YAY! A Parade . . . oh . . . unyay . . .

So this weekend's great idea, care of a Spider Monkey friend, was to attend the Royal Oak Holiday Parade. Sounded great! Good friends. Coffee. Marching Bands.

Except that I got up late. And the thinking was to walk so we wouldn't have to find a parking spot, but I was late so I took that chance. And there were people EVERYWHERE. Everywhere, with strollers and SUVs and . . . husbands. And the parade route was not on Main street, where I assumed parades would be, so there was a long detour through the rioting SUVs desperately looking for a parking spot amid the "permit only" land west of town. But I made it to the "secret" parking structure, which was evidently not as secret as I thought it was . . . which instead of SUVs, contained old people. Very slow walking in the middle of the roadway old people. And I didn't have to park on the top of the structure. But I could see it.

I found my friends on Main. Which again, was NOT where the parade was. And we ended up at the end of the parade route, standing next to a tree and a nice short woman with two children. Her tall, not see through husband arrived as the parade started. And the metal grid around the tree was amazingly conductive when it came to cold.

Now I expected a small town parade. Some cute girl scouts dressed up as presents. A cheer team. One or two marching bands. Maybe some boy scouts with the American Flag and a fire truck. And all of those things were between big gaps and banners listing every business in Royal Oak. Plus two "rock" bands. And some floats that someone must have bought from the Float company's garage sale. Royal Oak is not a big enough city for floats. Three marching bands from other cities. The Homecoming King and Queen? It was two hours before Santa . . . and that turned out to be not even the real end Santa. And it got cold and colder and the metal conducted cold through my sneakers. And I couldn't leave because we were with another couple, who decided that they needed to be smoopy . . . all huggy and kissing. And the non-see through husband kept moving for the block and talking loudly. It was the longest parade I have ever attended. And I marched in the Orange Bowl parade for . . . like . . . seven miles or something.

And once it was done, we had to do the "what do you guys want to do? I dunno. What do you guys want to do?" Until finally, I said, I WANNA EAT! And the Spider Monkey said something about Lockharts, which is not my favorite place to eat but it is a restaurant which has a magical thing called beer, so I went for it. And the couple with us, said "Sure!" and then didn't eat or drink magical things. And that was awkward. And I felt like I should have said "I WANT COFFEE" instead.

But the strollers and SUVs and husbands . . . and old people were all gone by the time we were done with lunch. And the couple invited us to . . . another parade.

Netflix Free Trial with My Name on It

I went to the movies today. It was hot and baby booties more finishing work than actual knitting. Really, I needed to get out of the house. And Spider Monkey has NO interest in the Twilight series.

I made some observations:

First, people under the age of five do not need to see vampire movies. I don't even think they WANT to see vampire movies. A woman in a tank top and random tattoos had three girls under the age of five with her. I saw them in the popcorn line, thinking that the amount of zany bracelets on their arms were a bit of a hazard, with fifty on each arm, and was wondering about their circulation. I figured they were going to watch Toy Story 3 or Shrek or one of the other three G movies at the theater. But no, they were going to see Eclipse . . . I had to move because they were noisy . . . because they were BORED . . . because they weren't where they belonged in the G movie theater. AND the mom, or guardian, or whatever she was, kept leaving. Leaving. Left them completely alone. For whatever pedophile to take (see my third observation below). Just got up and left. To go get more popcorn after one of them spilled a complete large bag on the floor. To take one of them to the bathroom (I suppose she could have sent them alone to the bathroom? I guess that would have been worse?) . . . two children, under the age of five, alone in a darkened room with fifty strangers. And very cold fingers from all the rubber bands on their arms.

Second, in addition to needing a license to have children, I think you need a written plan for your tattoos. So I can veto it. Back in the day . . . when I had friends that "needed" tattoos . . . they did not put them in ridiculous places. They were still ridiculous, don't get me wrong. But they put them on their backs . . . on their upper arms . . . maybe a tramp stamp or two. Things that would and could be covered up by clothing, if need be. Now if you want to make artwork out of your body and connect them all in a sleeve, okay, I respect that. That takes planning . . . by someone . . . even if it's just your tattoo artist. But the amount of bad tattoos, in random bad places . . . neck, ankle, calf . . . why does anyone need someone's name on their calf? Not connected to anything. You just woke up one day, somehow ended up at a tattoo parlour, and someone made you get a tattoo at gunpoint and this was the result.

And understand that it is 100 degrees outside. It's part of the reason I'm at the movies. But do you have to show me ALL of your random, "maybe this might be a good idea", tattoos? I don't show you my back fat. I don't try to wear tube tops . . . at least not without a sweater over it. I don't wear short shorts. And it wasn't one or two people. It wasn't just the lax caretaker of the children whose limbs were going to fall off from the zany bracelets. It was everyone in the theater except me and the grandmothers. And not even all of the grandmothers.

