

Maybe it's just because I've just seen "Clerks II", but someone please help me . . . make it stop.

I Do Terrible Things

Potential problem with picking up men at Starbucks . . .

While going to get my "fix" today, with paper in hand, discovered that golf guy was sitting near my usual table with his cronies. Now golf guy is nice . . . or I wouldn't have given him my phone number . . . but I didn't feel like talking to him today. Not after all the anti-semitic crap his friends threw around before he started talking to me.

And I keep getting ghost phone calls with no message, which I assume is golf guy. In my current attitude about men (which is not the best attitude I've had) or I should say people in general, I don't think I have time for people who don't leave messages . . . or are too afraid to leave messages . . . or whatever rationalizing BS we can come up with for the ghost phone calls.

So I turned on my heel. Thought about leaving, but I had coffee and a scone in my hand and for as much as I spend there, it might as well be my coffee shop. So went to the other side of the shop, stuck in the headphones in and made the best of it. I twitched every time someone picked up their coffee from the barista, thinking it might be an ambush. But read the whole paper, a couple of chapters in my book and finished my coffee. And wasn't noticed at all.

So I do terrible things . . . as if you didn't know this already.

"You Are My Sweetest Downfall . . . "

" . . . I loved you first"

-- Regina Spektor, "Samson" c/o NPR

Pattern Recognition and Smooth Buttons

I've been reading Gibson. It's always a sure bet . . . I always like his books and the only one that I haven't read is "Pattern Recognition". For some reason, I cannot bring myself to buy "Pattern Recognition" yet because somehow I'm sure I already have it, or I bought it for my brother and didn't give it to him, or he already had it . . . or he gave it to me. And God knows were it is . . .

So instead, I go to Barnes and Noble and read it in the air conditioning (remember? I raised the thermostat? As to not cause the blackout?). I'm already to chapter four.

There is a detailed description of the main character's clothing tics . . . she removes all the trademarks off of her clothing . . . she goes and has the logos ground off the buttons of her jeans at the shoe repair . . . which is somehow appealing to me. Needing a new wardrobe, I may model it after her, except that I can certainly grind the logos off my own buttons. I think there is a bench grinder at Stately Wayne Manor, getting no use, waiting for me.

And for any of you worrying about Mr. Gibson's financial situation, as I am "stealing" his book by reading it and not buying it . . . I'm sure I'll buy it by the end. Or I'll find it on my bookshelf. My Gibson collection has a habit of going missing (mostly to my brother, I'm sure) as I once owned everything . . . and I know I've bought Neuromancer three times and loaned it out. (one of my favorite books of all time) Gibson books do not come back to me . . . I should just consider them gifts.

Let's Blame it on the Hair . . . Again

I picked up another girl at the grocery store. It started with "I love your hair . . . " and concluded with " . . . well, you can come to my line anytime." It was at Trader Joes, so it was at least an arty cute girl. I was distracted in the excitement of finding "the best friend's" day off. Because I like Trader Joes. And I can now go there on Mondays.

I once had a friend that was very concerned about being noticed. I always assured him that he was just not noticing when people noticed him . . . usually the way it works. And before various discussions about being unnoticed at the mall or the grocery store, I hadn't given it much thought. I always chat with the cashier, the bus boy, the record store guy . . . a trait I picked up from my grandfather. I'll tell you that you really should just pick out the paint chip and go to Sears . . . because they have the best paint and all the paint here is runny and crap. And I don't care that you don't really want my opinion. This doesn't get me any more dates, I assure you. Well, maybe it would if I pursued the girl option.

Actually, I have picked up two guys at Starbucks in the last week. I just don't count them because they weren't anyone that I would date seriously. But that's really the tricky part, isn't it? Picking up people that you actually want to talk to? Maybe I'm asking for too much . . . my friend seemed unconcerned about who noticed him. He just wanted to be noticed . . . acknowledged. He didn't care who did the noticing. Perhaps, I should shift to that perspective.

Maybe I'll try Caribou today. Seems artier . . . less golf guy.

Women in Black Film Fest

It being all over the television that one should NOT go outside under any circumstances or you could melt, or incinerate because the weather service (who?) has offered up a "heat advisory". So no going outside . . . it's very dangerous, what with the melting and the deadly burning playground slides all over the news. (In my day . . . we burnt our asses on the slides and we liked it because our mother wouldn't let us back in the house.)

