Barrette Optional

See? Not all that different and not all that blonde, come to look at it. Still playin' with it. Think of it as highlights. Like a sorority girl or something.

Got One in the Closet Already

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

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

Benefiting from Low Expectations

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

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

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

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

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

Lifted

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

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

Let's hope my bosses think so too.

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

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

Pictures later.

Explains It All, With Illustrations

I think this explains it all . . . except my disgust with itunes.

Made It In

I am officially an Oakland Community College student as of next Tuesday. I've been accepted. I feel so loved.

The application focused heavily on my high school career, so I was a little nervous . . . high school being so long ago and me only having a 3.3 grade point average, as I didn't really apply myself. But as it turns out they don't even look at your application. They look at your driver's license. And I have one of those, with three different endorsements. The picture kinda looks like me.

Stopped by the "counseling window" that has a big sign that reads "this window is for questions that can be answered in 10 MINUTES ONLY". My question only took a minute to say . . . about 40 seconds to answer. They will be needing my transcripts. I can take them to three different places in the building (I had asked another question, as I had more than 8 minutes left). Got a look from the other new student behind me because my question started with "Yeah, I have a master's degree and I want to . . . " Must have sounded like a snob. Heck, am sounding like a snob right now.

Weird being the oldest person in a building. Well, some of the construction workers were my age. I suppose it will be worse once I get into a class.

Anyhow, OCC seems much more easy-going when it comes to admissions than, say, law school or the organizational theory doctoral program that I'm interested in. Plus I don't have to quit my job, move, or write a thesis.

Just have to live with finishing a yearbook and taking 6 credits. Advanced Photoshop and Advanced Life Drawing . . . it will be fun. Maybe ceramics . . . but then you have to give all of it away. It's becomes like zucchini. And I already have too much shit. Paper I can at least store flat, with all of the other drawings in the attic.

Brothers and Sisters

My mother and father have been babbling about this show, Brothers and Sisters, for weeks now. I think there are a couple of comments on this about it. I had watched the first episode but then ignored it . . . I don't watch television much anymore. But since my eyes were almost bleeding and I'm putting off work that I need to do for tomorrow, I turned the thing on.

I only watched a half an hour . . . and despite the emotional manipulation (the father flashbacks, very sad), Ken Olin really does need to start paying us royalties for spying on us. I promise that the pie will not look like that this year. I'm not excited enough to turn on the T.V. every Sunday . . . after all, I get to see my brothers and sister in real time. And I do wish that we had glamorous jobs and 30 million dollars worth of land. And neither of my brothers would flood the engine with water. They have thrown a rod or two . . . and there was that one time, with the Great White Whale (my grandfather's car), when we gave it to J as a "free car" and he was in Michigan for like 48 hours and spent 46 hours changing the head gasket (?) so he could drive it back to Florida only to have it die in the middle of Georgia. Not the nice Atlanta part, either.

In watching the stuff on the website, we are not nearly as melodramatic or exciting. No drug overdoses. No secret family. Really we're boring.

Okay, have to make my book for tomorrow.

Eyes are About to Bleed

Just made a photoshop layer . . . no. 92 . . . which means I've flipped, resized, and placed 92 pictures. All this for this fabulous cover idea that I have. The students looked at my sketch, figured out how much work it would be and told me that I was welcome to do it, if I wanted it so badly.

I know, I know. I should be letting them do the cover. They have promised to help once I do the resizing (hard) part and I can't fault them for not wanting to do this. It is the definition of tedious. My eyes feel like they are going to bleed though. I wonder how graphic designers do this all day. Sometimes I'm thankful that I do five shows a day, instead of staring at a screen all day. But only sometimes. The computer has not argued with me once. Been a little slow (asking this old girl to do a lot) but not argumentative.

Off to make a "comma book" for my presentation tomorrow.

New-ish Template

Because the people were getting insistent about moving my blog, I'm taking some time to use their new features. One of them is labelling, which is cool because it organizes things . . . except when you are me and you just make a new category for every post. 535 posts and 500 categories. I love being primarily right-brained.

So I have categorized about 75 posts, so 400 or so to go. Figuring this might take a while. The categories are on the right and I will take suggestions. Please no whining about not having your own personal category (or in Princess' case, whining about having one), I may just have thought you didn't want one, or I haven't gotten to anything that I've written about you yet.

And now I have to decide on a category for this post. Crap. At least the beta thing has spell check.

Just Sharing

The shoes . . . they work. It's like magic.

Culling the Herd

I bought shoes today. Which means I'm over the fifty count and will have to cull the herd. Do the flip-flops even count? I could just put three pairs in one cubbie . . . and then have room for the new ones.

