Despite It Being Like Groundhog Day

Every so often the little nuggets surprise you.

There was big drama today at lunch in the teacher's lounge. A girl voted onto Homecoming Court may be a "joke" instead of Homecoming Court "material".

Never having been Homecoming Court "material" myself, I'm not sure what is required. And quite honestly, never cared when I was a student. But there was hand-wringing. And teeth-gnashing. "Should we tell her? Should we not have her on court? What should we do?"

I, of course, put in my opinion. "I think you should tell her that hey she made Homecoming Court, which is great. And f**k them." And then I got yelled at for saying f**k in the teacher's lounge.

And then there was more hand-wringing and teeth-gnashing. Would the other students "boo" when her name was called? How did it come to this? Should we talk to her friends? How do we prepare her for this?

Because we, the adults, are control freaks. And this is now beyond our control. So we are trying to get it back . . . to make it raise it's hand before it sharpens it's pencil. How could the kids vote in non-Homecoming "material" as a cruel joke? Next thing you know, they'll organize and overthrow us.

But at the end of the day, I saw the girl. She was at her locker with her best friend. The BF is a former student of mine, so I said "hello" but he didn't hear me . . . so a stood and waited for them to finish up their conversation. She did not seem frail. She did not seem disadvantaged. She had sparkly ribbons in her hair.

And a senior walked by . . . "Hey __________, congratulations!" the senior said. And she meant it. There was a pause. The pause of someone being complimented who isn't all that often. "Thanks ____________" she said gracefully, and added "I really like your hair like that." And it was a moment. But everything is going to be all right. Homecoming "material" she is . . .

Sometimes the little nuggets surprise you.

Hmmmmm . . .

When removing your car battery . . . negative or positive first?

Guess I'll know if there are sparks.

Built on Coffee

I had a lovely day, which somehow revolved around getting coffee. Hud has a shirt that fits (and I got to be right). I woke up at a decent hour. I got nothing done . . . but that often is the main component of a very good day.

And I have drawers in my kitchen. With new fancy hardware and everything. And just six more cabinet doors to re-strip. So do-able, if I get one done everyday.

And I don't know which day it is for Homecoming . . . it's either "Get up and Go" so I'll get up and put on pajamas or College Sweatshirt day. Unsure which one it is . . . so may have to bring two outfits to school. What pants do you wear for college sweatshirt day?

And I have had way too much coffee.

Princess Takes the Hit

(okay, back)

Emily: "No really, it's the rule . . . "
E2: "But she is trying to be so nice. We have to go."

There is more discussion than that, but I'll spare you. The boss clan will get there first. E2 will get there before me, because I refused to use anything but a bank ATM. I find the others to be "dirty" . . . like free WiFi. Kinda like rolling around in a back alley. You never know what's been there.

And the funniest conflict there, is that I've actually gone digging around in back alleys. I came up with a plan for my school to adopt a park in Detroit once and would sweep up syringes. But I won't use an ATM in a bar. Or a gas station. Unless it has a big Chase sign or something.

So as I'm searching for a bank . . . wracking my brain for the placement of a credit union . . . I come up with a plan. A plan of genius. I will call Princess.

We went out to dinner with Princess. The reason I was late. Nice Italian place on the lake. She flirted with our waiter. Our waiter flirted back. We decided we liked him. (Augi at Andiamo's. He didn't have a ring.) He had some good things to say about LLCs. But Princess didn't want to go to the game. Two years out of teaching and she doesn't know anyone.

But Princess is game to go out with the boss clan. Technically, she is now higher up on the education food chain than they are . . . she is our balance. And she taught and went to reindeer games with both the principal-former-gym-teachers. Perfect. I go pick her up. And it worked beautifully.

Princess had witty banter. Everyone was happy to see her. The Head bought the drinks. We talked shop. The nice boss finally figured out my age.

"No, really. I'm 36."
"I really thought you were younger."
"Well thank you, but 36." (which really meant, in Emily code, I'm still 10 years older than you . . . and have 10 more years of teaching and life experience on you)

Princess had class this morning at 8 am and a football tailgate immediately after. So I'm sure she is hurting today. If only for lack of sleep. She called me at 8:15 this morning and got me out of bed. Seems only right. But then again, I can sit at home . . . which is better than sitting in graduate school. I remember.

So except for the Princess-is-tired-and-cranky-today glitch, perfect plan. Everyone had fun. No lives were lost. No careers ruined. And there was Burger King at the end.

About Last Night or Friday Night Lights

Dinner had run late. And I was supposed to be "coaching" photography. Which means on the field, gesticulating wildly at some kid with a camera to get down and get the shot. Yearbook kids are always afraid to get their jeans dirty or something. Perhaps that is why they are yearbook kids . . . and not football players.

As I pull into the farthest parking lot possible . . . because I am a half an hour late . . . pull on my school ID badge because I want to impress my boss and I might need my keys, put my purse in the trunk and notice that there are two boys sitting on their skateboards in the middle of the parking lot. They are not in high school, not my students . . . but boys, they do not usually sit on skateboards. There is usually motion. At least wiggling as they are talking or something. These boys are not moving at all.

"Is everything all right? You're taking a break?" I say.
The boy in the longer hair answers, "I think I just broke my arm."

I go into Mom mode. Check his fingers. He can move them a little. There are no bones protruding or sticking out. Good sign. Might have just cracked his wrist. Thank goodness I have my school ID on . . . I ask who to call. There is discussion between the boys, whose parents to call. "No, no. Who is in charge of you?" I ask the broken one. I call his grandmother. Explain that I am a teacher at the high school and the injury. Give directions. She will come.

As we wait, I feel that we have to chat. It's pretty glum. Another school employee brings some ice and we talk about skateboards until his grandmother shows up. His trucks are loose (maybe why he is falling off the skateboard?) and I tell them to go see my former student at the skate shop. "Have him fix this. Tell him I sent you." His grandmother somehow misses us and is driving aimlessly around the parking lot, so I have to run, waving, to get her. It's a van with two small dogs running loose in it. And a giant pink bag of dog food. She doesn't sound like she is going to take him to the hospital (often people do not have insurance in my district) and so I add my two cents . . . tell her to at least get it x-rayed. The bones in the wrist could be cracked. Say goodbye to the boys. Tell them that I'll see them in two years when they get to the high school.

So now I'm an hour and fifteen minutes late.

And I love to talk to everyone at football games. I become the super extrovert . . . waving, smiling, chit-chatting. "Ooooh, how are you? How's school? How's your mom?" As I am standing next to the only other teacher there, I strike up a conversation with a parent. I don't know her son. A freshman and I no longer teach freshmen. "Oh, but I know you . . . " she says and proceeds to tell me how her neighbor has told her all about me. In a tone that is not good. Tells me that there are only two teachers to avoid and I am one of them.