One girl, who was somehow ageless, but could have been anywhere from sixteen to her mid-twenties, was . . . let's just say, not skinny . . . in the way I am not skinny . . . but more. She was wearing plaid shorts and a gray tank top. Her haircut was asexual and NOT in a "I'm a stylish dyke" way, more in a my grandmother cuts my hair with a bowl way. No makeup on her and completely random tattoos. And the tattoos were kind of my grandmother did these with a razor blade and a Bic pen. So I guess at least the look was consistent. And the tattoos were arranged in a way that they could only be completely covered if she wore knee socks, long pants and a turtleneck. Did I mention that she was with what I think was a date, or husband? And yes, it was a man. Sigh.

It was as though everyone in the theater found a picture of Emiem and brought it to someone's basement tattoo party and said, "I want to look like this . . . but not as good. Can you do that for me?" And I wanted to ask where these people had jobs, but oh . . . right . . . they can go to the movies at noon on a Thursday. Maybe they work the evening shift? Or maybe four twelve hour shifts?

Third, there were an amazing amount of single men watching Eclipse . . . in that I would be amazed by ONE single man at a showing of Eclipse. And I have a feeling they weren't there to meet chicks. And they had the same tattoo plans, being that they were seemingly not planned and visible.

I guess I shouldn't be all that surprised considering the time of day and the neighborhood, but come on people. Get it together. I wanted to call a makeover show . . . and I'm the one that, according to my friends, should be on a makeover show. In the restroom, as I was leaving, I looked in the mirror and realized that I was easily, EASILY the most attractive person in the place. And I don't have THAT much self-esteem.

So middle America . . . or at least the part of America that can go to a movie at noon on a Thursday . . . you really need to get your shit together. Geez.

So the lesson is . . . and I determined this after I had moved seats two times and was about to stuff a well-lit cellphone into what would be an uncomfortable orifice . . . and darn it, my parents told me to do it what seems like years ago . . . that I should really just get Netflix.

Guilt about Cutting the Friendship cord

So here is the dilemma . . .
There are people who drift apart. Sometimes, that is a mutual thing . . . you just don't connect anymore. You don't work in the same place, you have different interests now, in a different spot. But sometimes it is NOT a mutual decision. And when you are the one cutting the cord, well, sometimes it sucks.

I have a friend playing a show this evening. He texted me about it about a week ago. When I didn't text back (it was a mass text, so I was not being impolite) he texted again to make sure I was coming. It's 8 pm on the day of the show. I'm not coming. I'm sitting in my living room.

And part of me thinks I'm lame. And part of me really, really wants to be nice and support his efforts. How hard would it be to get up and go? I really don't have anything else to do, except maybe watch the 14 episodes of Rebel Monkeys on my DVR. Except that if I go . . . I may be the only person there. If I'm not the only person there, the other people there are people I don't want to see. I don't like the guy's music. At all. And if I go . . . I'll have to stay. And lie. I don't lie well.

So I sit here and type, waiting for my nails to dry, trying to think up something else to do. Other than sit here and feel guilty. Because this is the pivotal cutting the cord event. Not replying to his "Happy New Years" (yes, I know . . . it's not years) was not enough. I should probably have a nice talk with him, explain why I'm cutting the cord. I'm in a different place now. And he really, really wants to talk about being unhappy. And I don't really want to do that anymore. He is a nice person. He is making his way in the world and doing the best he can. But one night he tried to convince me that I wasn't really happy . . . listing reasons that I should be unhappy . . . and I decided that was rather toxic. So I didn't call anymore. And didn't return his texts. And I don't think telling him would do any good. Really.

So perhaps I will shower and go out shopping. Or watch all those "Rebel Monkeys". And pretend that I am in Miami. But I have to cut that cord.

The Power of Yelp

I am giddy with imaginary power . . . caused by the Internet.

I'm sure everyone knows about yelp and if you don't you probably should check it out. There are reviews for everything, plumbers, restaurants, HAIR SALONS! And mostly, I use yelp to read reviews of things I haven't tried. And I'm an informed reviewer of reviews. I know to take things with a grain of salt. Heck, read the reviews of my brother's restaurant "group" sometime. They don't always get "5 stars". The rants are sometimes pretty funny to read. And I know my brother doesn't read them . . . much like I don't read my reviews on "Rate my Teacher". Thus the imaginary part of the power.

I lost my stylist a year ago. Well, that makes it sound like I took her out in the woods without breadcrumbs. My stylist made a career change a year ago. And she was an amazing stylist . . . did my hair and my MOTHER'S hair and we were both happy. If you have met the both of us, you know what a feat that is . . .

So the bar was set very high. And when she retired to become a phlebotomist, I tried to see it as a opportunity to find someone closer to home. 45 minutes is a long trek, even if it is an opportunity to have lunch with my parents. So I tried the "hip" place in Berkley, which is really for men. And after two haircuts that I wasn't happy with, I decided that it was REALLY for men. They do men's hair very well.