I basically have just used all this heat hype as an excuse to not mow the lawn and stay indoors watching movies. I watched "Capote" this morning . . . kind of drawn out to get to their point if you ask me. I watched "Aeon Flux" this afternoon, which was visually appealing and now I have something to say to my hairstylist next week (I want Aeon Flux hair . . . without those stupid tails). I still have Underworld to watch, thus making it a day of staying indoors and watching women in tight black leather clothes kick ass. (Okay, Capote doesn't fit . . . but only because he didn't wear tight leather clothes and the kicking ass was a mental type thing, until the nervous breakdown)

It's much better than heat gunning cabinetry or mowing the lawn, both of which I will do on Wednesday or Thursday, when the weather people in the magical box say it will be cooler.

I did leave my house today and noticed quite a bit of wind. Unfortunately, it's hot wind. Doesn't make anything feel any cooler. And the thermometer in my car read in the three digits (how often does that happen?). I'm being good, I raised my thermostat up five degrees, so that Detroit won't have another blackout (or at the very least, it won't be my fault). I'm even thinking about painting the basement . . . because it's cooler down there and the Cruise is coming. Plus the cabinet doors are no longer sitting in the middle of the floor . . . well, not all of them anyhow.

Off to watch Underworld. I have already watched the sequel, which gave you the lowdown on the first movie so you could understand why you paid $7 for the second, so I'm sure there won't be very many surprises.

How Vampires Die

It's 9:30 a.m.

A time that I have not been conscious for in a long time. I am trying to run before the "heat advisory" that the television people keep talking about. Then I will hide in my house for the rest of the day. I'm so tired, I'm kind of wobbley . . .

This is how vampires really die . . . forget the stakes. They burn up in the morning sun because their mommies don't want them to run at night . . . it's "too dangerous". And no matter how much the vampires explain that they are vampires, creatures of the night, their mommies make them promise . . . so they are up at an ungodly, normal people hour and are subjected to waking up to the "Today" show (which was almost enough to turn me to dust right there).

Luckily, week three in the training program is easy. But damnit, I'm getting a tan.

And yes . . .

I did go running today . . . even though it's like the surface of the sun and I didn't get up early like I was planning to avoid the heat. So I will be shopping for some sunglasses on Monday.

Game Face

As some of you already know . . . I am the worst liar in the universe. I have no "game face". You can read my emotions easily. Hell, most of the time, I don't even have to talk and people still know what I'm thinking.

The inability to mask my emotions can be quite the Achilles heel . . . in faculty meetings, an assistant principal would watch my face to see how the meeting was going. And today, I was asked a question that I didn't want to answer and I lied. And the person knew I was lying.

Now it was a little white lie. It wasn't hurting anyone to say what I said. But I could tell that you could read it on my face, that what I was saying was way more positive than what I really felt. I did manage to change the subject . . . but I need to get better at dodging.

Funny, I almost lied to the guy trying to pick me up at Starbucks this afternoon. He had gotten my phone number wrong and if he hadn't asked I wouldn't have corrected him. He was full of questions, "I play golf" man was . . .

"What do you do for fun?" Sacrifice kittens and bury their skulls in a ring around my house . . .
"So do you live around here?" So you can come over and stalk me? Sure let me tell you exactly where I live, random Starbucks man.
"Ever play golf?" Ummmm. . . have you seen my hair?
"So what to you think of Spinoza?" Do I have to think about 17th century philosophers right now? I'm trying to read the paper.
"What is a good time to call?" Ummm . . . I have voice mail. (Okay, I actually said that. Been reading "Why Men Love Bitches")

I then went to the dreaded Trader Joes, to pick up wine and organic dog treats. Didn't see RB best friend's car . . . plan was: get in, get out . . . just like Czechoslovakia. ("Stripes" joke) As I walked in a man was yelling "Hey" and I kept walking . . . couldn't be "hey"-ing at me.

Yup, he was "Hey"ing at me.

"Oh, hi . . . "
"I was yelling at you and you didn't even turn around"
(Insert lame excuse here)
We exchanged phone numbers. He has finished his album. It was pleasant. He is cute. He shows me where the organic dog treats are. "Give me a call sometime" I say. I shop for wine. Checkout at his station (knew I was playing with fire). "So what are you doing tonight?" Tell him about the dog party. Maybe escaping to see the Amino Acids. Yay, I'm going to get out of here and . . . then it comes.

"So . . . you still talk to (RB)?"
They talk more than girls . . . he already knows the answer to this question.
"No . . ."
"So you guys don't talk? You aren't friends?"
And here is where the lies come . . . and the game face did not. Okay, make what you say as short as possible as not to incriminate yourself.
"He has my phone number." Get a smile out of that one. "It didn't end badly." And change the subject . . . "So you really finished your album, that is so great . . ." Ahh, the oh-so-obvious defection to the interest of the other person.