Who does this? I'm at a football game. Wearing school colors, waving and smiling. She tells me who has given her this information and also tells me that she knows that the source might not be all that credible. And evidently, after I left (because who stands around for that?) she turned to my friend and said, "Well, she seemed really nice."

And the game was awful and I don't know why. They lost. And we used to be used to losing. But we have a new coach and he is great. Doesn't swear at the kids. Respects them. Tells them to be respectful. And I don't know if this was a big game, or if the players just didn't want to disappoint him . . . but there was a whole lot of crying. I've never seen so many men crying at once. Big boys, who are normally mean bullying ______ at school, blubbering. Which was hard to look at. And I definitely couldn't take pictures of it.

At the end of the game, my very earnest boss, wanted to invite us out. She is very nice. Young. About ten years younger than I am.

I was one of two teachers at the game. And there is a rule. The rule among thieves, as it were . . .no going out with the bosses. Harder than one might think. Two of them used to be the gym teachers at our school. And you know how gym teachers are with the reindeer games, so they were regulars. And think they can now just be the same. And it's not the same.

Emily: "So what did we just do? Why are we going out with them?
E2: "She was trying so hard. Did you hear her? She must have asked a dozen times. We have to go."
Emily: "But what about the rule?"

(to be continued)

Didn't get the NO FUN Memo

We are in work week three. There's already been a yearbook fight.

"Ms. _____, you look tired."

And I am tired. I need to go to bed earlier.

Planning a photo scavenger hunt for tomorrow . . . which will be terribly fun and a disaster. Other teachers don't like it when kids roam the halls. They especially don't like it when the kids are having fun. There's no fun allowed in school. And I keep missing that memo. The "they aren't allowed to have fun" memo.

Oh, and I taught my bouncy drawing kids some Pilates today.

"I love that I can get them to sit still if I make them do Pilates circus act poses."
"And do you demonstrate these poses?"
"Of course."

So school week three. What should I have them take pictures of?

Lyrics

I dreamt last night of sirens
By flashlight I had found you
You just held my hand
By the bright lights in some ICU
Even the planless have a plan

I can't write love songs when I'm on these things
I'm affable, responsible, but hard to be around
It's correctable and they're right you know
It's as easy as it sounds
It's all as easy as it sounds

I dreamt last night I saw you
A single spark explosion negotiating with the dead
By the bright lights in some ICU
On my chest you put your head
And said...
There you are
There you are
There's my heart

-- Matthew Good "A Single Explosion"

So while I was walking tonight, I thought about the nature of this "journey" that I'm on . . . and by the way, I hate the word "journey" but can't think of a better term. Sounds all new agey and shit. Anyhow, when you put yourself out there . . . to find new friends, lovers, people, connections, what have you . . . with that comes loss. Rejection. And for some reason, I can handle the rejection (ignorant f**ks, don't see me for what I am . . . ) but I'm not good with the loss.

I'll miss people for no good reason. One little thing that clicked. One thing that I really liked about them. The ability to bring me back to center, whether he knew it or not, was the case I was thinking of specifically. And yes, I managed to start school and crash my car without being hip checked mentally (at least by this person). But funny how people can balance you out. And the vacuum they leave.

And it's only a vacuum when you have nothing to do but think. And it's such a little thing. But how many little vacuums have I left in my wake?

Whatever. Too much thinking. Oh yeah, and the line that resonates? "I'm affable, responsible, but hard to be around."

"No think, only do." -- Yoda

Historial? Home Tour

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, Two Things

I was just carded for spray paint.

And I was so surprised by their asking, that I stuttered my birth date.

The kids. They huff it. So they have to ask you for your birth date . . . just like at Meijer's, but at Meijer's I'm buying liquor.

"Oh, I thought you were asking because you thought I was going to make some graffiti." Nope. Don't care if you tag the place. Just don't sniff it. And at 36, Home Depot thinks I'm old enough to decide.

Okay, next.

My "superior" . . . a.k.a. an assistant principal . . . asked me today, "if you were still teaching English, would you have applied for department head?"

They were surprised by my answer. "Hell no." Well more like, "Hell NO." I then went on to explain that I make a good minion. I like behind the scenes. "I like to do stuff, but as soon as you get a title . . . well, crap gravitates to you."

To a friend later, I explained that the A.P. seemed confused by my answer. "Hmmm, let's see . . . a natural leader, who is unwilling to take any official leadership role. Yeah, not confusing, at all." (I think I got that quote right. If not, please correct me in the comments.)

Awwww. Someone called me a "natural leader".

Dodge vs. Volkswagon

"Your truck wasn't as bad as I thought it would be."

First off, I drive truck. Well, I used to drive a truck. And as trucks go . . . it was a medium-sized truck. And it was hit by a Volkswagon Jetta . . . or Passat . . . or something. And they are not medium-sized. Volkswagon Jettas are small.

So I was not in any real danger. It did get sorta tippy, so maybe if I flipped. And I was wearing my seatbelt. And I have air bags and all that jazz. But no, my truck is not a mangled mess of metal. It's just really, really bent. In ways it is not supposed to be bent.

And thank goodness it was the truck and not my little car, or I would have flipped over and rolled or something. It would have been a fairer fight, let's just say.

And now, I'll just cement my whole backyard and come out going forward. As the cop pointed out, I don't like to mow the lawn anyhow.

Due Care and Caution

So not totalled. Only half of totalled. And a tire. And perhaps a pear tree.

The adventures of the day . . . I went to the Secretary of State yesterday to get a new copy of my registration. Yes, I know. I'm supposed to have a registration on my person. And I did . . . but they made us get new license plates, so there was that temporary one and then the real one came in the mail but not together with my other car. Anyhow, it was misplaced somehow. So I received a ticket for that . . . in addition to my "failure to use due care and caution" citation. Yes, it is my fault. I pulled out of my driveway, impeding traffic. Which makes me leery of pulling out of my driveway ever again.

(The fun part? When I tell men this? They advise me to "back in" to my driveway and then I can just pull out when I want to. Except when I explain the street I live on . . . and that the only time I might be able to "back in" to my driveway would be 3 a.m.. Otherwise, I would be really impeding traffic. Back in when cars are going 50 m.p.h. down the busy street. grumble.)