So I then searched . . . yelp specifically . . . and found this place in Detroit. It was in my old neighborhood, next to cool shops and next to Motor City Brewing Works, one of my current favs. But I only read the first review and then checked out their website. Owner said she was a former Derby Girl. Cool. My kind of place. So I called them. But I got a machine. (Machine can sometimes be a very bad sign) And I left a message. Melissa or Michelle or a person with an M name, called me back a few hours later. I told her my plight. She asked if my hair was already dyed. Ummmm. Yeah. Has been for years. I'm not walking around with crappy roots. Now, to her credit, Melissa or Michelle or person with an M name did not know that I'm almost forty with gray hair. M name told me that she would have to talk to a stylist and that the stylist would get back to me. "Probably not today . . . but tomorrow." Okay.

I waited a week. I thought about just driving down there and walking in. But then I decided to yelp. I read ALL the reviews. And most of them were not good. Not good at all. Some of them even had more than a few stars but still had "constructive" comments. And they didn't call me back. So I looked at some salons closer to home. Found one in Ferndale that was willing to get me in that day. Today. In a couple of hours. And they don't care that my hair is already dyed. And they didn't have one negative review.

Now granted, no one is happy all the time . . . but no one cared enough to type a negative review.

But I cared enough about the salon not calling me back. So I wrote a review saying that. True, if I was the business owner, I would get it taken down. I can't review their store because I haven't been in it. But it made me feel better. And maybe someone will read it and correct things.

I'm kinda bummed that I'm not going to eat yummy pizza today and I really wanted some brioche from Avalon bakery, but my hair will not look like a brown mushroom after 3 pm today. Hopefully.

And I am giddy with imaginary power.

On the First Day of Summer or Nothing is Simple

It is the first day of summer. Yes, yes, I know. The "real" first day of summer is June 21 or something, but it is the first day of summer vacation. The first day of summer.

And usually I spend the first week of summer in a zombie-like state, slack jawed on the couch, taking in as much daytime television as my damaged-by-working-daily-with-teenagers brain can stand. And as it turns out, my brain can stand a lot of daytime TV. But this year was going to be different!

I scheduled an appointment for the city inspector to come over on the first day of summer. Sure he was going to come and inspect my four year old water heater, so there was really no rush, but I would have to get the house presentable, right? And that sort of happened, except that my sister won a "of the year" award so we went out for margaritas. But I had my coffee by 7 am and I cleared a path to the water heater and sort of made it look like people could inhabit my house. This was complicated by the fact that I haven't done anything at my house in a month . . . because I would do it when summer came and I was off. I even put away the ladder that had been out since last weekend for the great tree cutting adventure (another story altogether).

And the inspector arrived at 9:05 am, inspected for about four seconds, wrote out a sticker with a big happy "approved" on it, and wouldn't tell me that I got ripped off on the chimney liner. Very nice man. And I did get ripped off.

So was showered with the rest of the day ahead. I watched some Ellen. A little Rachel Ray. That woman is too happy. I took a little nap along with some aspirin. I think about planting some plants, but it is hot. I take another nap. And then I decide to put on the new shower rod that has been sitting in a box behind my bathroom door for six months. Only because the Spider Monkey used my bathroom during the great tree cutting adventure and shamed me by saying "Umm, are you ever going to take this out of the box?" What? It's behind the door. When I'm home alone, I don't close the door. So what box?

I open the box. It has a whole four pages of instructions. With large pictures. Very good. It is all stainless steel and extends outward, like a fancy hotel shower curtain rod. Very good. I have to start by taking down the old shower curtain rod. Okay. Right? There is a lot of old paint, which I can only assume is filled with yummy, yummy lead. The first screws come out relatively easily, but the bracket is painted to the wall. The second set of screws are more complicated, with ancient drywall mounts, which cause large-ish holes. After some minor swearing and a lot of unscrewing, everything old is in a trash bag. But there are still large-ish holes . . . and I have to make new holes which means the old holes will just be empty . . . and that seems like an invitation for black mold . . . hmmmm . . . plastic bags and spackle . . . too long to dry . . . I have to take a shower sometime soon . . .

So my genius idea, while looking for the spackle, is to use Great Stuff spray foam. It says water-resistant. It will fill the holes. Easy-Peasy. Except that I decide to fill that spot that I can see light through next to my door. And then a few more spots. And then it is on the floor. No problem, just pick it up. And throw it in the sink. Fill the holes in the bathroom. Drop some foam on the hardwood. And then . . . then decide to crawl up in the attic and fill that spot next to the kitchen sink stack that you are sure is leaking. Sticky hands get stuck to the insulation. Insulation gets everywhere. Itchy. Go to the sink to wash off the sticky and thus the insulation. Not working. Read can. "Remove from surfaces with acetone." "If on hands or skin, must wear off". So I get the nail polish remover. Still sticky. More nail polish remover. Really sticky. Scrub hands with brillo pad. Better. Put all stickiness in trash bag. Oh, and use about a half a roll of paper towels.

