Too Much Wine

So Princess and I decide to meet after my meetings (many meetings, too many meetings) and she managed to email all my suitors on matchdotcom and nervedotcom (very reluctantly . . . so she says). She is also feeding me Cheezits, which are very, very good . . . when you have had too much wine. They become the "poor man's cheese and crackers" except when you have been to France.

Okay, guest blogger --"princess/maverick" --

Well, if she had she come earlier, she could have had better meal. I did make chicken (lemon and breaded) with veggies and potatoes. However, she had better plans! Whatever!
So, she needs to focus on her finesse with emailing boys. We can't all be Shakespeare:) But, we can at least try to be nice! Also, punctuation can be a good thing.

Later Goose (oh how I wish he wouldn't have died in the crash -- Top Gun -- The academy would have been a better place with you as a teacher)! You are far cuter than Kelly McGillis - Top Gun Instructor.

lol
princess

Toothpicks for the Eyelids

Just like in the cartoons . . . jetlag sucks and I have to stay up just a bit longer, so I don't wake up at 4 a.m. again all bouncy and ready to start my day. I promise I'll put pictures up sometime this week, just as soon as my body clock adjusts again. But right now I have to go to sleep . . . as I nod off into the keyboard.

The Keyboard is Totally Different

The Metro is cool. The keyboard is totally different with the a and the m in different places. France is awesome, sorta. Good smells. Good shopping.

Lots of art, want to be a pickpocket in my next life, people keep staring because of my hair or that I'm wearing a hat. The limit of sisterness is three days. Went to the catacombs today. Lots of pictures.

So I'm still alive. And I still only know three words Good bye, good morning and pardon.

When I was Much Cooler

As I jet off to Europe, I will leave you with this . . . from a time when I was much cooler. Or thought I was . . . I'm the one in the center for those of you who are questioning.

Failure to take Inventory

So I've been obsessed with two songs today . . . "Perfect Situation" by Weezer and "When the Night Feels My Song" by Bedouin Soundclash. So much so, that I hummed all day and then went to Best Buy to buy them so I could listen to them on the plane.

I couldn't find Bedouin Soundclash and I had the Weezer album in my hand, ready to purchase . . . until Best Buy annoyed me with their ineptness, so I had to turn into Ms. Crabbypants and leave. Not until I made a big dramatic deal of putting the CD in the nearest rack and muttering loud enough for others to hear "Now I remember WHY I don't come to Best Buy . . ." as if someone cared.

So as I'm making my Paris playlist . . . scrolling down my 1674 songs . . . imagine my surprise when I find that I already OWN "When the Night Feels My Song" from a compilation CD. Joy and sadness at the same time . . . joy that I can listen to the song, over and over, until I want to puke when I hear it . . . sadness that I don't even know WHAT I own already. I'm, like, Best Buys wet dream of a consumer, because I would have bought the whole album for that one song . . . that I already have.

Okay, I have to go pack.

Noise

It's raining . . . HARD. So hard that I don't think my little tiny gutter can keep up. But the noise is coming from the bathroom window, which is sans gutter.

Once, as I was mowing the lawn, I noticed that there was a donut hole on my bathroom windowsill. Just a plain glazed Dunkin' Donuts Munchkin sitting there. As I muttered WTF and reached up to get it, I noticed little black footprints . . . little black, I've been walking on wires, squirrely footprints. The donut hole was completely intact . . . except for a few bites, or maybe claw marks. I think I put it back.

So maybe the squirrel is knocking, because no one wants to sit out in the rain in January. Oh, wait . . . it's February.

I have Piles

I went to the Huntington Woods library to get some books on Paris . . . and thus maybe feel better after doing some "research". My phone beeped, which can get you kicked out of the HW library, with it's NO CELL PHONE signs strewn everywhere. While walking home, I checked the message and it was my father, Mr. Crabbypants.

"I now have piles . . . I hope you're happy."

Piles? Like some disease? He just went to the doctor. Is that the chickpoxey thing that isn't chickpox but is really painful? Or is that shingles? Don't you get piles from not eating vitamins?

So I call him back. No, piles of CDs all over the place . . . downloading to the evil Ipod. Oh, much better and managable, the piles of CDs. Plus he has much less than four hundred of them.

I'm simply ignoring the fact that it is Valentine's Day. So there, Hallmark.

Countdown

Wow . . . I've been so naughty. It's been six days since a post. I feel like such a slacker.

So I'm off to France in four days and I feel woefully underprepared. Sure, I listened to the "Emergency French" CD on Sunday with the woman who has a sing-songy voice saying MERE-cee and then a bunch of stuff that I can't follow even though she repeats it. Did she just say "come and suck my poo?" or am I just not focusing? Boy, those two weeks of French in high school are really helping out.