So today, I made it to the court office in time and showed them my registration. "This is a duplicate." Well, yes, I just got it from the Secretary of State. "It says you got this yesterday." Why, yes, I did. "I can't use this . . . you'll have to bring me the registration from Monday." Well, okay, but I can't find my registration . . . which is why I'm talking to you and why I got a new one printed. "Yeah, this won't fix this." Well, I guess I could go back to my house to tear it apart again and look under the refrigerator again, but I really couldn't find it. Which is why I got the ticket. So what happens if I don't find it? "You'll get charged the ticket fee." But I have a registration.

At this point a woman calls from the back of the office. I am standing looking perplexed on the other side of the bulletproof glass. "Does it say 'duplicate'?" "Yeah." "It's valid. Give it to her." "Is it a waived ticket?" "Yeah." So with that taken care of, we move to the "failure to use due care and caution" part of the proceedings. "So you want a court date?" "The officer at the scene suggested that I get a court date." "Phone number." I give her my phone number and there is a discussion of if this number is the number that I can be reached at during the day. I have to explain that I'm a teacher and that I cannot answer the phone during the day. "Oh, so you want night court?" Well, no. I don't want to make anyone stay late . . . I can really take a personal day. "So night court. We have a 5 p.m." Then there is the "admit" or "deny" section on the form. I shrug. "I was just pulling out of my driveway." She does not like that answer. "What did the policeman say to you exactly?" That I should go ask the judge to waive the points. She writes "WAIVE POINTS" in big letters on the form and checks the box "review". "Okay, don't do anything about your ticket. I'll send you a notice. The officer works during the day, so he will not be showing up. He only goes to day court."

I'm still confused and don't get any paperwork. But I arrived at 10 minutes to close, so I don't argue. I tell the woman to have a nice afternoon. "Yeah. What's left of it."

So I have a court date. And I don't have to bring pictures or math equations or diagrams, "cause you're just gonna talk to the judge."

And the though of talking to the judge still makes me nauseous.

But it's just the "good girl/teacher" in me. At least I don't have blue hair anymore.

(Chinese Mafia . . . goin' to court.)

Cars and Trucks and Things That Go

Thank you Richard Scarry for the title line. (My brothers' favorite book when we were children)

And I Was Going to Lunch

I think my truck is totalled.

I was pulling out of my driveway yesterday and was hit by a Jetta . . . well, I think it was a Jetta. There are pieces of it between the rim and my back tire. It knocked my back window open. And bent the bed back to crush the cab on the opposite side.

I pulled out and then I was moving quickly and then I was looking straight on into traffic.

The maybeit'saJetta didn't look so hot either . . .

So I've been on hold for a total of two and a half hours with the insurance company, although I will say that the woman I talked to was exceedingly nice.

And ironically, this is the truck that I bought because my father wouldn't let me eat lunch . . . smashed trying to go to lunch. And guess what? I didn't get to eat lunch yesterday either.

So that's what I've been up to . . . made the first day of school really, really fun.

Ummm. . . Go Blue?

I was careful. I only had two bloody mary's. One of which had gotten pickle juice on a program. And they are serious about their programs (I mean who buys programs?). So I was on edge about that.

There were pancakes and sausage . . . cooked on a grill. At we started drinking at 9 a.m.. But when in Rome. There were interview in front of the car for the BigTen Network. (I might be in the background of Friday Night Tailgate) The car is like a big tourist thing. Her family owns the "Michigan Beetle" and parks it next to the stadium. (I thought there would be a picture on the web, but evidently there are a lot of beetles in Michigan that are actually insects)

The seats were awesome. Michigan stadium has 72 rows below the entrance. And then there is row B and row A. We were in row B between the 40 and the 35. Close enough to see the players sweat. Close enough to hear the coaches talking.

It was hot. And they were playing Appalachian State. So it was assumed to be an "easy game". Like playing Michigan State.

But it wasn't an easy game.

Princess left me during the fourth quarter, to go set up the tailgate again. So I watched the upset alone. And I got wrapped up in the football. Not who was playing . . . just the game. And I cheered and yelled.

Michigan fans are very different than Michigan State fans. Michigan State fans are used to losing. It's just a game. We drink. We watch. If we lose . . . so what? So more about fun. Because we used to losing.

And I haven't been to a game in a long time. So it was hard to adjust to cutthroat die hard fans. Fans who "boo" their own team if they make a bad play. Fans who are cranky when they are not winning. Cause Michigan State fans would have to be cranky most of the time . . . unless they were watching basketball.

And I have to say . . . because less people will yell at me here, in this blog . . . ASU played better ball. It wasn't good luck. They played a better game.

As I was walking out of the stadium, alone, I congratulated every Appalachian fan I saw. Why not? They were so excited. This had made their year. Heck, made their next two years. They had beat one of the best teams in the nation. On that team's turf. And they reminded me of how insanely excited Michigan State fans get when we somehow win against Michigan. There is that half an hour of shock . . . and then just pure honest exuberance.

To their credit, every Appalachian fan I congratulated looked at me funny. And then I realized I had a Michigan shirt on. But I felt like the representative of the State of Michigan. We could be gracious. We could be good losers in this state. We could appreciate a good game.

Even if we did have on the wrong shirt. (smile)

(I would like to thank Princess and her family for having me. Their hospitality was overwhelming and they always make me feel welcome at their family events. And I'm sorry about the game.)

(Oh, and it's Princess's birthday . . . I think on Tuesday. Send her gifts.)

What Princess Wants . . .

"So I want to go to this wine store . . . and get wine with labels for each game . . ."

Princess is telling me of her plans for this year of tailgating. A voracious Michigan fan, Princess and I have been on opposite sides of the Michigan/Michigan State rivalry. But I have been honored with an invite for the first home game . . . a big deal, as it was suspected that I might show up in green. (I bought a new Michigan shirt just for the occasion. It burns my flesh a little, but I'm hoping to blend in.) And Princess's family knows how to tailgate. They have made it an art form. There's even a special car involved somehow.

Last year, Princess brought themed wine titles that she meticulously shopped for . . . bringing a new brand to each game. This year the plan was to "make wine" for each game.

The "microwinery" is near work, so I get there first. There is a rather rowdy group of people bottling and corking their own wine . . . sort of like a boy or girl scout trip for making something, but with alcohol and adults. And those adults had "tasted" the wine.

And there are two employees. One behind the counter on the computer and one who keeps asking me if she can help me with anything, even though I keep telling her that my friend is meeting me here and she is in charge.

Princess arrives and explains what she want to do. 16 bottles of wine, one red and one white for each game. All with different labels. I am there as wine label design consultant and we sit and draw out what she wants. I pick out the fonts. We taste wine, helpfully served up by the "may I help you" employee. I then write out what needs to be put on every label. I present this to the employees. And it can be done, for the price of the wine, plus five dollars for the custom label.