Alright. Time to take a break. Princess calls about our plans for tomorrow. Yes, I'm doing something on the second day of summer too! While I'm talking, I'll just cut this stuff out of the box with a Stanley knife. Until I stab myself in the hand with the Stanley knife. Hang up on Princess and use the other half of the paper towels. Call the Spider Monkey. No answer. Pour rubbing alcohol on stab wound. I can see a bit of innard poking out. Call my mother, measure the cut for her, and she reassures me that I can just butterfly it. So then I have to go out and get butterflies. And weird duct tape like waterproof bandages. Because despite the stab wound, I have to finish this project, because I have to shower due to the trip through the insulation in the attic. One side turns out to be on a stud, there is major leveling needed and I only have one and a half hands, but it all goes up eventually.

And the shower rod is now up. I still have to clean the bathroom so I don't have paint dust mixed with water. But there is no longer a box behind my door. And I will probably have a scar to prove it. Nothing is simple. Not even four pages of instructions with big pictures.

He was just there . . . Looking at the Lamps

I was at the Target today, looking for those brown pellet things to put seeds in . . . I'm planning to torture my neighbor with morning glories. Lots and lots of morning glories. All over that chain link fence that she won't let me get rid of.

As it turns out, Target does not have brown pellet thingys for seeds, so I went to look at baby stuff for the hundreds of baby showers I have this spring. Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone familiar. I knew him in college. A good friend of my then boyfriend. Except . . . he was an old man. And it wasn't the gray hair. No. His face was OLD. Wrinkled eyes. Old man stance. Old. But a year older than me. So forty.

Now this person is from the same hometown . . . and now evidently the same current town . . . so I have run into him in various places. The gas station in our twenties. Outside a bar in our thirties. And, truthfully, he has never looked good. Something about that trip to Africa. And considering how much past we have in common, I should be much more chirpy and say "hello" and make small talk. But I never do. Then boyfriend and I did not end well. Old guy friend of then boyfriend and I ended less well, as friends who has to take sides often do.

So I always seize up and try to ignore him completely. Today I wandered the ladies underwear section of Target, quite leisurely, thinking that I would be safe there after the initial sighting. And then I had to go to the bathroom and had to walk past him because he had finished checking out. Locking my eyes forward, I ran into the volunteer brochures trying to avoid his gaze.

Funny thing is . . . knowing how much men remember things . . . he probably just thinks I'm a different crazy woman each time. So I'm taking all these steps to avoid awkwardness and he has no idea who I am. And yet, I will still go to great lengths to duck him wherever we meet in our fifties.

Yep, Just Fine

I stopped at the "Yuppie" grocery store this evening on the way home from work - fearing that I would be snowed in with no food. It is the most expensive store in the area, "Holiday Markup" as I shall refer to it . . . not as expensive as Papa Vino's or Nino Sal whatever it is, but expensive. I don't buy staples there, just wine, meat and cheese . . . oh, and booze. They have an excellent booze section.

Anyhow, I was working my way through the yogurt section when I hear "Emily?" Sigh. I turn. Slowly. Thinking "who could know my name? and do I really want to talk to them?". Oh, one of my ex-boyfriends. The one who wanted me to meet his kids waaaaay too soon. Great. Put on the color guard fake smile. Quick! Quick!

As I'm pulling up the corners of my mouth in my "I had three seconds on national television" smile, his phone rings. An iphone. And he answers it. And I try to slip away into the yogurt, thinking "thank God he is so rude" because I wouldn't have accosted someone at the grocery store and then answered my phone in the middle of it. But then I have to get some eggs. Damn that baking brownies. And I practically have to touch him to reach the eggs. And the phone conversation is over.

"How are you Charles?" color guard smile still pasted on my face. He gives me his tale of woe. With all of the leading statements, so that I will ask questions. But I don't. "Oh that must be hard with no public transportation . . . oh, well that's nice . . . " I end with "How are the kids?" and then scramble to the frozen foods, hoping that he will not follow me.

Thankfully, he did not. And the Republican in me is very, very disappointed in his choices. He is just not very thrifty at all. And I don't want anyone's tax dollars paying for his poor choices. Because he really, really (from the information he willingly gave me today) needs to shop at someplace, like, say, Aldi. Or the Fresh Foods with lots of coupons. And he needs to keep some things in his life a secret. Especially when one has a $300 phone and is buying really overpriced butter.

And I hate to say it . . . but I can afford to buy overpriced butter and I still go to Meijer.

Oh, and there was never a "How are you, Emily?" Cause I would have just said, "I'm fine." Trip to India, Teacher of the Year, learning to cook, plus a pretty pretty princess jeep with a new transmission and the spider monkey. Yep, just fine.

Do You Feel That You Could Forget Your Cats and Be Impartial?

Today I had jury duty.

Local jury duty . . . which means I did not have to drive far, however, my small suburban town doesn't often have trials, let alone trials with juries. It seems, from overhearing other juror candidates that my town hasn't had a jury trial in four years. That seemed to explain the crowded seating arrangement.

