All week my neighbors have been pounding, sawing, and buzzing away at some big project in their backyard. Yesterday I thought the Chelsea Summerfest was going in over there, they had so many of those white picnic shelter tents set up. Since I can’t see over the palisade fence (which resembles a fort in an old western), I really couldn’t tell what they were doing. For one brief, shining moment I even thought they might be moving - all the shit was cleared off the porch - until I realized that the shit had simply been moved to a temporary pile in the front yard.
Smoke and classic rock started billowing from their back porch mid morning. I shut all the windows and turned the air conditioner on. I went to run an errand, took a spin of the rather-diminished Summerfest sidewalk sales, got a steal of a deal on a toilet bowl brush (sans caddy) at the hardware store, and returned home. There was a note stuck in the door asking my permission to have a moonwalk installed in my backyard near the tree line. I was to holler over the fence to let them know.
So I went to the back and hollered over. Then hollered again. On the third holler the chef looked up from the sizzling grill. “Mmm - burger,” said my dieting stomach. I tried not to drool and told her the moonwalk was okay.
She thanked me and was truly appreciative. She explained it was a party for her son’s graduation and said I could come too. Really, despite my grousing, the neighbors are not bad people. And seeing the amount of stuff and money going into this shindig, I’m thinking they might be eccentric millionaires, who prefer their vintage Broncos with genuine rust and haven’t moved to a nicer house because they cannot bear to part with the twenty-foot, bright yellow “Wolverines” carving that seems permanently fixed in the backyard.
The moonwalk went up about two hours ago. Part of the palisade came down to allow passage between the yards. The kids are bouncing around screaming and the adults are putting their cigarettes out on the lawn. The Rolling Stones are blaring from a boombox on the porch.
That sappy penguin movie is playing at the Michigan tonight. It might be a good night to go.
30 July 2005
29 July 2005
28 July 2005
Meep Meep
Another car story.
On the way home today, I happened to glance in the rearview mirror to see a bright red Aztec screaming up Freer Road. I honestly thought they were simply going to plow through me. I tapped on the brake, just enough to make the light come on and hopefully alert the driver to slower traffic in the 25 mph zone.
The Aztec crossed the double yellow line into oncoming traffic to pass me, cut me off, then braked 500 feet later, waiting to turn left into the school complex.
Naturally I leaned on the horn. Only instead of a huge Wagnerian blast to match my fury, I got a tiny, ineffectual meeeep, tuned an octave above middle C. The only problem with the little Korean car is the little Korean horn. The Aztec occupants probably thought there was a small child on a bike somewhere near by, if they heard the horn at all.
I’m glad I’m home.
Mercury’s retrograde until August 15. Everybody’s losin’ it. Hang on and be careful out there.
On the way home today, I happened to glance in the rearview mirror to see a bright red Aztec screaming up Freer Road. I honestly thought they were simply going to plow through me. I tapped on the brake, just enough to make the light come on and hopefully alert the driver to slower traffic in the 25 mph zone.
The Aztec crossed the double yellow line into oncoming traffic to pass me, cut me off, then braked 500 feet later, waiting to turn left into the school complex.
Naturally I leaned on the horn. Only instead of a huge Wagnerian blast to match my fury, I got a tiny, ineffectual meeeep, tuned an octave above middle C. The only problem with the little Korean car is the little Korean horn. The Aztec occupants probably thought there was a small child on a bike somewhere near by, if they heard the horn at all.
I’m glad I’m home.
Mercury’s retrograde until August 15. Everybody’s losin’ it. Hang on and be careful out there.
26 July 2005
Just Like It Sounds
Since I magically acquired additional vacation days at my “real” job, I took one today to stay home and catch up on some work for my second job (the “unreal” one).
The phone rang and I got up to answer it. The caller ID displayed “Unknown caller,” so I was pretty sure it was a telemarketer, but I was bored and answered it anyway.
Turns out it wasn’t a telemarketer, but a surveyor. I had a hard time understanding the woman on the other end of the line, who sounded like she had an adenoid problem, but I gathered she wanted to collect some information about how I get my news. I consented, and she asked the first question.
“What county do you live in?”