"All right. Let's do it then." And the plan then immediately falls apart. The behind the desk employee is suddenly skeptical, or maybe it was the whooping in the background, or the fact that they were tipsy, so they kept messing up labels on their wine . . . I don't know. But the behind the desk lady. She wanted to nix the whole plan.

"Well . . . we could do that in a week. Usually takes at least a week for special orders."

But Princess wants the wine tonight. What's the problem? You just print up the labels and smack them on the bottles, right? And her money, it's green.

But the behind the desk lady is done with us. She does not want to sell us wine. And she has to go home and feed hamburger to her family. And she may know the limitations of the may I help you lady . . . who knows nothing about the label making device.

"No, problem. I brought Emily. She can do anything on a computer." But I cannot go behind the counter. It's against company policy (for good reason). So the may I help you lady has Princess picking out the wine . . . so we can "soak" the labels off. And the behind the desk lady is arguing that it can't be done. And I am getting crabby.

As soon as the women get remotely out of earshot, I point out to Princess that we could go to the grocery store and the office supply store and do exactly the same thing. For less than five dollars. And without either lady helping us. But Princess wants this "experience".

The behind the desk lady leaves. I patiently walk the "may I help you" lady through the computer layout process from six feet away, without actually knowing the program (wine label pro . . . ). And when I say walking through . . . I mean, "Go to file. No up at the top. File. More to the left. Yes, file. Now click on it. Now find something that says print."

We manage to get the label finished. It only takes an hour. But when printing, it is discovered that she has chosen the wrong template with the help of the "I just want to go home and make hamburger." lady. The rowdy people have finished their bottling and now want to hustle her for tasting. And there are only two labels removed . . . fourteen more to go.

"Just go back there." Princess hisses. And so I do. I find the correct template (#1800). I remake the entire label because the program with not do simple functions, like copy and paste. I have to print out each label individually because there is no function for multiple labels with different type. I spell all the games, dates and wines correctly, changing colors for white and red wines. Princess is now behind the counter taking off the labels. The rowdy people are still there, buying out the store, pulling things from the wall to purchase. The may I help you lady does not know how to ring anything up and has to make phone calls. The rowdy group finally pays and leaves . . . but only after they tell us their drunken border crossing story. Evidently, if you can get over the U.S. border drunk then you are exempt from being pulled over anywhere else. You are invincible.

Two and a half hours later, all of the bottles are labelled with each distinct game. There are more phone calls so she can charge us . . . but really Princess and I did all of it. But Princess had them in her car at the end of the evening. We did not have to wait a week.

So if you want custom wine labels, I can do it . . . and Princess is very handy at removing the old labels. Princess insists that I will be famous for my design work . . . but I'm not sure I want to be famous for this. Next time I'll just do it in my kitchen.

I was taken out for a nice dinner for my services. And the bottles do look very nice. And I think I probably got that lady fired, if there were any cameras at all.

Graph of Cuteness

Ah Freshmen. They have very, very short attention spans. Something to do with the hormones still flooding their bodies. Right on that line between middle school and being a "real" person, with some of them standing firmly on each side of that line.

It was a whole day of fixing names because they didn't listen to instructions. A whole day of turning items into the office, because they had been set and left on my table. A whole day of telling the congregation to "Go all the way to the end and get your picture taken" as they wandered in packs, seemingly lost in the vastness of the front hallway of the high school.

Often they are accompanied by an adult, to shuttle them through the experience. One of these adults was a graduate . . . although in the eight years I have worked there, I couldn't tell you the year he graduated. Lost in the mist of an old teacher brain. He is over 21 by now. I never had him personally as a student. Don't know his name, but don't think I ever did.

"Oh, hey . . . you're Miss ________!"
"Yes. I am." (smile my cheesy "I'm at registration and so happy about it" smile)
"You're way cuter now . . . "

How does one respond to that?

"Um . . . thanks."

So I have gone up on the cuteness graph. My cute nature has appreciated since he has graduated. Good to know that I am making some sort of cute progress. Now if I can just keep the upward trend.

Versatility

I guess I have lived long enough to appreciate versatility.

I sold yearbooks at registration. Was nice to see the students, all rested and relatively well behaved. But some of them brought their parents . . . or their parents brought them, I'm not too sure.

And for the most part, the parents look like parents. Like my parents look. And then there are the others. Tattoos on wrists, hands, shoulders. Eyebrows pierced. Lips pierced. Tattoos on chests brought into view with a tiny tank top. No, really, I'm talking about the parents.

And lately, I've been thinking about how lucky I am that I feared my parents tremendously . . . and that they weren't into that. Gives me versatility.

I can go as punk as the next person. And the next day? I can be teacher girl. Preppy as can be. I have the luxury of being able to "clean up nice", something you cannot do with a large bad faded tattoo on your wrist . . . or your breast. And all these thirty somethings must have gotten the facial piercings in the last five years. Why? Couldn't they just have made the statement with fishnets and black eyeliner? So they can show up at school with their kid without it obviously looking like they are still trying to look like a kid?

There is nothing more brain swelling than the juxtaposition of a teen trying to look grown up, next to their grown up who to trying to look like a teen.

And I know Princess wants to turn me in to What Not to Wear for wearing skully socks. But I can take them off.

Blame Bop-Bop

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? Yes, but ironically my parents didn't know it. I was named after my Great Aunt Ruth, whose name was Ruth Velma Emily M________. My parents didn't know about the second middle name.

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED? Last week.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? Hell yes.

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT? No lunch meat at all. But I worked in that meat packing plant and all. So I'd have to say . . . avocado.

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS? Nope. Would have liked, well, like eight . . . but a little late for that now. Unless I adopt.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? I don't know. Evidently, people find me intimidating the first time they meet me . . . and the second time, etc. But then again, I'm not easily intimidated and we all know how I love integrity. And punctuality. So I'm going with yes.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT? All the time. Really. I mean it.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? No, but would have liked them in a jar if I had had enough stones when I was six to ask for them.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? Yes, of course.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? Yogurt with granola. Vanilla and no raisins. Raisins are gross.

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF? Depends on the shoes. Converse?

12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? I'll kick your ass.

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM? Cinnamon. Makes me think of dinner at Bill Knapps with my grandmother. Sigh.

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE? Truthfully? Probably, attitude and shoes. Then, if they have good hair.

15. RED OR PINK? Red, unless it's a barrette.

16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? I talk too much. About everything.

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST? My maternal Grandmother (when she was well) and my paternal Grandfather (who truly knew how to show love and always made me feel loved)

18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU? I'm not sending it to anyone other than the one who sent it. If reading it on the blog, feel free to copy and place answers in comments (put your name on it, sillys)

19. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING? No shoes. Cut off jeans with paint. The usual. Sorry Mom.

20. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE? Glass of wine and a pretzel rod stuck in peanut butter.

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? a train in the distance.

22. IF YOU WHERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE? f*ck. I'd have to go check my box of 64. A different one every day, if I could be. Otherwise, I'm feeling "red violet" or "violet red". Two different colors according to Crayola. Yes, I have them sitting right here.

23. FAVORITE SMELLS? This box of crayons (yes, I did just go get it), lavender, pumpkin pie, fall, the ocean.

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? My Mom.

25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU? Yes. But I don't "like like" him. (smile)

26. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH? Live? Lacrosse.

27. WHAT IS YOUR HAIR COLOR? Today? Black. Evidently, with blue highlights.

28. EYE COLOR? Brown.

29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? Yes. Pretty much always.

30. FAVORITE Foods? Currently? Pretzel rod stuck in peanut butter. I like soup. (insert rest of Dead Kennedy's line here) Soy lattes. Gyros.

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS? Do I have a boy? Scary Movies. Because I need a shoulder. If not, Happy Endings, for sure. I'm a wimp about scary movies.

32. LAST BIG MOVIE YOU WATCHED? The Borne Supremacy, with my brother, Dad and Paul.

33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING? Green. Old MSU shirt. So old it has my name sewn in it by my mother.

34. SUMMER OR WINTER? winter, ironically.

35. HUGS OR KISSES? Kissing. I feel trapped by hugs. Don't know why.

36. FAVORITE DESSERTS? Any and all.

37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Don't care.

38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Still don't care.

39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW? Winkie . . . some story about a stuffed bear that gets arrested as a terrorist. Haven't read it for a while though. Pretty surreal.

40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? A friend's address. How much to add to my principal when paying my mortgage to make an even number. What my username is to pay my credit card online. (No, not the password, Mom.)

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T. V. LAST NIGHT? Last night? Howard Stern. I was over at Princess's house and she and her sister love him.

42. FAVORITE SOUND? Crickets.

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES? Rolling Stones.

44. WHAT IS THE FURTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME? Paris, France.

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT? I can draw realistic portraits if given the time. I can knit. I can pick good colors for things. I can make people do things . . . in a nice way. I can say "no", without ever really saying the word "no". I can speak in front of 500 people, without even really knowing what I'm speaking about.

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN? Ohio

47. What frustrates you most? People without integrity.

48. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK? Again. Don't expect answers from anyone. But this was kinda a cool thing to do. Don't send me any more though.

New Phone Holder

Thanks. I made it myself.

School Shopping

I had my first day of work on Friday.

And I dressed up. And my bosses showed up in golf shirts.

I sat for three hours in a windowed hallway that rapidly became what felt like 300 degrees. Tomorrow will be the female equivalent of golf shirt.

It was nice to see the kids and although I don't really want to come in a week early, it's good to be able to "ease" into things. Sell yearbooks. Go out to lunch. Somewhat like normal business people.

So I work three days next week. And then four days the following week. But then it's straight through until Thanksgiving.

And although I have been school shopping for the last two days . . . I haven't bought anything. Much.

Did You Know?

I cannot be an employee at Starbucks.

According to their corporate policies, hair must be of a "natural color", visible tattoos must be covered, no facial piercings are allowed . . . (okay, I do fit all of that . . . as of today)

. . . and you are only allowed five TOTAL ear piercings.

I have six. It makes me feel more balanced. Had five for years, but now have two earrings in my right ear.

Although, the manager (who also told me about the great partner benefits and how the corporation could care less that she is gay) pointed out that I could just take one earring out for my shift.

Good to know.

Last Day

Today is the last day of the blue hair. Last day for children to look at me in wonder. Last day for the homeless person to tell me how good my hair looks. Last day to be totally separate in a room, without really noticing.

That was the most interesting thing about this experience. I know I have blue hair. I see it in the mirror. I can picture it in my head. But when I go out in public, I forget that having blue hair is weird. That people are going to stare at me and frown. Or raise their eyebrows slightly. Or, my favorite, refuse to look at me at all.

So it was an entire summer of "What? Do I have something on my face? Is my fly open?" when it was just my hair.

And I have to say, the blue hair . . . maybe it's my skin tone, or my aura (my aura was "shiny" the other day, but that is another entry), or maybe it's just that humans should not have blue hair . . . but it never really felt as "right" as the bright red did. Say what you want, Mom. I loved the red. The red made me feel confident and beautiful and special. And the blue? It made me feel different. Which was cool, don't get me wrong. Maybe it's just that the blue somehow wasn't as approachable as the red. Don't know.

So it's back to black tomorrow. I'm trying to grow it out and have already planned the perfect thing to say to my "loves to cut" stylist. Pigtails. Maybe a color streak next summer . . . but then again, I have to stop watching LAink, or I'm going to get some sleeves and become a tattoo artist. And I so want a nickname like "Pixie". Don't know why. I would be a wicked good tattoo artist though. And I'm due for a career change.

Sigh. So last day. I have to break George out of his bag and take some pictures. So sad. Sniff.

Not the Tomb Raider One

It was an interesting day.

Giving advice . . . when I don't take advice very well. Certainly don't do well with constructive criticism. Felt very much like the pot speaking firmly with the kettle about being black today.

Finished the baby hat that I'm not sure I'm going to send. QO doesn't have a last name . . . so I'm not sure how to address it. Okay, I'm sure he has a last name, I just don't know what it is. And why knit for people if you don't even know their last names? Very cute hat though. Just the right color blue . . . organic cotton yarn . . . very soft . . . almost wish it was big enough for me.

I just got off the phone. Talked Peter Pan down for a while, using tiny stitches on his shadow. Doesn't want to grow up . . . doesn't want to live like this though. Spinny, spinny, spinny. Conversation ended with how much he was attracted to Angelina Jolie . . . not the Tomb Raider one, when she was in Hackers was better, without the fake boobs. So much for the grounding conversation about being a grown up.

So now I'm tired. Kinda the theme for the summer. Just tired. Languishing. Perhaps the Fall will be better.

I did buy the cutest ballet flats though. Red. Shiny.

Disappointment and Future Regret

My brother and nephew were over on Saturday and we were mostly napping as they had just walked the "death march" my father likes to do during the Woodward Cruise. Napping and listening to NPR.

I download the podcasts of This American Life. So my brother and I were listening to this one (Act III, My Other Dog is a German Shepard), which brought up a show on the Disney Channel.

"The Suite Life with Zack and Cody? Yeah. I watch that show." my nephew says.