There were strong coffee and donuts. The governmental instructional video from 1982. I think there were supposed to be twenty of us, but two people didn't show. I wonder what happens to them? They only needed six people plus an alternate and that took all morning. The defense excluded the two jurors that I would have excluded also. One really thought that she was also a lawyer. One just really didn't want to be there. She made it clear that she wanted to be home with her kids and that drunk drivers were all evil because she didn't want to pay for child care.

There were two exclusions because the men openly admitted they were criminals. One had a sport coat on and seemed pretty normal, almost cute, until I noticed his exceedingly long nails. Ummm. Super creepy! He was called and announed that he knew the prosecutor VERY well by being prosecuted by him. Hmmm. And yet he walks the streets. My streets. The other man was younger. Very attractive, in Abercromie and Fitch gear. "I've been in the defendant's shoes!" he practically yelled.

But that's not the weird part. I was amazed at the amount of the seven that really, really wanted to be there. They were all women, all over thirty, most over forty. And they were perky about it . . . YES! We will be impartial! Sure we will take in all the facts! Well . . . no . . . none of us has ever had a drink. Because we are shut ins that only talk to our cats. And cats don't do well with wine glasses! But YES, we could see how a breathalyzer could be wrong . . . maybe. And we all had alcoholic husbands/ex-husbands/fathers but that's just an emotional issue, we'll be fine. Sniff. I'm sure the defendant isn't like our fathers or is just enough . . . but YES! YES! YES! we are tremendously excited about our civil duty! And he is innocent right now. Yes he is. Because the prosecutor hasn't presented his case.

I sat in the back, hoping not to be called. With my whole being. Because even though the trial was only supposed to be a day and a half, I did not want to sit in a room with those six other people. I did not want to be talked at by the wholesome prosecutor or the slimy defense attorney. Who kept telling the jury that they would have to be "super human" not to be biased. (Oh, I so want to prove that I am super human! I really do!)So I decided that I was biased. Very, very biased. Do policemen lie? Well, yes, I suppose they could . . . but they say they are still looking for my passport and I would like to believe them. Can you be something other than drunk and just look drunk. Sure. But if you are acting like you are drunk . . . well, you probably shouldn't be driving either. Plus, those four students from my school were killed last year.

Finally, the perky prosecutor was happy with his jury and the defense attorney had no contest, so I was sent away from the cold little room that they also have city council meetings in . . . trial in the city's multi-purpose rec room. I hope they have a nice trial. I'm very glad I'm not a part of it.

And the experience has made me never want to be a part of it. So no more having that second beer and waiting a while. Because I'm uncomfortable with cat ladies deciding my fate.

What font did I use?

I'm back MFers.

I'm sorry I've been gone for so long. But it was good to take a break. Not write. Not think. Not snark.

But I've missed it.

So today, a colleague of mine was complaining about the MFP. I thought he was making a new name for the new printers. A dirty nasty name. But it turns out that they are actually named "Multi-Function Printers". Much cleaner than what I was thinking.

Work sucks. I'm teacher of the year. Work still sucks. I'm thinking of starting a blog next year on the first day of school and calling it "184 days" and then getting it published, so I can go on a speaking tour and not have to go to work anymore. Or different work.

I'm buying a furnace instead of going anywhere this summer. And perhaps getting a summer job, if the state legislature has it way.

Oh, and I have jury duty on Friday. Which could possibly suck more than work. Plus, I still have to do lesson plans, so it's like working without going to work. Yucky.

So okay, I'm back.

Adventure!

I have discovered why people get married . . . or at least co-habituate.

Because nothing in my home is fixable by one person . . . and the jobs are so gross that two people have to be personally invested. And more invested than, say, "oh, I might have sex with this person".

Today I am working on my furnace. I am covered in water, something that I hope is silt but I think is ooze, and basic filth. It's like I fell in a sewer.

I went to India. I left my house for three weeks. When I came home my "whole house" humidifier, which I have never, ever used because it was disgusting and I just left it turned "off, was leaking. Dripping out of a hole that I did not know existed. And things were wet . . . my furnace was wet-ish and upon inspection sorta rusty (so maybe not a new problem), the floor was wet . . . so I got a bucket. And I waited. And the bucket filled and the floor stayed wet. Not a good sign.

So I looked up how much a new furnace and air conditioner are . . . which while maybe necessary at this point, is much more than I have at the moment. And the thought "My mother told me not to go to India" runs through my head. So I decide to monkey with the humidifier.

I take the top off. I did this yesterday. I even put some bleach into the murky water. An act that I am thankful for today. Today I decide to follow the instructions that are listed in the area you see when you take the top off. Today I decide to take the bottom off the unit. Taking the bottom off? A one person job.

And first I think about just using a shop vac to hose out all the water . . . and proceed to make a huge mess checking what is in the shop vac only to decide that it is too much trouble to clean the it order to make it ready to for water so that I don't make cement instead. So mess no. one.