So I want a better game face. Because my words said "I don't care" but I don't think I managed it on my face.

Off to the dog party . . . bought Norm some organic chicken strips and Princess some good wine . . . should be fun.

Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend

I lost my diamond ring today.

I was driving my truck and noticed it was gone. More accurately, I was driving my truck, talking on the phone and fiddling with the radio (because I am a menace to society) when I realized that there was nothing to spin on my finger. My thumb reached for my ring finger and there was nothing there. Ring not on . . . must not panic.

My first thought is that it had fallen off and must be in the truck somewhere . . . but I couldn't look for it, because let's face it, that would be too much multi-tasking for driving. I do have limits.

I then realized that it couldn't fall off, so it I must have put it somewhere. Perhaps in my persistent hand washing. So I did what I needed to do for the day. Put it out of my mind. Figured I would find it, even if it was lying in the driveway. I could always buy a new ring. Not very cost effective, but better than the ulcer. Plus I couldn't go home and look for it.

When I arrived home, I found it sitting next to my computer, where I usually "lose" my watch because it annoys me when I type and I take it off. Must have done the same thing with the ring this afternoon. It's not a great diamond. Women compliment other things but not the ring (which I wear on my right hand, though it probably confuses the boys anyhow) (and it was pointed out today that women do not usually compliment other women . . . so maybe I really am picking them up). But it's my diamond . . . and I'm glad it's not lost.

Wasting the Pretty

Not to be girly or anything . . . but the dress was good, the shoes . . . really good, nails done and matching toenails (thus avoiding the bad karma of two weeks ago, hopefully), hair kinda plain at the request of my wing person (who insists that my hair IS the problem).

Went to bar no. one in the place where my friends all live. Arrived too early. And evidently, arrived not blonde and tan enough. Or didn't have big enough hair. Not sure what the problem was . . . by 11, had a girl talk to me as my friend went to the ATM. On the way out, had another woman touching my hair, telling me how gorgeous it was. I'm a hit with the ladies. Wonderful.

Went to bar no. two because we thought our colleague was DJing. He is in Disneyworld for the week. One woman complimented my hair. Former student came up and hugged me (why I hate going to that town). Another woman complimented my dress . . . though I'm not really sure what she said, other than "Dress" very loudly in my ear. Went outside . . . man complimented my hair, he and his brother started talking to us. They were making double entendres about sailing terms, which I was politely ignoring. Then one of them comes out with the "HJ" . . . "you know . . . hand . . ." and that was enough. My friend, who doesn't not tolerate a$$holes very well, if at all, was ready to go home.

So I'm home by 12:15. Could go out again . . . or could just wash my face and pick M1 up from the airport tomorrow all chipper. Dress was good though. And I'm good at picking up women . . . and complete a$$holes. Guess it isn't different from any other trip to the bar.

You Guys are Lame

As I sit here and contemplate going to "Brew and View" by myself . . . because I really, actually, want to see the movie . . .

I really need to meet people on this side of town. And I'm sick of looking at this box . . . I know myspace, matchdotcom, etc. are the new form of communication but sometimes new isn't always good. I haven't been on IM in three days . . . I might just be over it. And hey, you're not suppose to talk in movies anyhow. So maybe it won't be freakishly weird when I show up alone . . . and it will be dark.

No Good Can Come From Watching Oprah

We all know that I don't have a whole lot to do . . . so when Channel 7 advertises that Oprah is having a "What Not to Wear" episode . . . well, I might as well sit down and watch it.

Most of the episode revolved around the idea of getting the right size underwear. They brought out the brafitter to The Queen for some reason and she sat on the couch and lectured about cup size in a charming British accent. There were before and after makeovers. There admonishments about dark jeans. It was like listening to Princess . . . if Princess had a television studio in Chicago and a 300 person audience.

So today, while shopping, I decided to take the bra ladies advice . . . the problem being, if I take the lady's advice, I am a 36G. They don't make that size. Well, they do, but you have to go to a special store and it only comes in one style and color. So I tried the next best thing . . . 36DDD, which they only make one of for each store. So if you are not the first 36DDD person to show up at Macy's, forget it. Also, if you find the one in that size, it's going to be at least $55. Welcome to the idea of economic inelasticity. So maybe I'm just not going to believe the British bra lady, although to her credit, it did feel better.