I didn't just buy shoes . . . I bought ridiculous, frivolous, gorgeous shoes. Two pairs of them. A beautiful pair of pointed toe heels that I will wear as power shoes for Monday (I am presenting with Princess. She'll be so proud). They were on super sale, because they ran really small . . . and what woman wants to buy shoes that are a size bigger? Other than me, because I don't care as long as they are not pinchy. So beautiful, Stacie and Clinton say leg lengthening, heels to wear with pants.

The second pair? A pair of ruby satin pumps that I may only be able to wear inside my house. They look so good that a stranger walked up to tell me that they looked good. So I had to buy them. However, being that they are satin . . . they will be ruined if I breathe on them, let alone walk outside. When asking the salesperson if there was something I could put on them, like fabric protector, there was face squinching and "Well, I wouldn't wear them in the snow." Otherwise, the salesgirl was not helpful about the wearing of the shoes somewhere other than in my house. I will have to be carried. Or bring them in a Ziploc bag. But only to very clean places where nothing will be spilled or sticky. They really are gorgeous shoes though.

And then felt so guilty for dropping $100 on shoes that I did not buy an ipod. And there were no boys . . . just a girl with some interesting tattoos. I do think I want the red one though. And some knives . . . I'd really like some real "big girl" knives. Because the $9 Betty Crocker set is just not cutting it. (get it? cutting it?) And crap, I should probably think about Christmas soon, shouldn't I?

With Membership Comes No Privilege

I said I would do it months ago. But it's hard to get down there when it's still open and let's face it, nothing moves there, so it's hard to focus my attention. I finally went to the D.I.A. and bought my membership. Now instead of paying my normal $2-pretending-to-be-a-student-by-handing-you-a-high-school-ID, I paid $45 to just walk in and out at will. Actually, I was upsold (just like I always am at the zoo, damnit) and so now a guest and I can walk in and out at will.

So I have to go to the D.I.A., like, twenty-some times in the next year for this to pay off because yes, I still have a current high school ID with my picture on it (and it's kinda cute this year . . . except that I am wearing a sweatshirt from my old employing school in the picture. Just a little ironic. But my former employing school . . . they were all about the sweatshirt) and yes, somehow the D.I.A. people accept this and give me the student rate, even though I look at least 27 and certainly am 35. So you are all going to the D.I.A.. And I don't care if you don't like art.

So it was one of those "Friday at the D.I.A." thingies, which I go to for the drawing in the galleries (good pencils, get to draw for an hour, all good). Read the web blurb. Today the live music was going to be Dan Zanes. His CD is at Starbucks. How bad could it be?

Well, I get there and there are all these couples, with little children . . . and the dreaded thing that comes with arty, yuppie couples and children . . . SUV strollers. I ignore them. Must be a popular family event. I immediately run into someone I know (with little children) and don't want to talk to . . . plus is, she doesn't really want to talk to me, so it works out well. Go down to the cafe to have dinner . . . and still the children everywhere. Like locusts. Running and leaping and shrieking and crying when they bump their heads on the table because their parents are not telling them NOT to run and leap and shriek. (really sounds like I want kids, doesn't it?) Put the Mp3 player on, to drown out the din (which I have to hit to get to work . . . Apple store, here I come). Wonder what the hell is going on? Did everyone want to culture their children tonight?

Turns out that Dan Zanes is somehow a "children's artist". He sings "family oriented" songs. And is on Sesame Street, according to the woman that I knew but we mutually did not want to talk to each other. We ran into each other again, as she was feeding her girls animal crackers, fruit wax and juice and it seemed wrong not to chat. So the fifteen million children were brought for Dan Zanes. I watched him sing for about three minutes. He was wearing an orange shirt with a purple suit and had hair that looked like a cat had died on his head. The song had a lot of quacking. I went to look at the Native American art instead.

As I escaped (I did not draw because the gallery with the adult drawing was lame and the children . . . they were everywhere . . . I was afraid I might step on one) I stopped by the membership desk and talked to the same person. She first tried to sell me another membership. "You already sold me one. When is the rest of the museum going to open?"

There are times when I think I'm just unfocused . . . a little ADD. And there are times when I think I'm just dumb. This is a time for "just dumb". She informs me that the rest of the museum will open after renovation NEXT FALL. I wanted to yell at her that the membership that she just sold me runs out next fall, but it's not her fault that I'm an idiot. I just purchased a membership for a museum that is only a third open . . . if that. (so when you all come with me, we won't be seeing much art) Yeah, their classics are up, but I can only look at the skull painting by Cezanne so many times. And the Gentileschi is displayed too high, so I cannot see it.