I'm only bringing two pairs of pants . . . easy enough. I would have probably worn the same pair of jeans all week anyway, since I would be at home. T-shirts are evidently not worn in France, though the Metro does sell them with the names of their stops on them, so shirts and sweaters are going to be a problem. Plus France is cold this time of year . . . so I have to decide on a coat. I'll just have to chant "There's an H&M" repeatedly as I pack. (I think it's even near our hotel!)

The Paris transit website does not offer weeklong passes to tourists (carte orange) so I have been fumbling through the RATP website in full on french. Because of this, it occurs to me that on the ATM I have no idea what "checking" and "primary savings" is in french, nor am I sure that I can find the right bathroom to enter. I assume that "grande soy latte" will still be "grande soy latte" but other than that who knows what I will be eating. I'm not even sure of the numbers, even though they were on Sesame Street all the time (one of the perks of living so near to Canada). I know that one sounds like "sex" (I think it's six) but for now I'll assume that price tags will have numbers. Let's hope that all the store clerks will A. want to practice their English or B. understand gesturical waving.

Oh, and I WILL eat some snails, even if it grosses me out so much that I have to eat McDonald's for the rest of the trip. There will be some snail eating.

Never Was a Cornflake Girl

So I ate some ice cream (and brownie) for the first time in six months. Sure, sure, I've had some sugar free popsicles . . . but those taste kinda like watered-down frozen paste, at least the creamsicles anyway.

Now having dessert did not cause me to think of nirvana or anything. It was not a spiritual experience. I did, however, have to do penance and walk twice as far. So not really worth it . . . oh, and I'm doing this whole calorie count spiral (very much like Rainman) . . . well, I didn't drink so that's not as many and I only had 270 at lunch but I had a scone at breakfast and who knows how much those scones are . . . I could look it up on the website . . . but I don't really want to know because what if they're, like, 500 . . . what if they are 500 . . .

Yeah, I'm not that girl. That girl weighs herself everyday. That girl puts on lip gloss after meals. That girl doesn't finish her dinner (oh, wait . . . I didn't). That girl orders Caesar salad and giggles . . . I am so not that girl.

Perhaps if I offer up a chicken or something . . .

Last Saturday at the Front, M2 reminded us that she was "cursed" and though I disputed this at the time, I think she may have spread it around . . . or it was contagious . . . or something. I had made jokes about white candles and sage sticks but maybe we should do some rituals . . . it couldn't hurt.

It's only Tuesday and I've already had the week that I should have just stayed in bed for . . . full of rotten luck and bad karma. Lost my checkbook (found it again, thankfully), forgot my keys, had a freakshow day at work, I'm P.M.S.ing and there those 48 yearbook pages that I shouldn't care about . . . because it's not MY yearbook. Arrived home today to find my neighbor's ratty car in my driveway, parked so that I could not get into MY driveway. When I talked to him (immediately, of course) after parking down the street (where he could have parked) he was apologetic but just offered to move the car into my driveway MORE. Obviously, I had fallen into my French skills and simply was not speaking English, the language of his homeland . . . wait, I don't know any French . . .

So I left. Just left. Left my driveway and my home . . . and went out to eat. Funny thing is . . . if there is a funny thing about your driveway being held hostage by a beat-up Mercury . . . my neighbor said, "I thought we'd be finished before you got home." As if he intimately knew my schedule. As if I come home at a specific time (never). He thought he had enough time to flatbed the junker van and move the beat-up Mercury back before I got home . . . how sweet. So yeah, he's dead to me . . . no matter how many times he brings up my trash can . . . or snowblows the walks . . . or until at least next week when I'm over it.

So I think I need to do some dancin' with a chicken or somethin' . . . something to break that M2 curse that she's spreading around, willy-nilly. (Now where to find some family chicken for dancing)

Darkest before a Deadline

I had yearbook dreams this morning before I woke up. 4 a.m. and I wake myself up muttering about pictures and name misspellings. I'm editing in my sleep.

This happens before every deadline . . . it doesn't look like my bunnies are going to finish and yet, they always pull through. But here I am at school again until 7 p.m., biting my nails and cursing in my head.

It will get done. It always gets done. It will look great and we will find all the errors.

They'll shrink back, won't they?

Just a tip . . . when at the mall, you probably shouldn't be lured into a "free" lipstick redo by the transexual that works at Bath and Body Works. It will seem like a good idea, but trust me . . . you'll end up looking like a Vegas showgirl, except up-close. And after you try to fix it in the restroom, you'll just look like you were punched in the mouth.

And don't be seduced by the "lip enhancers" either . . . again, bigger lips seem like a good idea, until you're standing in the ill lit restroom thinking "Clown lips" while looking at your own reflection. Plus I don't think you're supposed to willingly put stuff on your lips that "tingles" and burns.

What? You don't check it?

I haven't posted because of the plague that is infecting my body . . . living primarily in my sinuses but affecting all over. I did have a thought as I was blowing my nose, again, for the forty-seventh time in second hour. I didn't realize that not everyone checks the snot in the tissue after they blow their nose. How do you gauge the color quality if you don't look in the tissue? How do you know if it is "just a virus" or a full blown bacterial creeping crud infection?