I also bought a dress (again, in the juniors department) following the "What Not to Wear" ladies' advice (the British ones, not Stacey and Clinton) . . . so if I look awful, it's all Oprah's fault. Thank God there was no make-up involved or I could have spent all sorts of money.

Shorts in a Bunch

Following the plan, I got to run more today . . . and walk less. (I say this like I'm excited about the "run more" part, which is not exactly true today)

Of the running equipment purchases, (exercise through consumerism) the ten dollar Target watch is good. No slipping. Don't like that it is digitial, but what are you going to do for ten dollars? Watch band is nylon, so not too sweaty. Shoes . . . jury is still out. Not bouncey. I like a certain bouncey quality in my new shoes. And they're white and lilac . . . as discussed before. But they seem to work. Shorts, well, they suck. The key pocket is nice. But there is some bunching and there is pulling and adjusting . . . and I don't want to think about my shorts while I run. My shorts were literally "in a bunch". So it might be back to carrying the keys.

Some young man chose to run in the street to pass me . . . because I am an old lady runner. Oh, and it rained. So I'm so commited, I've already run in the rain. Can't wait until snow.

Since I cannot strip things in the rain . . . off to coffee. Maybe the bike store. Eehhww . . . the back of my head is sweaty.

Waiting for my Brother to Call

Why can't they make women's running shoes in better colors? Cause I now am the proud owner of some lilac and white shoes (with something called "stability control") . . . so I am ONLY wearing them for running . . . and running only in places that people can't see me. I also bought some overly expensive shorts with a little key pocket, so I don't have to carry my keys anymore.

If I make it through next week, I'm going to get sunglasses. Week after that . . . fancy running underwear . . . Lord help me, I don't know what I'm going to do if I run out of equipment to buy.

Had a very nice lunch with my father. Made me think that I maybe should get a "real" job, one that I could go out to lunch like other people. I don't have any skills . . . other than wrangling high schoolers (which I'm pretty good at) . . . but there has to be something compariable in the corporate set. Alligator wrestling? Entertainment law?

So I called my baby brother back at 11:30 and it is now 1 am. So when he asked if I would be up later, perhaps he meant sometime next week.

Running -- Part Three -- Not so High

The first time I "trained" this week, I got this terrific feeling afterward . . . this little endorphin "high", that made me feel like I could run some more, or at least clean something. I felt good.

The second time, there was less of that . . . still felt good, but not "take on the world" good.

Time number three, not so much. Just sweaty. And I can handle being sweaty . . . until the back of my head gets sweaty and then, I turn all girly and hate it.

I'm keeping in mind that I up the workout for "run" number four, so I made be able to repeat the endorphin pattern again next week. And . . . I get to go to the "runners" store for new shoes and Target for a cheap watch . . . somewhere for a little pockety thing to keep my keys. I get to go running shopping. Yay!

Of War Protests and Dogs

I went to Starbucks to read the paper.

I then decided to walk to Shine to look for something for the M1 box, that is sitting on my counter, waiting, hoping to be sent.

There was a cute guy walking ahead of me. With a girl, but I was appreciating the cuteness . . . the overly cool tatt on his shin, the camo shorts, the nice looking dog, the shaved head . . . until my foot slid in something.

My feet are not suppose to slide on the sidewalks of Royal Oak. I look down. Dog sh*t. Fresh dog sh*t. Very, very fresh . . . because it had come out of the guy's dog about four seconds ago. The work F*CK careens out of my mouth as I realize that my Birk is covered in warm sh*t. Tattooed shin guy stops, turns around, looks at the ground and for some reason tells his girlfriend to turn back . . . so they have to walk past me and my soiled shoe.

For some reason I thought they were going to clean up the poop in the middle of the sidewalk. Nope. Maybe they had to run home in shame? Dogs let you know when they want to go . . . which is when you let them go somewhere that is NOT the middle of the sidewalk. Street would have been a better choice, grassy knoll by the railroad tracks, even better. God, people are a$$holes. Managed to avoid the giant piles of poop on the way back . . . but could see that other people hadn't. And had to spend twenty minutes cleaning my shoe once I got home. And tracked sh*t into a bunch of stores.

And because I don't have enough to do . . . I'm going to bring up something controversial . . . flame all you like, because you usually just flame my normal stuff anyhow. As I was leaving Royal Oak, out of the corner of my eye, I saw what seemed to be a war protest marching down Main Street. I'm not up on the schedules, as they won't put me on the mailing list.