(There are certain touchstones at museums . . . the Seurat in Chicago, the Calder in D.C., Warhols in NYC, DaVinci in Paris and Gentileschi in Detroit. I have to go see it if I walk in the place.)

Between the children's music group and the "we're building a museum, but you can't see it", I'm such a space case. Damnit. I have to pay more attention.

Threatening With Gifts

Princess came to my lowly place of business to drop off a bunch of work that I need to do this weekend . . . so lovely being a hired gun.

"I hope you haven't been wearing that hat all day."
"Can't wear hats in school [like she's forgotten in the three months she's been gone]; I'm just wearing it so I won't lose it . . . because I'm cleaning my desk." (you don't understand, cleaning the desk is an intensive undertaking . . . hats could get lost)
"Well thank goodness."
"Hey! I made this hat. I like this hat."
"Makes you look like a cat burglar."
"Just for that, I'm making you one."
"Why?"
"Because if I make you a gift, you will have to wear it to be polite. Because I made it."
"Well, don't make it in black."

I love it when Princess and I talk about hats. She is really constantly disappointed.

Wearing Down My Blasphemy

I'm going to have to go buy an ipod. I know . . . I've held out against the Apple demons for this long. But my Mp3 player is not working . . . again. And it's cold and wet. And I promised myself that I would walk to dinner, which now that I think about it, must happen in the next 40 minutes if I'm going to Westborn. Shit. Damn. Mother . . . .

Usually, if I hit it, it will work. Or stick my earring in the little reset hole. Done both. Currently, it's hooked up to the computer and "charging" and we'll see if it turns on in six minutes (will have to be out the door by 8:30 or all will be lost). Otherwise, it's off to see the Apple demons tomorrow in their shiny little lair at Somerset. Thank goodness it's payday. I think. (Remember, I don't have a calendar?) I hate that store with it's shiny candylike everything (okay, I do want to press it . . . the pretty, candylike button . . . always) and it's good headphones and it's ubercute employees with overly cool everything. I hate that I will have to succumb to the itunes and everything evil that comes with that submission. Gaarrgh.

And no, I'm even considering a zune, or whatever the fff-ing thing is called that Microsoft is putting out. I already have a Mp3 player that shuts down if I look at it funny, don't need one that will run like Windows.

Okay, 8:30. It's working. Pray that I don't have to go kiss the pretty candylike simple design gods.

Crabbypants putting the "Fun" in . . . Dys. . .

So my mother emails me to let me know that "everyone" is going to Miami for Thanksgiving . . . at 8 a.m. on Wednesday. Following the "24 hour rule"* "everyone" will be back by 9ish on Thursday. The menu includes tacos, from Lime (see link to right), the baby brother's restaurant.

I don't know about you . . . but I have to work on Wednesday and cannot just jump on a plane to Miami, lest not getting paid for the holiday. Plus, I have a hair appointment that afternoon and we all know how hard it is to get one of those . . . if I cancel, my hair might actually need cutting by the time I can another appointment. (and it might be more of its natural color . . . wince.)

Turns out, "everyone" is Mr. and Mrs. Crabbypants, who are abandoning their real and good children for Thanksgiving. The children who live in Michigan and wrangle them on the weekends. The children who put up with their antics about not wearing pants because they are new and the wearing of orange hats. The children who purposefully did not move to Miami . . . mostly because . . . well . . . Miami is full of not very nice people. (Except for my brother, of course. He is very nice. Especially when he is trying to sell you something. Like tacos. But he has been on MTV . . . and the food network)

So there will be no Crabbypants Thanksgiving in Michigan. Someone will have to adopt me. Or I could ignore it altogether and just go shopping. At least Mr. Crabbypants won't miss Black Friday. I don't think I could manage Best Buy at 4 am without him. I would have to sniffle. Or sleep in.

So anyone want to adopt me?

* The 24 hour rule was instated by my father, when dealing with his parents . . . who also lived in Florida. A visit could last no longer than 24 hours, or it could possibly be unpleasant. Great idea, except when driving to visit them. So we would drive 24 hours, stay 24 hours and drive back. All for the sake of sanity. My brother and father now have the same agreement in place. Luckily, we take advantage of air transportation these days . . . but people still look at me like I'm a freak when I tell them I'm going to Miami for five hours. But then again, it's Miami.

Okay, Totally Creeped Out

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

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

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

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

In Reading Back

Ummm . . . yeah . . . it wasn't Friday the 13th . . . it was the Friday before that. So turns out that the panic attacks were for something.