So I decide to take the bottom tray off of the humidifier to inspect where the large amount of water is coming from. Could this all be condensation? I don't even think my furnace has a condensation pump . . . it just has a hose that inconveniently goes to the drain. I pull off the clips.

And water explodes everywhere. The water to the humidifier, which I was sure was turned off, because the value would not move . . . and quite frankly I had NOT turned it on . . . and this hasn't happened for five years . . . the water was turned on. So water is spraying everywhere and I drop the tray so the murky, yucky stuff goes everywhere. I figure out there is a float, which turns the water off . . . but I have to get the bottom tray back on, so I can contain the flow of water . . . so I can turn the water off . . .

And putting the tray back on? It is a two person job. One person to hold the tray in place and one person to put the clips (which are grooved) back into place. And everyone is at work. And I am covered in gross five year old water. I manage to get the tray back on after several tray droppings and I manage getting the water turned off. I then take the tray off again . . . and drop it AGAIN to make sure the water is really turned off.

As far as I can tell, the float must have been stuck? Anyhow, we will see if I fixed the problem. And I'm letting the shop vac mess dry now before I clean it up. And I'll just take another shower.

But it really would have been helpful if someone else was invested in the "oh my god I have to fix the leaky furnace" problem. Gotta go. I'm still sick and now wet.

Home

I am home . . . and while I don't think I can be very far from a toilet for a bit, that is much easier in the US.

After falling into an unconscious state for five hours, I gathered myself, put on some SHOES (only had damn sandals for three weeks . . . I'm such a dumb a$$), and drove to Taco Bell. Such a weird almost disconcerting feeling being the only car on the road at 10 pm. Where are all the people in case I fall in a hole? But there are no giant random holes here and the roads are well lit and I'm only going to Taco Bell.

I immediately convert my total into rupees, thinking that 1450 rupees is an outrageous price for dinner, especially without three courses. The women in the drive-thru are confused by my hands and think I have wicked tattoos. I have forgotten about the Mendi and then have to try to explain it . . . which is ironically much like the scenes from the last three weeks where everyone looked at me mystified. They finally get that the marks are temporary ("but they look so real!") and off I go again into the empty streets. The whole food run took maybe 10 minutes, instead of the usual three hours that has been my life for three weeks. And I didn't even have to ask for the bill.

I have to fall unconscious again. Maybe I will get some pictures up tomorrow.

In Two Days

In two days, I will be leaving for India. The Spider Monkey is accompanying. It should be the trip of a lifetime.

And yes, I know I have bunny ears in the picture.

So I set up a new blog for the trip . . . because I wanted to try out the competition, and really it is a separate thing.

spidermonkeyandems.wordpress.com

Hopefully, I will be able to update from the hotels, late at night. We will see.

I am already struggling with the fact that I may be too high maintenance . . . I am the one who wants the five star hotel at the end, I am the one signing up for the Skyclub Membership because I don't want to sit in the airport or more specifically, I want to sit in the nice part of the airport with the cookies, the "free" soda, and the nice people who can also afford to sit there. I'm definitely a "flashpacker" not a backpacker. And I have a feeling this is going to be a dirty vacation. (I did go for eight days without a shower on a "tall ships" trip)

And then I loop to "who cares?" and I'm fine. I'll bring home lots of pictures. I get to ride a camel. All Yayness. So check it out.

Because Nothing will be Easy

I am leaving for India in a week and a half.

And today was a good example of my preparation for the trip.

Several months ago, I went to a "travel doctor" at a significant cost to myself to make sure that I would be ready to go what is considered a third world country. They handed me a printout of the risks of going to India (something I could have printed off the internet myself . . . but hey, I didn't have a working printer then), tested me for resistance to Mumps, Measles, Rubella and Chicken Pox (I was NOT resistant to Measles. Good to know), gave me several vaccinations and two prescriptions, and sent me on my way. They refused to give me a rabies vaccination (a bad plan, considering the chance of me being bitten by a monkey) (and if anyone could be bitten by a monkey, it would be me). Oh, and charged me a good bit of money.

One of the prescriptions was for Cipro. The other, Larium . . . or mefloquine. Now Larium is known for it's bad side effects. There are websites dedicated to stories of lives ruined by Larium. The nurse said it was all bad press, but it's a little disturbing that I have to carry a card in my wallet. And I am the queen of bad side effects, especially with medications where there are little known side effects. So I'm hoping since there are lots of KNOWN side effects, I'll take Larium and nothing will happen. Just like thousand of other people. (The dreams are supposed to be very, very vivid)

So yesterday I decide it is time to fill these prescriptions. I have to take my first dose of Larium on Saturday to be ready in case a mosquito decides to feast on me. I drop off my prescriptions at my "local pharmacy" which is a Target relatively near my house. 20 minutes later they call. My insurance company has denied one of my prescriptions. Cool. I'm still in the store. I come back to the pharmacy for clarification.