“Washtenaw,” I replied.
“Where?” she asked.
“Washtenaw County,” I said.
There was a pause. “Could you spell that please?”
I spelled Washtenaw.
There was a pause.
“Just like it sounds,” I said, which is exactly what D. said to me when I said “Huh?” before I moved here.
She was clearly nonplussed, but remained professional. “That’s all the questions I have. Thank you for your time.”
“Thanks!” I said brightly, and hung up. At least it was some amusement for the day.
I think there is an unwritten rule that every place must have names designed to separate the natives from the tourists, the residents from the outsiders. Back in the Greater Johnstown Statistical Area, your pronunciation (or mispronunciation) of Conemaugh Hospital and Menoher Boulevard could mark you as an in or an out, a person with roots there or a newcomer.
In my various moves around the midwest, I’ve blundered into several of these myself. The Native American place names are understandable, but it’s the slaughtered European cities that crack me up most. Versailles and Cadiz are not pronounced the same way in oHIo as in France or Spain. I never imagined Milan could be MY-lan. But after a year, I’m learning my Michigan patois. Maybe soon I’ll qualify for townie status.
Just don’t get me started on Saline.
The phone rang and I got up to answer it. The caller ID displayed “Unknown caller,” so I was pretty sure it was a telemarketer, but I was bored and answered it anyway.
Turns out it wasn’t a telemarketer, but a surveyor. I had a hard time understanding the woman on the other end of the line, who sounded like she had an adenoid problem, but I gathered she wanted to collect some information about how I get my news. I consented, and she asked the first question.
“What county do you live in?”
“Washtenaw,” I replied.
“Where?” she asked.
“Washtenaw County,” I said.
There was a pause. “Could you spell that please?”
I spelled Washtenaw.
There was a pause.
“Just like it sounds,” I said, which is exactly what D. said to me when I said “Huh?” before I moved here.
She was clearly nonplussed, but remained professional. “That’s all the questions I have. Thank you for your time.”
“Thanks!” I said brightly, and hung up. At least it was some amusement for the day.
I think there is an unwritten rule that every place must have names designed to separate the natives from the tourists, the residents from the outsiders. Back in the Greater Johnstown Statistical Area, your pronunciation (or mispronunciation) of Conemaugh Hospital and Menoher Boulevard could mark you as an in or an out, a person with roots there or a newcomer.
In my various moves around the midwest, I’ve blundered into several of these myself. The Native American place names are understandable, but it’s the slaughtered European cities that crack me up most. Versailles and Cadiz are not pronounced the same way in oHIo as in France or Spain. I never imagined Milan could be MY-lan. But after a year, I’m learning my Michigan patois. Maybe soon I’ll qualify for townie status.
Just don’t get me started on Saline.
24 July 2005
Today I Woke Up Sad
This morning’s dream was a documentary, set in a village somewhere in Afganistan; leathery old men, young girls with shiny black hair, lots of talking and gesticulating. I turned over and rubbed my aching sinuses, wondering how my subconscious came up with this this time.
The throbbing beneath my cheekbones echoed the distant rumbling of thunder. I knew this was a big storm just by listening - every two or three seconds, another low, rolling wave resounded. Going over the dream, I thought about the book “Kite Runner” that I read this summer, and then jumped to the installation of thousands of pairs of shoes on the Diag that I saw yesterday. Each pair of shoes represented an Iraqi civilian or American soldier killed in Iraq. I wondered if someone on the exhibition team had the job of watching the news or listening to the radio to find out how many shoes they would need to add the next day. I wondered if they had a big crate of shoes and military boots that travelled with them - how many would they need?
I sighed and put my hand down to pet my good and patient kitty, curled up by my hip, waiting quietly for her breakfast. The weather approached rapidly and soon I could see the lightning flashes even through my closed eyelids. Kitty doesn’t like the thunder, and hopped down to creep under the bed. I tend to sleep on the right side of the bed, as if saving the left side will make a lover appear. Well, they do say if you act as though you already have everything you want in life, it will come to you. A well-rehearsed fantasy of a man with strong arms starts up in my head, but the lack of a real partner hurts too much this morning, and I can’t have who I want and should stop thinking of him, so I turn the fantasy off. Who are “they” anyway? Do they know what it’s like to have a heart that feels like a boiled tomato when you split the skin and all the guts run out? I sighed again and rolled over to the left side of the bed.