But considering what is currently happening in the Middle East . . . I find it very ironic that the people who are carrying these signs are also some of the people who support Israel. So when you carry a "No War" sign, are you also saying that we should pull our support of Israel? Because despite the evil heathen arguments and the war for oil arguments . . . there is an element in this whole mess about the U.S. supporting the Israeli state. Right or wrong. For or against, it's there.

No I didn't stop and ask. They really didn't want to hear what I have to say anyhow. And they can march up and down Main Street until they are blue, for all I care. It is their right. As long as they are here, in this country.

And possibly less annoying than the dog sh*t, but only slightly.

Running -- Part Two

My family has a lot of private jokes . . . I assume all families do . . . and most of ours revolve around catch phrases. Someone will says something that will strike another of us funny and the joke then evolves until you cannot stop it. "I forgot I was holding it" is one of them . . . said whenever you have a really big brainfart or if someone thinks that you are not thinking straight. "Did you forget you were holding it?" My poor sister is responsible for that one. And it is a story for another time.

Another one is "Iiiii'mmmm . . . . sweaaaty" (or I'm sweaty, for those who prefer English) which has to be said in exactly the right intonation. It is a quote from one of my "cousins" (or my father's best friend's kids . . . who are actually closer to me than my cousins), said when she was maybe three, if that. The exact quote would be "Daddy . . . Iiii'mmmm. . . sweaaaty. . . " in a tone of utter frustration and disgust, as if being sweaty was the worst thing you could possibly be . . . as if she would rather be dead than sweaty and her daddy should fix it right now, by putting out the sun or making an air conditioner than could condition the air of the entire world. Our family uses it all the time . . . in the middle of moving someone in August . . . when lifting heavy things . . . heck, I even throw in the "Daddy" if my father is around.

So comment on running workout two . . . Iiiiii'mmmm . . . sweaaaaty . . .

Still like the little buzz afterward. Still really want new shoes. (and now a new watch. . . mine is too loose and makes marks because of the sweat) So I will run on Sunday. Ahhh, materialistic fitness . . . the best kind. Wait and see if I actually get fit . . . and then there will be new clothes to buy.

And Strike Three . . .

I've come to the conclusion (after the intervention last week) that I'm not sad . . . just terribly frustrated with human beings in general.

People consistently say things they don't mean, things they think others want to hear . . . is everything driven by fear?

So how do I overcome this frustration? How do I see light again in the human race? The only solution I see is to only talk to people I already know . . . I know they are a safe bet, because I still talk to them after all these years . . . and avoid interaction with anyone new unless it's on a purely superficial level.

It's like that sticker I modified and stuck on my jacket in college . . . "people suck". And I used to think it was the people I was seeking out . . . the broken toys . . . but I've just had the rather rude awakening that it may be across the board. No wonder we take such joy in blowing each other up.

Wait for the Endorphins to Kick in

I went for a run today.

I went for a run, without anyone chasing me, for the first time since, say . . . sixth grade.

And I didn't die. And I didn't think I was going to die while doing it (as in previous attempts to "run").

Helps that I've been walking three miles a day for a while. Helps that I've been walking for a year . . . even in the snow and the forty below.

The endorphins afterward are lovely. I can understand why people get obsessed. It makes you feel really, really good for about an hour or so. Of course, that may also be the lack of oxygen to my brain.

Plus, if I keep with it for more than a week, it's an excuse to buy more shoes.

Asking for Directions?

Once upon a time, I lived in Detroit. Now to some of you, especially my friends from the west side of the state, I have always lived in Detroit because the entire metro Detroit area is assumed to be "Detroit". But at one time, I lived in Detroit proper. Not the suburbs, where your trash is picked up on a weekly basis and no one steals your mail. The city, with it's lovely car fires, cultural institutions (I could walk to the DIA . . . very carefully), and Larry the crack dealer who sat next to the dumpster and always wanted to go through my trash. (and I always let him. Who was I to argue?)

While I was living in Detroit, I picked up a sense of caution about men who pulled up on the side of the road and rolled their windows down. In the suburbs, I would have assumed that the man wanted directions. In Detroit, I assumed that the man thought I was a hooker (not because I was dressed like a hooker . . . but a white woman walking in my neighborhood, well . . .).

So when the man slowed down on my street today (which is a pretty busy street) as I was walking to get coffee and rolled down his window, I made eye contact and then kept walking. There were four cars stuck behind him . . . so he probably wasn't going to kidnap me. There was a gas station about twenty feet up, so he could pull in there to ask directions. I just figured whatever this fifty year old man in his Honda wanted, it just wasn't going to be good.