I need 9 pills. One week ahead of my trip. Four Saturdays during my trip. Four Saturdays after my trip. My insurance will only pay for four pills - a 30 day supply. I will have to call them for an "override" as I will still be in India when I need a fifth pill. Okay. Sounds reasonable.

And here is where it goes wrong . . . sounds reasonable . . . sounded reasonable to mail my passport to get a visa too . . . should be easy . . .

Next morning, call my insurance company and explain my situation. Nice lady puts me on hold for a long time. No problem. Just have the doctor call. We'll give you an override. This takes me fifteen minutes.

Call the travel medicine place. Remember, I paid them a good bit of money for them to give me a printout and a pamphlet. I explain my situation. I only need five bills, a seven day override. I get fifteen minutes of interrogation about why I didn't fill these prescriptions several months ago and why I didn't know that insurance companies don't fill prescriptions for more than thirty days. I was supposed to telepathically know that I was supposed to walk out of their office and fill my prescriptions two months early . . . so I could get a refill (for the drugs I had not yet used) the next month.

This conversation was very much like the one where I was supposed to telepathically know that the visa company was going to send my passport "no signature required" and that I should send my own airbill if I didn't want stuff just dumped on my porch (maybe . . . if it even got to my porch).

Finally, despite my lack of telepathic skills, the nurse agrees to call for me. She almost immediately calls me back. "Your insurance company says you need a signed form from your employer for a vacation waiver." So my insurance company will not pay for one additional malaria med without a note from my employer . . . but they will pay when I come down with malaria?

And my employer? I didn't even bother. Everyone who knows anything was forced to retire and everyone else is on vacation. I work for a school district and it is the month of July. Good luck with contacting them.

So I pay for the fifth pill on my own. A pill that will possibly give me vivid nightmares of animals and people killing me. All for 13.99. I hear college kids pay much more than that for other stuff that does the same thing.

As I drove to pick them up . . . after finding every prescription in my house, so that my insurance company could pay for those . . . I thought to myself "nothing about this trip has been easy".

So hopefully, once I get there, India will be a beautiful relaxing feast for my senses. Elephants and nice happy monkeys that do not bite me. Bright colors and yummy lassi. And shopping like I have never known.

I have a passport. I have a visa. I have five anti-malarial pills.

I have a hat that you can squash into a little-bitty circle. It will be fine . . .

Yay! Summer.

So much excitement!

I downloaded the new iphone operating system, thanks to my father, who called after reading about it in the Wall Street Journal. It IS better. He really should not feed my addiction.

I'm hopefully going to Chicago to solve our "visa problem" i.e. (name withheld) didn't deliver them. Called (name also withheld) with my list of questions and was told that all would be "no problem". Very casual, the Chicago (name withheld) customer service people. And again was told that missing passports . . ."that never happens" . . . and suppressed my urge to scream into the phone "but IT DID HAPPEN!" Therefore, they cannot use the word "never" anymore. They can use almost never . . . they can use seldom . . . but "never happens" doesn't work any more. But I told her to have a nice day instead.

Look children! This is why monopolies are BAD!

And I finally, after much hand wringing, moaning and reading endlessly "cnet" web reviews, bought a camera this afternoon. A Nikon P60, which I purchased for under $100. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it runs on AA batteries . . . but it has a viewfinder and a manual setting and a 5x optical zoom. And I could have spend the $229 on the Canon Powershot SX110 but I have to go to Chicago and I probably shouldn't sleep on the street. So the Nikon P60 will have to do. I think it's cute actually and just big enough to feel like a "real" camera and yet small enough to fit in my purse. "George" the Nikon D80 has not been invited on the India trip, due to his size.

And I started a new sweater yesterday. The pattern is simple to the point that I might find it boring, but so far it has been good television knitting. And now that I have a DVR I can watch "Venture Brothers" and knit away anytime I want. Love it.

Multi-tasking

I just finished talking on my phone, while typing this IN MY LIVING ROOM and having the possibility of recording four shows at once and then watching them in my bedroom. I heart AT&T right at this moment.

And I think I can use their wireless at Starbucks for free now, but don't quote me on that. The install guy told me that I can type this out in my backyard too . . . so maybe I need to fix up my backyard and get some hammocks or something. Yes, multiple hammocks . . . so my friends and family can sit too.

Unfortunately, this means I'm going to have to buy stuff. Or more stuff, as I just purchased an iphone. New television and a new computer. But now I don't have to get that wireless router that I have been lovingly stroking at the Best Buy. I just have to get the Passport drive or Mybook, or whatever they are called, so I can transfer all that music on my office dinosaur. I could make my office a "real" guestroom. With just guest stuff. (I know. I'm dreaming. I have way too much stuff.)

So good first day of summer so far . . . don't want to jinx it, so knock wood. My actually government passport came in the mail today, signed for and everything and I have new wireless and a DVR for ten dollars less a month. YAY!

Beware the Mothers' Network

My mother would say this to me as a teenager . . . "beware the mothers' network" . . . which really meant that she had informants and snitches everywhere.