My shoulders ache from all the time spent at the keyboard during the week. Some yoga usually helps for a while, but the ache soon comes back. I pulled myself into a modified “child pose,” knees to my chest, forehead to the mattress, arms stretched above my head. “Child pose” looks like a Muslim at worship. I breathed in long, slow, deep breaths to soften my belly and breathed out tension and affirmation that I am connected to the cosmos, and as such I am enough, and have everything I need to handle whatever life brings my way. As my breath curled out of me it carried little prayers, that my house would withstand the thunderstorm, that my heart would survive the storms of its own strange passions, that the world would outlast all the shit and hate and fire we rain down on it and each other, and someday heal.
The rain pounded at the windows and the thunder shook the house. I knew I should get up, feed the cat, do the laundry, go buy the newspapers, write this out. But I didn’t. I stayed there for a while, just another small mammal sheltering in her nest, another member of a race of wee, cow’rin’, tim’rous beasties whose plans gang aft a-gley.
The throbbing beneath my cheekbones echoed the distant rumbling of thunder. I knew this was a big storm just by listening - every two or three seconds, another low, rolling wave resounded. Going over the dream, I thought about the book “Kite Runner” that I read this summer, and then jumped to the installation of thousands of pairs of shoes on the Diag that I saw yesterday. Each pair of shoes represented an Iraqi civilian or American soldier killed in Iraq. I wondered if someone on the exhibition team had the job of watching the news or listening to the radio to find out how many shoes they would need to add the next day. I wondered if they had a big crate of shoes and military boots that travelled with them - how many would they need?
I sighed and put my hand down to pet my good and patient kitty, curled up by my hip, waiting quietly for her breakfast. The weather approached rapidly and soon I could see the lightning flashes even through my closed eyelids. Kitty doesn’t like the thunder, and hopped down to creep under the bed. I tend to sleep on the right side of the bed, as if saving the left side will make a lover appear. Well, they do say if you act as though you already have everything you want in life, it will come to you. A well-rehearsed fantasy of a man with strong arms starts up in my head, but the lack of a real partner hurts too much this morning, and I can’t have who I want and should stop thinking of him, so I turn the fantasy off. Who are “they” anyway? Do they know what it’s like to have a heart that feels like a boiled tomato when you split the skin and all the guts run out? I sighed again and rolled over to the left side of the bed.
My shoulders ache from all the time spent at the keyboard during the week. Some yoga usually helps for a while, but the ache soon comes back. I pulled myself into a modified “child pose,” knees to my chest, forehead to the mattress, arms stretched above my head. “Child pose” looks like a Muslim at worship. I breathed in long, slow, deep breaths to soften my belly and breathed out tension and affirmation that I am connected to the cosmos, and as such I am enough, and have everything I need to handle whatever life brings my way. As my breath curled out of me it carried little prayers, that my house would withstand the thunderstorm, that my heart would survive the storms of its own strange passions, that the world would outlast all the shit and hate and fire we rain down on it and each other, and someday heal.
The rain pounded at the windows and the thunder shook the house. I knew I should get up, feed the cat, do the laundry, go buy the newspapers, write this out. But I didn’t. I stayed there for a while, just another small mammal sheltering in her nest, another member of a race of wee, cow’rin’, tim’rous beasties whose plans gang aft a-gley.
22 July 2005
My Hyundai Ate the Ditty Bops
Two or three months ago, I heard a song called “Ooh La La” on the radio one night and it was such a strange song to hear on the radio, all old-timey and foot-stompin’ and twangy (and with a cricket interlude), but with such light, sweet, clear harmonies that I had to know who it was. A short Google search on the lyrics delivered the Ditty Bops. I bought their eccentric little CD shortly thereafter and it’s been in my car since.
On the way to work earlier this week I put the CD in the stereo as I pulled out of the driveway. The music should have started right away, but it didn’t. I was at the stop sign at the end of the street before I realized something was wrong. I pushed a few buttons. Nothing happened. I looked around. The CD wasn’t lying in the tray or on the floor or on the seat. It wasn’t anywhere.