I just have a virus, by the way . . . nothing they can do, except tell me to drink lots of fluids and rest. Mostly clear . . . some little yellow chunks, but nothing to write home about or anything. The best is when I blow my nose, I get really dizzy because all the fluid shifts in my ears. Better than being drunk . . . and Puffs are way cheaper than alcohol.

Oh, and my throat is really, really sore. And I have some tonsil still left (or it grew back? Is that even possible?) on the right side of my throat . . . I knew that operation was a sham, even though I was seven. I want a refund. My tonsils were supposed to be removed and removed completely. And no matter what my father says, gargling salt water stills sucks.

"Down with Whitey"

Ummm . . . yeah . . . this is hilarious.

The whole site is actually. My parents WISH they had thought of it.

I Swear I have Bird Flu -- But No Family Chicken

Alright . . . I have a little sore throat and a bit of a hacking cough. And I have no chickens at my house because of that whole "family chicken" thing ***, so I couldn't have bird flu. Those children I work with are germy though . . . little infection factories.

*** My grandmother (the nice one) was in charge of the chicken coop when she was a child. Having not actually experienced a chicken coop myself, I have to take her for her word that chickens are incredibly "dirty birds". Because "dirtiness" was somehow worse in restaurants (?) because you could not control the preparation of the "dirty bird" we never ate chicken out and seldom ate it at home. When it was cooked at home, it was cooked WELL as if you could cook all the dirtiness out of the chicken if you took your time. During the Kentucky Fried Chicken craze of the mid-seventies, my grandmother was known to (if we whined and made her buy the dirtiness) put the bucket in her oven for an hour or so . . . because you just don't know how well it was cooked at that place. I didn't know that there was poultry that wasn't the consistency of sawdust until I was twenty years old. And even then, I was leery . . . they might have just not cooked it enough.

So now, just to confuse people, my family says things like: "But I couldn't eat it . . . it wasn't family chicken." As if my family ever eats chicken . . .

I was bitten by a turkey once. But that's a story for another day. And no, he wasn't a family turkey, neither.

Mackin'

I so could mack on a 24 year old tonight . . . he invited me up to his place, above "Catching Fireflies". 6 foot 7 and red hair and just cute as a button. Taking all my energy not to get in my car and go back but I don't want that anymore. I dated 24 year olds when I was 24 . . . don't need to "date" them now.

Still it's very flattering to have the offer. Thank you, Paul.

Maybe

For matchdotcom blind date no. five, I went out with the nicest guy in the universe . . . and I said all the wrong things. It was amazing. It was like being able to see the road I should take in the conversation and yet veering off into the woods anyway, without four wheel drive or anything.

The best "I can't believe I just said that . . . " moment was the end of the date. I walked him to his car (I had walked and wouldn't let him drive me home) and he said, "Well, so . . . should we hang out again?" To which I replied, "Maybe." That's right folks, I said "maybe." I could of just stabbed the guy and took his money because that would have been less painful than "maybe."

So yeah, I'm a jerk and I can't even help it.

Being Difficult

All right, I admit that I was doing something obnoxious for the sake of being obnoxious . . . however, my friend M2 says to my friend E2 across the table, "You know when we talk about Emily being difficult?"

No, I don't know about that. I don't know if I want to know about conversations about me being difficult. In MY head, I'm reasonable . . . and funny (actually witty is the word I would prefer as long as we are in my head) but not difficult. I know I'm not easy-going but difficult? There are conversations being had about me being difficult?

And I thought I was so agreeable for the most part. So now I think E2 has to make a sign . . . she used to hold up a sign that would read "I "heart" Emily" in meetings (when I was particularly "good"). Now she will have to make a sign that reads "U R B-ing Difficult". Just so I know.

Look! My Hair Matches!

It matches the seats in the auditorium perfectly.

Imaginary scarves and meetings

I just broke a nail and have figured out that I have a least two meetings every day this week. I really want some Rowan Kidsilk Haze for a scarf that is in my head . . . so I can knit it and then wear it in France but I can't get to the fancy knitting store with all the meeting hinderances. (You can't buy Rowan kidsilk haze at Michael's and I am a yarn snob) I still have to walk and it's sleeting and miserable . . . and I still have to walk.

While I'm being girly, I ate half a granola bar today and couldn't finish it because I could taste the high fructose corn syrup and it sickened me. I could, however, eat a patty melt and fries with no guilt, queasiness or questioning, so I haven't completely crossed over to health nut. I'm just irrational instead.

So I'll knit this scarf (that's currently planned in my head) on 10 1/2 needles, so it will be really open and loose, in black if they even have black kidsilk haze. I just need a yarn store that's open vampire hours. (I know, the internet sells yarn . . . but I have to touch it before I buy it)