The radio show had not been kind about The Suite Life with Z and C.

"Really? You watch that show, huh? When is it on?" my brother asks.
"Probably on right now." my nephew replies.

We turn on the television and change it to the Disney Channel.

Now the Disney Channel was a big part of Dave and my youth . . . part of the reason we have seen every flavor of "Witch Mountain" movie. Escape to . . . Return to . . . Snowboard off of . . . Oh, and the "Apple Dumplin' Gang". Dave watched that movie over and over. The Disney Channel of our youth was old Mickey Mouse cartoons and Disney movies from the fifties and sixties. A might bit brain rotting, but nothing serious. If anything . . . campy.

Currently on the Disney Channel? "Hannah Montana". My brother and I tried to get through an entire episode without throwing up. Hannah Montana is about Billy Ray Cyrus' little girl, who is a star singer. A pop tart low rent version of Brittney Spears. If there could be such a thing. And although portrayed as wholesome . . . at one point the girl was on the floor in a maxi-mini and I swear I saw up her skirt. Basically, the writing was insultingly dumb with a message at the end, of course. The girls were dressed like . . . well . . . 25 year old whores, even though they were supposed to be 14 or 15. Oh, and there was a large dose of sexual innuendo. Hannah, the main character, is upset that her bodyguard keeps chaperoning her dates with an older boy because, and I quote, "a girl has needs . . ."

This is on the Disney Channel. THE DISNEY CHANNEL. And Dave had never watched it . . . because it was on the Disney Channel, and you trust Disney . . . it's supposed to be Escape from Witch Mountain and Tron. Not a horny, pop tart with a badly played southern accent. No wonder my high schoolers are so warped. They've probably been watching the Disney Channel since they were three, which is why they think it's okay to preform oral sex during science class . . . when they are thirteen. And I guess I could argue that it's a show for high schoolers. It is set in a high school. But what teenager watches The Disney Channel?

Z got really pissed at us for telling him that he couldn't watch "Hannah Montana" anymore. And while I understand his point of view (not his fault that his adults didn't preview The Disney Channel and now he's all into the character development) personally, the Disney Channel is off the list at my house. I may set the parental controls and everything. And yes, I know that sexual innuendo is everywhere, but bad writing and poor stereotypes with a smidge of "girls are just playthings" is not.

Later, as we were watching Surviorman, in an attempt to ease the brain swelling, there was a commercial for silver coins. Evidently, I should buy a 19 dollar silver coin to "avoid disappointment and future regret". I think they were talking about me regretting not buying the nifty coin . . . but boy, I would love avoiding disappointment and future regret for only one payment of $19,95. Sign me up.

Cranky and Annoyed

I just got home. I think I had food poisoning. My house is less than neat and tidy. It is the Woodward Cruise so people are coming over. I need to do something about my lawn. I joined yahoo personals because a cute guy with a Basquiat painting emailed me. He has since fallen off the face of the planet. Must have offended him somehow with my last email. I should chalk it up to "well, then he wasn't the 'right' guy, even to be friends with . . . " but instead it is making me cranky. I didn't email him first. Bop-bop just looked at my match profile. Bop-bop of the "internetdatingisstupid" lecture tour. Want to email Bop-bop and tell him that I'm on match to find people I don't know . . . you know, new boys, not boys I already know. No spelling mistakes in his profile though. I'm so proud. I have to go to school this week. Which means I have to work this week. I woke up to Bob Ross painting something with titanium white, while I was dreaming about a gang of men that were about to jump me. "Go for the ankles" one of them said, as the other one was pouring out his Big Gulp. I thought in the dream he meant getting my ankles dirty with the Big Gulp mess. But in the shower, I realized that it was probably to break my ankles so I couldn't get away. Fun dream.

Cranky. Annoyed.

Home Improvement by Beer

I bought myself new school shoes today.

And new sexy pointy boots . . . but that was an impulse purchase.

All because I fixed my toilet yesterday.

My toilet has been running intermittently forever. Getting more and more frequent over time. And yes, I know how to use the internet. And I have installed a toilet in another house. And toilet innards in a few other houses. But my currently facilities, when checked, already had relatively modern innards and the new innard kit that I bought had me taking apart the whole tank and taking if off the bowl. Sigh. That's just a job you have to be in the mood for.

So I just replaced the flapper, after modifying the new one a bit. And there has been no running for 24 hours. In my mind, that's fixed. Hopefully, my water bill will go down. Maybe, if I'm in a plumbing mood tomorrow, I'll take out my bathtub faucet thingies. Makes me anxious, although my father went through exactly what to do. I'm the kind of girl that would get them out, go to Universal Plumbing Supply and find that they cannot be replaced . . . and then not be able to get them back in and not have a shower.

Like my cart. Harold (house's previous owner) left a cart from the kitchen. And I should know better. I should just throw things away that Harold left. But it's a nice cart. Ugly contact paper, but nice cart. Harold was all about the ugly contact paper. So I start peeling . . . to find another layer of even more ugly contact paper. Ugh. Sticky mess. I didn't even know they made contact paper in the early sixties. The point being, I thought the cart was going to be simple. Peel contact paper. Paint yellow. Now there is peel contact paper. Peel more contact paper. Ungoo somehow. Sand. Paint.

Yes, I did check the cost of new carts at IKEA.

And my parents, the kind and queen of "do-it-yourself" when I was a child, are suddenly the evil duo of "just get a new one". Including, it seems, a new mortgage. "You could just call Father and Sons, or Kearns Brothers and they would finish your attic." So says the woman who laid sod while eight months pregnant with my sister. "You can get a whole new toilet for a 100 dollars" says the lady who had either painted or stripped a whole house of hand-me-down furniture. "Just take a sledgehammer to the beep thing and throw the beep thing on the curb in pieces" says the man who did copper plumbing himself (in one afternoon, according to him, though it seemed longer to me) in his first house . . . and I think he did his own roof once. I can't figure out if they have forgotten how hard it is to have the capital to pay someone to do stuff (plus the stress of trying not to get ripped off and the resurrection of Buck the imaginary husband) or if they do remember and have figured out that they should have just "paid the man" all along.

Nah. They make my brother do stuff all the time.

Now granted, I remember my parents having a tribe. Which I do not have. Well, I have Princess, E2, and M2 in town . . . and if you have some shoe shopping to do or a manicure emergency . . . or if you need to revise a code of conduct. And I remember there were just copious amounts of beer. It's amazing they didn't fall off the roof . . . or cut off a leg when building the deck. Perhaps I will just teach Princess to be more handy. Except she drinks wine.

Yuck.

I had high hopes.