So if you were really going to ask directions, I hope you figured out there was a Marathon to your right. Sorry to seem rude, but I don't talk to strangers who pull over and roll their windows down. Guess it's just the Detroit baggage I have.

Thank yous

Thank you to my mother, who called to check on me and gave me some good advice that I probably won't remember next time in that situation (because I am a blabber mouth and will tell people anything).

Thanks to E2, who was kind enough to come out with me last night, thus not wasting all the makeup that I had slathered on my face.

Thanks to M1 for all the support and research . . . I feel like I have a dating tech department.

Thank you to the Berkley Front, for still being a cool bar . . . despite harboring ghosts of my last breakup (never bring a boy to that bar again . . . my bar damnit).

Thanks to M3 (4?), my little IM friend who read my whining and wrote things to make me feel better.

Thank you to the public school system at large, for having summers off, even though we are not longer a agrarian society, so I can sleep until noon.

Boys Suck

"Coffee" has been cancelled. Other things to do. Strike two.

Do I really want to date someone that has other things to do? So many that it doesn't leave time for coffee?

I know it's not supposed to be easy. But now, it's Monday night . . . I have makeup on . . . and all I have to look forward to is that "The Closer" is going to be on in 15 minutes (I was sad about missing it for coffee). This sucks.

I know, I know . . . it should say Men Suck, as I'm not talking about anyone under the age of 29 . . . but they all act like boys.

And by the way . . .

Anyone want to go out tonight? I have my first "coffee" (coffee = blind, in the online dating world) date post RB. I might need a drink afterward . . . he sounds great on paper (not bad on the phone either), but they all sound great on paper.

New Feature

Because it's too hot and I already weeded my front yard . . . and I don't really want to heat gun on the hottest day yet of the year (though I will . . . eventually) . . . I made this pretty new feature on the blog. Witness, on your right, the photo stream.

I was going to go fancy, with the flash option that made the pictures move around, but sometimes simple is best. Unfortunately, now I will actually have to take photos to keep you entertained, instead of just writing this banter.

So let me know what you think . . . yes, mother, I left out the picture with the finger.

More Fun Than I Should Be Allowed

. . . to have in one afternoon.

As what I was supposed to do today did not work out, I decided to suit up in the haz-mat gear and try out the heat gun. Turns out it's more fun than $9.99 is supposed to be. It just melts stuff . . . and you all know how I like to melt stuff.

The trick is to not burn stuff (which I also like to do . . . ) and there is a fine line. Luckily, Harold and Alice (the previous homeowners) liked to paint frequently, so it all comes off in one big (and I'm sure deadly) chunk. But first, it bubbles up nicely. I don't know what I'm going to do if I ever finish the cabinet doors . . . I'm going to have to find other things to melt.

Perhaps I will paint paintings and then melt them as a statement about the disintegration of society as a whole. I'm sure to get a gallery show with that.

Or I could just get a $1.99 bag of army guys and maybe some 11 year old boys to hang out with . . . and a sandbox, so we don't burn down the house.

How Come No One Told Me

Before heat gun

After heat gun

To Pull Out and Have Silverware

Bottom of drawer before

Bottom of drawer after

Quote of the Day

As read in the manual to my new respirator (as if I had an old one):

!WARNING!
"This respirator provides LIMITED protection. It may help reduce exposure to airborne biological agents, including avian (bird) flu virus, other types of influenza, SARS, or other bacterial or viral biological agents, but will not eliminate the risk of exposure, infection, illness, or death."

Protection against SARS? Even "limited" protection? I just bought the thing because of all the lead and asbestos that I'm going to have to secretly smuggle out of here. I may now have to wear it at all times. Especially to work . . . and on dates.

Yeah, First Thought, Best Thought

I'm sorry that I can't be your trained monkey . . . but I can't.

Slowing Down the Karma Downspin

There was a moment last night that I was utterly obnoxious. Princess worked the moment with grace . . . sometimes she is really our shining star (sorry, I couldn't help it and it WASN'T your fault) . . . I could step outside of myself and realize that I was behaving badly, I just couldn't stop it. Well, there were maybe two moments, because there was this lady who dropped her plate, I think because she hooked it on my purse . . . and I kept walking. (start of the karmic downturn)

Being a former restaurant/bar employee, I would have hated me. It wasn't his fault that someone decided to have a "list" party, so that the bar would look more "New York" or something. It wasn't his fault that he was "overcapacity". I was just being a bitch. For no reason whatsoever.