My bewilderment grew as I traveled down Freer Road. I tried to eject the CD, but nothing came out. So tried it again. And again. It was obviously not there. By now I had picked up a tailgater, a big brown Buick, but they were going to have to wait. The fabric of the universe had torn open in my Hyundai and the Ditty Bops had been sucked down a wormhole into another dimension.
I put another CD in the stereo. The Pet Shop Boys started up immediately. Now I was really, truly baffled. I looked in all the jewel cases, just in case there was ergot on my Chex and I hallucinated putting the CD in the stereo. The Ditty Bops sleeve was empty.
Sure, Einstein came up with that whole E=mc² thing, but the CD didn’t blow Washtenaw County off the planet when it inexplicably converted itself to energy, so it had to be somewhere. I ejected Neil Tennant mid breathy vocal and started prying at the stereo, digging my nails into the little gaps between the unit and the dashboard. A plume of dust blew out behind me as both passenger-side tires dropped off Jackson Road into the gravel. The Buick backed off about a hundred yards.
There wasn’t much else I could do, so I journeyed on to work, occasionally pursing my lips and scowling at the radio. The stereo did not come with the car. My parents had it installed for me as a gift, since the original car radio had a cassette deck, but no CD player. There’s a small gap above the stereo, maybe the thickness of a disc. I can hardly believe that a CD would fit in there without my deliberately pushing, hard, on it, but still, it’s the only logical place where the Ditty Bops could be.
Interestingly enough, other people do not have logical reactions to this. One friend gasped, “I hope everything’s all right with your car. That happened to my husband and the next thing he knew, the alternator was shot.” Someone else suggested in all seriousness that I pop open the hood to see if I can grab the CD from the other side.
Huh?
As I see it, I have two options: 1. Buy a new Ditty Bops CD or 2. Have the stereo removed to pry the CD from the Hyundai’s ravenous jaws. I’m thinking 1. sounds like the path of least resistance.
On the way to work earlier this week I put the CD in the stereo as I pulled out of the driveway. The music should have started right away, but it didn’t. I was at the stop sign at the end of the street before I realized something was wrong. I pushed a few buttons. Nothing happened. I looked around. The CD wasn’t lying in the tray or on the floor or on the seat. It wasn’t anywhere.
My bewilderment grew as I traveled down Freer Road. I tried to eject the CD, but nothing came out. So tried it again. And again. It was obviously not there. By now I had picked up a tailgater, a big brown Buick, but they were going to have to wait. The fabric of the universe had torn open in my Hyundai and the Ditty Bops had been sucked down a wormhole into another dimension.
I put another CD in the stereo. The Pet Shop Boys started up immediately. Now I was really, truly baffled. I looked in all the jewel cases, just in case there was ergot on my Chex and I hallucinated putting the CD in the stereo. The Ditty Bops sleeve was empty.
Sure, Einstein came up with that whole E=mc² thing, but the CD didn’t blow Washtenaw County off the planet when it inexplicably converted itself to energy, so it had to be somewhere. I ejected Neil Tennant mid breathy vocal and started prying at the stereo, digging my nails into the little gaps between the unit and the dashboard. A plume of dust blew out behind me as both passenger-side tires dropped off Jackson Road into the gravel. The Buick backed off about a hundred yards.
There wasn’t much else I could do, so I journeyed on to work, occasionally pursing my lips and scowling at the radio. The stereo did not come with the car. My parents had it installed for me as a gift, since the original car radio had a cassette deck, but no CD player. There’s a small gap above the stereo, maybe the thickness of a disc. I can hardly believe that a CD would fit in there without my deliberately pushing, hard, on it, but still, it’s the only logical place where the Ditty Bops could be.
Interestingly enough, other people do not have logical reactions to this. One friend gasped, “I hope everything’s all right with your car. That happened to my husband and the next thing he knew, the alternator was shot.” Someone else suggested in all seriousness that I pop open the hood to see if I can grab the CD from the other side.
Huh?