Chili made with meat replacement sausage like soy stuff.

Not good. No matter how much cayenne you put in it. Or cheese. (kinda defeats the point, the cheese)

No matter what those vegetarians say.

Annoying by Adding

So I went out and talked to my other neighbor today . . . the one that looks like a sweet old lady, not the one that has a weird semi-abusive screaming at 3 a.m. relationship . . . and I now remember why I don't talk to her. I annoy her. She will talk to me for hours, all while being annoyed that I am trying to get a word in edgewise.

Today I heard about her lawn, her neighbors (Cheryl and Avery), her dogs, her daughter, her granddaughters, her back porch, her husband, her husband's prostate, her husband's spine, male menopause, and how her husband is not "regular". And I kept trying to turn the conversation to, oh, say, the weather. I did finally figure out her name though. Sharon. Sharon and Chuck. Chuck is not doing so well, with the prostate and the shots and the irregularity (at that point I thought she was talking about her dog, George) and the spine problems and such . . . oh, and cataracts. He waited too long on the cataracts.

And I shouldn't have planted morning glories, cause they just get all over the place. I was just pleased that something I planted grew.

So I'm currently filthy. And want some dinner. Dealt with some of the dining room today. Boy, do I have a lot of shit I don't need.

All Clampetty

It's 2:48 a.m..

And I have new neighbors.

I think I mentioned previously that I did not like the new neighbors. I was doing a fine job of ignoring them. They have a dog sprinkler made out of a wood cutout. You know. Cutesy lawn ornaments that you pick out at flea markets. They never close their windows . . . so I hear everything if I am outside. So I have avoided going outside. To the detriment of my lawn.

I met one of them once. She mentioned that she lived with another woman and that they were divorced. She then proceed to walk over to her friend and say "I met the neighbor", a little too proudly, like she had won at Monopoly or something. There are children coming and going. Haven't pinned down which actually live there.

Tonight I kept hearing clunking. Strange sounds. Breaking into things sounds. And then there was yelling. And more yelling. And then really angry loud, as if in my backyard, yelling. Which is when I jumped out of bed.

Now being related to my mother, "the director of homeland security", I realize now that the action I am about to describe was very, very stupid. Which is why I am wide awake, sitting at my computer with my phone next to my hand. I may not sleep tonight. And the healthy stuff is off . . . life is too short not to consume splenda. I know that now.

I pulled on a pair of pants. I found my mag light . . . which is actually my father's mag light. 4 d cell. Good for clunking. I drop the mag light on the coffee table while going for the phone. CRASH. Find phone. Find flashlight. Hope nothing is broken on coffee table. Make sure flashlight still works. Go out front door. Follow sounds while dialing 911.

My stupid new neighbor is having a fight with her boyfriend. The boyfriend is about 50 . . . she is in her forties. "Everything all right? Do I need to call 911?" Everything is fine here. "Well, no, everything is not fine. Did you know it's 3 o'clock in the morning sir?" Something about she won't move her car so I can get to my damn truck and leave. My finger twitches at the phone. She is telling me that everything is okay. Everything is not okay. It's three in the morning and I'm standing on your driveway with my head bashing flashlight and the phone dialed to 911. NOT OKAY. "Are you intoxicated, sir?" Both parties then overly assure me . . . too much . . . that he is not the least bit intoxicated. He is furious, pacing.

So I see the solution as simple. Move your damn car so the man can leave. Seems simple enough to me. But I can see that the woman has some sort of agenda. Abandonment issues, control issues, something not right . . . I sense that she likes that this man has been wound up enough to be screaming at her and waking the neighbors. And that makes me really not like her. And I walk away. I sit on my porch. My phone is switched to the police non-emergency number . . . and yes, I have that in my phone. Because I have crazy neighbors. And I live on a crazy street.

As I sit and think about whether or not to call in a noise complaint, I realize that I do not want to start a war with this one. Because she may be crazier than I am. And I do not need any more crazy. And soon I will be gone all day. So I go in the house and make sure all the doors are locked. And will sleep with the phone next to me.

Gotta love living next to a rental.

Apologies are in Order

"Don't encourage her . . . and don't be nice. Tell her what you really think about her hair."

The server, a parent of a former student, was complimenting me on my hair. My very blue hair. She kept saying she liked it and Princess kept telling her to tell me what she really thought. Evidently, liking it was what she really thought.

"She's just saying that to be nice."

Now I will say, Princess is a trooper. She would not normally be caught dead with someone with blue hair and I mortify her. So being seen with me is a huge gesture of our friendship. Especially at places like say, the Andiamo's in Grosse Pointe, full of couples older than our parents . . . who really should better at staring when I'm not looking. Don't they yell at their kids about that?

"Why doesn't anyone come up and say nice things about my hair? I have really great hair. I pay a lot for this hair . . . and it looks way better than yours . . . "

So if you see Princess, compliment her on her hair. It always looks great. And she deserves it.

Tempting Me with The Meat of the Shores

"You can't turn vegan. That's ridiculous. That's like calling yourself Jewish."

"I'm not vegan . . . I eat yogurt. And I had french toast this week." thinking about how I occasionally do call myself Jewish, but only because I work in the whitest, most Catholic, closed-minded school district and I like to shake them up a bit. I'm sure the state of Israel doesn't mind. Really. Too much.

"So we can't go out to Andiamo's then."
"Princess, I'll just eat pasta. I'm sure they have marinara sauce. It will be fine."
"Really? Because I'm having a steak . . . AND it's half off wine night."
"You can have a steak. Other people can eat meat. Heck, I may eat meat next week."
"But eat it in front of you? I wouldn't want to tempt you with the meat of the Shores."

Now I'm thinking about seafood, much of which I don't like. But Princess means the breaded NY Strip they have . . . which is good. But not so good that I can't stand to just watch her eat it.

"The meat of the Shores?"
"Yes, tempting you with The meat of the Shores . . . because I don't want to end up in your blog, after making you eat meat."

New School and Numbers

So in trying to get over my "Bored Now" crisis/thing . . . I decided to get up "early" and go to Cranbrook. Perfect plan. See some art, laugh at some nart. I get in free because I'm a member at the DIA. It was going to be a famous day. And I could shop (for school even! tax write off) in the gift shop downstairs. Maybe even a walk in the woods for old times sake.

Alarm went off at 8:30. Went back to sleep because I was having an interesting dream. Phone rang at 10. Went to see if someone was dying by checking phone at 10:30. No one was dying. Bop-Bop called to update me on his achievements. And I thought we weren't going to be talking anymore.

So had the inspiration to check the website before driving off to the fairyland that is Cranbrook (take that however you wish) . . . and Cranbrook art museum is closed on Monday and Tuesday. So much for having a plan. So back to "bored now".