Xs on the calendar? Huh. Gotta go get a calendar.

Well, in all the soul searching and reflection at least I know where I stand. Sorta. Kinda. Not really at all.

And I'm not tired at all. And kind of grinding my teeth. Damn Golden Monkey crack.

Diggers in my Front Yard and the Golden Monkey

As a disclaimer, I'm am very caffeinated at this moment. So I may not take responsibility for any posts later this evening . . . because evidently, I'm not sleeping tonight. Damn Golden Monkey.

But first the diggers. I arrived home to diggers in my driveway, complete with piles of dirt and digger men. To be more specific, the diggers were blocking my driveway and the piles of dirt were what was part of my front yard. I know that I don't pay attention, but should the city have sent me a memo or something about this? I've gotten a couple of memos inviting me to talking about it, which I skipped granted, but for this I think they should have given me a sticky on my front door or something. "We are destroying your yard tomorrow" it could read in Sharpie. There was no sticky. I looked.

So I could not park in my driveway. And then there was the walking through all the dirt, wincing about my brick edging (now under dirt). I'm sure they'll put it back . . . better than it was. Right? Upon leaving, I had to quiz the digger men. How long are you going to be here? (Mostly because earlier this evening I had sleeping on the agenda . . . and the beeping of the diggers was not going to facilitate that. Now it doesn't matter as much.) What time are you coming in the morning? Digger man and I established that I would be able to sleep without beeping and get out of my driveway in the morning. Excellent. I was late, so I didn't chat about the dirt piles. Again, I'm sure they'll put everything back. Right?

Still managed to get to Ferndale (fashionable? really . . . still?) slightly early and not having any idea where I was going, decided to not be early and go shop quickly. Because early would have been bad . . . or not as good as on time. See kick ass knitting bag. Decide that I do not need knitting bag . . . and want it in another color. Find that it is the only bag of it's type in the store. Decide to leave it up to the fates. If it was there when I got back, I could buy it. Shopping Russian roulette. Always dangerous, because if someone else decides it's cool, well, then you'll never get over the longing. You could have bought it. You had it in your hand. Go to find the place I'm supposed to be.

Ferndale now plays eighties alternative, over loud speakers, downtown. I wonder who in the DDA thought up that plan, because I find it disconcerting to have Sixousie and the Banshees in the background as I'm walking, looking for place I'm supposed to be in two minutes. A bit too John Hughes movie for me. That kind of stuff is only supposed to go on in your head. A common personal soundtrack . . . well, it's not personal.

I think the place only served tea. They had a menu . . . which I read a little. But went with the "Golden Monkey" . . . because if you have a chance to order something called "Golden Monkey", wouldn't you? Hell, I want a shirt that says that. I hope it wasn't $85 dollar tea or something . . . I probably should have been paying more attention (boy, isn't that the theme of the week?). Talked for a hour with another human being that I found interesting (sometimes hard for me . . . ). More aptly, was questioned for an hour by another human . . . plus drank really caffeinated tea. But didn't figure that out until about another hour later, when I found myself on the ceiling of a Barnes and Noble.

There was a window of time. So after went to the "record" store, which is now full of CDs and bought the Shiny Toy Guns CD. Only currently like one song, thank you very much, but it might grow on me. And the kick ass knitting bag was still there, with 40% off socks and 50% off tank tops, plus a camouflage shirt that I will wear on Friday (and try to be convincing about it being a school color). I then went to Barnes and Noble and bought poetry books and wondered why I was bouncing off the walls. Hmm . . . what was it that I drank at that place with the tea? Liquid crank? And if it wasn't a Tuesday . . . well, that would be great.

So I guess I'll be figuring out three weeks worth of poetry lesson plans tonight . . . I'll be up and all. Maybe I'll crash. Let's hope for that. Because I can't knit in meetings anymore and there's one tomorrow . . . and I can't tell anyone what I think. Because no one likes that.

Again, I will be in denial about anything I write later . . . at 3 a.m. . . . after I have graded all the papers I have (yeah, right) and cleaned the grout in my bathroom. Riding the Golden Monkey.

My newest guilty pleasure . . . Shiny Toy Guns . . . so 1988 and city club. I can hardly stand it.

What's old is new again. And we are going to ride the racecars. (the bridge is lame . . . but they do use rests to their advantage)

Moving Day

"WTF? Your blog is moving?"
"Yeah, sorry. The people. They were getting insistent."
"Not sorry . . . just weird. Did it pack already?"
"Well, it's my blog . . . so mostly it threw all its stuff in milkcrates and Marshall Fields bags."
"Too funny."
". . . and hoped desperately that its mother would show to organize things."