And the mothers' network has taken hold at work. Now I just have to ride it out.

Eleven more days left.

What an end to a terrible year.

You Have RUINED My Life

The yearbooks came in today. In keeping with tradition, after I had the administration approve them, I passed them out to seniors. I passed out yearbooks from 3 pm to 3:30 pm. At 3:34 pm I had two complaints on my voicemail and one complaint on email.

The theme of the complaints? It's their SENIOR YEAR. How dare I mess things up. They can't be fixed because it's the SENIOR YEAR. There is no next year for my son/daughter. Nothing can happen to them now. They cannot appreciate their yearbook/memory ad because of that "o" instead of an "e".

I think I handled them all with grace and refunds, lots of refunds but I'm amazed at the claims. It's as though they are fruit flies or something. Their lives are going to end in three days . . . when senior year is over and how dare I make it not perfect.

Notice I say "I" because in the parent's minds it is MY fault. I misspelled their offspring's name ON PURPOSE and I must be stopped. And punished. Severely.

And I shouldn't let it bother me. But I could never, ever work in customer service. Because I would cry all the time. Because I ruin people's lives . . . with yearbooks.

I haven't even passed them out to the underclassmen yet.

Saturday Projects Solo

I had the evening to myself last night . . . Spider Monkey had to work super early this morning and therefore wanted to go to bed super early. So I rented "Twilight" and bought some ice cream and had a very nice time. "Slumdog Millionare" will be showing this evening in my living room, perhaps with some more mint chocolate chip.

I need to do some yardwork. I think I didn't mulch last year? But it is resulting in some killer weeds. And I want to paint the part of my window that is yellowing . . . actually browning . . . as I think it would make my house look so much nicer.

My parents, very sweetly, called at 8:30 am to tell me that they were at IKEA but it didn't seem like they wanted to wait for me to wake up, let alone get there to buy my cabinets.

And I have to go out to their house to get my birth certificate as the passport agency is open on Saturdays! But I feel funny going without SM . . . they were lost/stolen together, seems like they should be applied for together. Yes, I have a police report and everything. It has been an extremely fun week.

To read about the passport nightmare - I have a thread on "indiamike" which is a travel forum for people going to India. It is really very informative and how I know about the "touts" and toliets. So read here: http://tiny.cc/iRyQL It's all sorts of fun and expense!

Oh, and I think I want to buy an iphone. I could blog more.

You Gotta Read This!

Okay, so I haven't written in FOREVER . . . still teaching, still can't tell Spider Monkey stories, my hair is a semi-normal color and I'm going to India this summer. Yes. India. Because I want to . . .

Anyhow, instead of going into my nightmare of a Passport/Visa story . . . because I'm just too bitter . . . you should read this:

http://blog.pamandphil.com

Because I love it so much I want to marry it. Or maybe just marry Pam and Phil . . . or maybe just Pam, but only in certain states. Anyhow, it is how I hope my "Ems and Spider Monkey go to India" blog will be.

The Festival of Outsideness

This weekend, I went to a "winter festival". I won't tell you what winter festival because I just got a memo at work with the 13 things that I should NOT EVER talk about (let alone write about . . . writing is forever, talking . . . it melts into the air and conjecture) and the winter "blank" festival seems to fit items 1, 4, 9 and 11.

So the winter "blank" festival was in Grand Rapids, which is a trek for me . . . three hours by car. Actually three hours to my sister's house to sleep and then another hour to the winter "blank" festival. It was at Comstock Park (?) the little baseball stadium in Grand Rapids. Now I heard stadium and winter and in my brain I thought, "Cool! They found a place big enough to have it inside." Wrong. So very, very wrong. Silly Emily.

The winter "may or may not be an alcoholic beverage" festival was in the PARKING LOT of the stadium. Let's just say, I would have dressed differently. Very differently. And the person that I dragged across the state? Yeah. He would have dressed differently too.

So first there is the line around the stadium. I don't know what it is . . . but there is always an ENORMOUS line at the festival. In the summer it wraps around the block, in the winter it wraps around the stadium. And the people behind us? Had already "festivalled" if you know what I mean. So the very loud, kinda slurry conversation was interesting.

Inside . . . well not "inside" . . . once we were inside the gates, it was cold. And the liquid we were drinking was cold. And the ground was wet, which made my feet cold. Thank God Dave didn't need his hat! So the lines to get stuff were cold and the lines to the bathroom more cold. And when you have to go to the bathroom and you are waiting in 20 degree weather for 30 minutes to go in a porta potty? Bleak. Oh, and there was a bonfire. And when I was assured that there was a bonfire, I was picturing "burning man" huge pile of flame as big as a house. Nope. We have had fires in my parents backyard that were bigger.

So next year, not so much about the winter festival . . . or am wearing a snowmobile suit. I'm not sure which. They really should advertise the "outside" part better. Maybe make it part of the name. The Winter _______ Festival of Outsideness? The Very Outside Winter __________ Festival? I don't know. But I should have been warned.