So bought the new Matthew Good music, new school, not touching anything. But I will load it on my ipod and get out into the rain. Perhaps I will go buy little tiny diamond earrings. Or go to Old Navy and buy cheap sundresses. Or maybe to Rochester to look at their yarn store. The old rainy day standby is Somerset, or course. There are new school clothes to buy.

Just to go back to the diamond earrings . . . perhaps it's because I know more about it, but I'm seriously OCD about numbers. I can only use certain lockers at the Y. Very superstitious about numbers. And had pierced my ear again, because I had five holes and felt better about an even number. But I have lost two tiny diamond earrings, so am down to four earrings . . . and really I feel the need for six. Also, the more I shop for earrings, the more I realized how much I am like my mother. It is very apparent, while shopping for earrings, that some people change their earrings from day-to-day. I get one pair (or three pairs more exactly) that I like and then just keep them in at all times. My mother wore the same gold posts for most of my childhood. Now she wears diamonds. Anyhow, I feel the need for six earrings and it's damn hard to find plain old little earrings.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

Bored Now

"Bored now."

Just like the character evil Willow in Buffy, bored now.

Have plenty to do. Don't want to go back to work. Don't want to go out. Don't want to stay in. Sick of my projects. Don't want to make any more sock monkeys. Don't want to sew. Certainly don't want to strip furniture or cabinetry. Bored now. Sigh.

Don't get me wrong. I could just lie on the couch and watch television. Don't want to do that either.

The character would say it when she wanted to eat someone . . . or destroy something. To be entertained. And that's just it. I want to be entertained. Bored now.

So my only way to deal, I guess, is leave the house . . . and hopefully find something entertaining. Don't even want to shop. I always want to shop.

Bored now. Sigh. And I want a "puppy".

No Bacony Goodness

I played Dr. Laura today, which is always a dangerous thing.

And then we went to lunch. And he ordered three eggs with the plate of meat. Literally, a plate with just meat on it. Bacon . . . sausage . . . ham . . . yummy, yummy bacon . . . (Homer noise)

In the car, before lunch, we had discussed my plan about meat. That I'm starting slowly. That I can't be vegan because of my shoe fetish. (No, not that kind of fetish. Geez, get your minds out of the gutter. I just like to shop . . . for shoes.) And specifically about how I would be really tempted for yummy bacon goodness with my french toast and hash browns. (Again, geez, yes. I know. French Toast. Eggs. But I don't think the eggs have fear hormones. Maybe.)

And then he ordered the plate o' meat. I had to drink my iced tea plain. With no nutrasweet . . . and no bacon. It was a bummer. I got through it. Because I felt great yesterday. Not so much today, but maybe it will balance out tomorrow. I did eat a lot of fruit.

Oh, and soy ice cream. Yeah. No wonder vegans are skinny. Blech.

Blah Emily

I have just melted my brain on season two of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And while I did enjoy it tremendously . . . as there were some episodes that didn't make it to reruns and I was not a first run Buffy fan . . . I think I am ready to be perky Emily again.

Instead of blah Emily, which has been going on for at least two weeks. I didn't leave the house for two whole days, which is so not like me. Or drunk Emily, which has happened twice this summer, which was twice too many times. Because blah Emily turns into melancholy drunk Emily . . . so not fun, or attractive. So perky, healthy eating, going into the sunshine Emily it will be. I think I'm just tired of moping.

Oh, and I have season three if this plan doesn't work out. And I'm not so sure about sunshine . . . and you are right, I have never been particularly perky. But I'm just shooting for perky for me. Which is a very low key perky. I remember.

But They Have Access to Cable, Right?

So I am toying with the idea of going vegetarian . . . so much so, that I gave the PETA people my address. Which may have been a huge mistake. But they had this nifty "free starter kit". And I wanted to know what that would contain, other than a big sticker stating MEAT IS MURDER.

And I like animals and all, but really, I find them yummy. Family chicken weirdness aside, there's nothing better than a rare steak. But I read this book. Hate it when that happens. Didn't even have to buy it because I read it in the store, in somewhat less than two hours because I didn't have to pay for parking. Anyhow, this book was talking about eating habits . . . and how when you are afraid all these bad hormones go through your body . . . and how even if the package says that the cow had a very soft bed and comfy pillows, they all go to the same slaughterhouse. And then the book pointed out that there are some people that aren't the nicest to the animals working at the slaughterhouse.

And my first reaction would be "that's crap", except that I worked at the step after the slaughterhouse, with the people who worked there. And I didn't eat bacon for fifteen years . . . and I still can't eat ham. So the part in the book describing how some of the workers might torture the animals for kicks, because they are going to die anyway. Yeah, well, they used to laugh at the flies sealed in the hot dog packages. And the whole thing with the USDA guy and the tagging meat thing was totally true, because 40 pallets I personally tagged as unsafe went out. So yeah, that makes the whole meat is yummy idea, not so yummy.

My brother was vegan for a while. Now I think he might use butter. He refuses to sit in my house however, as I have leather furniture . . . and he has awful shoes. So I thought I might ease into things. Maybe try some "meatless" sausage in my chili . . . oh, and give the PETA people my name so I can get on another FBI list. Because, really, I like yogurt and cheese. And I'm sure those cows have comfy pillows, right?

Hopefully, I'll get over it in a week or two. I mean I have eaten veal before and not even felt guilty. Hmmm.

Found My Target Audience

I went to my hairstylist yesterday to show her that I fixed the My Pretty Pony turquoise and to make an appointment to dye my hair a "reasonable" color. It will be changed on August 17 . . . for those who want to get their pictures in before then.

My mother was getting her hair cut. Believe it or not, I found this stylist through her (and she is probably still kicking herself for suggesting that I go to Jennifer). And then we went out to lunch. Typical Mom/Daughter together time.

As we were leaving the restaurant, there was a group of boys outside. They had skateboards and were pretty ordinary suburban malcontents.

"Hey. I love your hair." one boy said, brown hair falling into his eyes. He could have been all of twelve or thirteen.

"Thanks." I said and kept walking.

"Yeah, it looks really good. So . . . I tried to dye my hair green once . . . um . . . it didn't turn out so well."

At this point, I go into informing the masses. "This is really hard work." I say pointing towards the blue and then go into the steps and the weekly dyeing. All of this while still walking.

"So you've found who wants to pick you up with that hair." my mother says, once we are out of earshot.

So according to my mother, I appeal to a twelve year old audience. First of all, eeehhhwww. Though she might just be trying to get me to change it back sooner. And second of all . . . eeehhhwww.