My fingernails now match. I deleted the weird hater comment that I arrived home to . . . and I will now try not to talk to anyone unless absolutely necessary . . . so "I'd like a grande soy latte, please" will be about it. I will try to smile at small children and puppies, but otherwise keep to myself. I need some quiet time . . . maybe some time out.

Psst . . . Hey . . . Over Here . . .

I just wanted the whole internet to know . . . my fingernail polish does not match my toenail polish . . . and . . . I'm going out in public anyway . . .

Whitney

Okay, Princess promised me . . . promised me . . . that we could go to the Whitney Garden party today. So I'm dyeing my hair and we are going to the garden party damnit. Because it is on the summer list and I have a strong urge to wear heels. (yes, I need a reason to wear high heels . . . I'm not just going to wear them around the house) I want to do full makeup (I haven't put anything on but mascara since middle June . . . again, yes, I need a reason for the goo) I want to sit outside with a girlie drink in my hand and share news other than what's happening at work. I want to go out . . .

Because I have news . . . maybe only five minutes worth of discussion, but news nonetheless.

As Seen on TV

Why can't I get a job making "how to" videos like this?

Standards

Dooce just said so much better than I ever do . . .

Langston and Chiquita

I know that it is summer and you have to let the little rascals out or they don't socially adjust but does everyone have to have a stroller the size of a Buick? Today I tripped over one that actually had the Jeep logo on it . . . I think because it was the size of a Wrangler and the company wanted to warn people. (Then how did you trip over it, you ask? I didn't. I was using the verb for effect.)

I was in downtown Royal Joke and these people had let their rugrats out of their "offroad devices" to wander around near traffic as they discussed important things, like how their lives were before they had the rugrats and the offroad Buick-like strollers.

"Langston, honey, Chiquita doesn't want to go that way, honey . . . so you can't make her."

I kid you not . . . Langston was forcing Chiquita to go in her not chosen direction by grabbing her head and pulling. Langston. Chiquita. Not related. Both Caucasian. Maybe it's the teacher in me but those kids have some fights on the playground ahead of them. Good thing Langston is training now.

No, really. I'm not making this up. Langston and Chiquita. Both about two years of age . . . with totally unrealistic parents.

For 9 Bucks, I Could Wear Them Once and . . .

Instead of cutting down the mass of foliage that is making my driveway look "Clampet"-y, yesterday I went shopping. The original goal of the shopping? My friend's birthday was on the fifth . . . and we all forgot. Now it's not unusual for me to forget . . . I ignore birthdays, including my own . . . but everyone forgot. So I went in search of something cute.

I went to downtown Berkley. Not a good idea, as it turns out that they are redoing Twelve Mile (again?) and all of the business owners decided to close until the 10th. The entire city of Berkley is on vaca until then . . . if I had known I would have left town . . . or started a burglary ring.

So I went to Ferndale, which keeps promising to be more "fabulous" than the last time you were there. Yeah, RB does some work with the downtown development people . . . so it's not any more "fabulous" than before, except maybe that you can eat there now. (yes, I'm saying that there was/is some false advertising) Still the same strange dollar stores, an few more arty stores . . . a lot more homeless than I remember . . . unless they were just loitering Ferndale residents that had homeless outfits on (with a good dose of the "I'm obviously mentally ill" look). Found only one store that I would go back to and bought nothing, not even at the Old Navy outlet. But suddenly more restaurants than you would want to shake a stick at . . . and most are upscale. (Yes, I would like my $10 a la carte salad on the patio so I can watch that half naked man yell about Jesus while I'm chewing on my watercress. But we would like to have our entree inside. Thank you.)

Before you get all uppity about my comments on the homeless . . . remember that I am commenting on the swanky restaurants that are eventually going to round them all up and relocate them to south of 8 Mile, if the "Downtown Development" organization doesn't do it first, right after they install that electrified fence on the border.

Depressed that I didn't find anything good from my local merchants, I then did what I do when I'm depressed . . . I went to Target. Thought about purchasing an $8 tube top (he,he, what would I do with a tube top?) but it didn't come in any colors and I've been told I can't purchase any more black. Bought a silly CD instead (Panic at the Disco . . . yep, me and the fourteen year old girls). Went to Kohl's and found some jeans in the juniors section . . . that's right, I said juniors section . . . and tried them on for giggles because they were $9. And I had to go get a smaller size. So Levi's jeans for $9. For that price, I'll wear them once (wearing them right now, as a matter of fact) and throw them away. I've been known to spend more than $9 on lunch.

Still have to find something for M2 for her birthday. I'm thinking slang flashcards. Maybe with some sparkly barrettes. That girl needs more sparkly barrettes.

The End of An Era

I cancelled my matchdotcom subscription today . . . it used to be $12 a month of amusement but it's not as entertaining anymore.

I started this blog when I started eharmony. Kept at it when I got kicked off of eharmony. Meant it as a record of the silliness of internet dating and it became a record of my life . . . which is really just silliness also. M1 will be disappointed at my giving up "the year of 'yes'" early but I just can't do it anymore. Not for a while. I can't look through 50 pages of the same guys who were there last August. I tire of email flirting. I'm tired of terrible pictures . . . of guys who say they're 36 when they are obviously in their 50s . . . of guys who put their kids' pictures on their profiles . . . tired of guys who spell "does", "dors" . . .

I've dated two men that seemed reasonable in print . . . one I could even handle in person everyday . . . who turned out to be so unreasonable, that I don't talk to them anymore . . . so perhaps my first entry in this blog is true.

Yes, I want to "share my life with someone" as sappy as that sounds. RB made me even more sure about that. Yes, I really want to have kids with someone. I just can't matchdotcom anymore. I know it took Princess' friend four years . . . but I'm exhausted.

Mouse House

As promised . . . see link here

Girlie-ness and the Art of Truck Maintenance

Having just completed an oil change on my truck (I am usually the assistant but Mr. CP had his accident and it's hard for him to make level changes), I now realize why chicks don't do car maintenance. There are too many nail breaking opportunities. And the oil, it's hard to get off your rings (just kidding, I didn't wear the diamond to change the oil).

I almost broke a nail on some pliers (to clean the mouse nest out of my frame . . . don't worry, next entry . . . with pictures!). I almost broke a nail putting the "green box" of wrenches away (special socket set . . . been in a metal green box for as long as I can remember . . . probably older than I am). I got hot dirty oil all over my manicure. It was icky.

Keep in mind that I come from a family that required you to be able to change your own oil before you could drive . . . so I have changed my oil before, once or twice. It's just that my father usually gets frustrated because I'm "not doing it right" or I'm too slow and then he just does it for me while I hand him the wrenches. I'm good at handing wrenches. I'm good at knowing how to change my own oil in theory.

Today I got under the truck and did it myself, while my father complained. At one point, while screaming obscenities at the oil filter (because it was f-ing hot), my father decided to critique and I just glared at him and said "SHHHHH" and then went back to swearing . . . because oil was dripping from some thingy they put in the way (almost on my head).

And while you are under there, you only find problems . . . like the mouse house in my frame. But I didn't drive the truck over the ramps (I have previously) and the oil is changed . . . and I probably got the filter "hand tight" enough that it won't leak. Probably.

Oh, and that soap "they" use . . . the stuff you use without water? To get the oil off your hands . . . it smells like a$$.

Marathon of "Made"

On a happier note (to please my mother and the Princess), MTV had a marathon of their show "Made" on all day. I know that it's staged, as they always "get" the fact that they just have to be confident about three-fourths into every show and they always really "appreciate" the experience if they don't get to be the prom queen (just once I'd like them to be f#$kin' pissed). But it's just so nice to get a glimpse into these teenagers' lives and think -- THANK GOD, at least I don't have to be a teenager again . . . ever.

The overwhelming theme of the show is: if you think it, you'll be it . . .

And that is a helpful theme, because it is mostly true . . . even if it is evil MTV.

The Double-Edged Sword of Sex and the City

In one way, I find watching "Sex in the City" comforting. It's a show about dating . . . and therefore, a show about breaking up . . . or not dating . . . or just the hassle of relationships.

And I'm okay that we used to watch it together . . . partially because I watched it before and partially because a guy who admits that he loves "Sex in the City" . . . the edited version without the nudity . . . well, there's a little suspicion there.

But last night, with my mojito in hand, I watched Carrie break up with Big for the second time . . . okay, I can totally relate . . . but then Big shows up at her apartment. Big comes back. To her credit, Carrie then breaks up with Big again. But only after they shag. And remembering the series, she ends up with Big in the end. That didn't help. In fact, they all end up with someone in the end. And right now that isn't helping at all.

And I know it's just a show and they had to end it that way, or we'd all throw a fit. And I suppose I could just shoot for the younger man like Samantha. But when Carrie broke up with Big, well, in real life they don't come back knocking on your apartment door.