As I see it, I have two options: 1. Buy a new Ditty Bops CD or 2. Have the stereo removed to pry the CD from the Hyundai’s ravenous jaws. I’m thinking 1. sounds like the path of least resistance.
20 July 2005
Just got home from Meijer
Actual contents of shopping bag:
One (1) bag cat litter
Eight (8) cans cat food
One (1) box Typhoo tea, 80 count
One (1) two-pound bag organic cane sugar
One (1) canister McVities milk chocolate digestives (more on these later)
One (1) box instant pasta salad mix
One (1) six-pack tonic water
Four (4) limes
Six (6) “Barbeque Bucks” Michigan lottery scratch-off tickets
And I wonder where my money goes.
One (1) bag cat litter
Eight (8) cans cat food
One (1) box Typhoo tea, 80 count
One (1) two-pound bag organic cane sugar
One (1) canister McVities milk chocolate digestives (more on these later)
One (1) box instant pasta salad mix
One (1) six-pack tonic water
Four (4) limes
Six (6) “Barbeque Bucks” Michigan lottery scratch-off tickets
And I wonder where my money goes.
18 July 2005
First Fruits
This year’s vegetable garden is just about the sorriest one I’ve ever had. You know from previous posts that the radishes didn’t turn out. The lettuce bolted and went all to seed before it even leafed out. What is there has been salad for the bugs. I’ve been lazy and let the grass and weeds encroach on the edges.
Early in the season, it became evident that the cucumbers were my best, brightest hope. I set up a cage around them so the guy who mows the lawn wouldn’t mow them too. I lovingly trained the vines to climb the cages, coiling the soft baby tendrils around the wires. Today I was both rewarded and downcast.
First, the reward. Today I picked two firm, dark green, five-inch cukes. They were just waiting for the rain that finally came this week to plump out. There’s a third that will probably be ready tomorrow. I rubbed the spines off one and ate it, sun-warmed, right there in the garden. It had a satisfying crunch, mild flesh, no seeds, and not the least touch of bitterness.
For bitterness, I pulled some of the salad greens that have survived - deeply notched, oak-leaf shaped leaves with a pungent, almost radish-like flavor, stronger even than arugula. I think it’s some sort of cress. Its peppery heat contrasted nicely with the cucumber for a little mid-afternoon snack.
The carrots are still making a valiant effort in soil that is really too hard for them. I pulled one up and it was about half an inch long by five microns wide. I ate it for dessert. I think I detected a molecule of carrot.
The bad news is that I’m not the only one snacking in the garden. Every black-eyed susan bud has been chewed off. Every piece of cucumber vine that sticks outside of the cage has been chewed off. Chewed-off ends, rather than neatly clipped ends, implicate deer as the culprits rather than rabbits. And the cucumber cage is tall enough that a rabbit would probably need stilts to reach some of the vines.
The vines on the ground remain unnibbled (perhaps because of their cover of weeds). So I gently unwound all the soft green tendrils and laid the cucumbers back on the ground. I tied some soap scraps to the wire cage, although I suspect soap’s efficacy as a deer deterrent is a myth perpetrated by Unilever. The approaching thunderstorm will probably dissolve all the soap anyway. Just as long as it makes the cucumbers happy...
Early in the season, it became evident that the cucumbers were my best, brightest hope. I set up a cage around them so the guy who mows the lawn wouldn’t mow them too. I lovingly trained the vines to climb the cages, coiling the soft baby tendrils around the wires. Today I was both rewarded and downcast.
First, the reward. Today I picked two firm, dark green, five-inch cukes. They were just waiting for the rain that finally came this week to plump out. There’s a third that will probably be ready tomorrow. I rubbed the spines off one and ate it, sun-warmed, right there in the garden. It had a satisfying crunch, mild flesh, no seeds, and not the least touch of bitterness.
For bitterness, I pulled some of the salad greens that have survived - deeply notched, oak-leaf shaped leaves with a pungent, almost radish-like flavor, stronger even than arugula. I think it’s some sort of cress. Its peppery heat contrasted nicely with the cucumber for a little mid-afternoon snack.
The carrots are still making a valiant effort in soil that is really too hard for them. I pulled one up and it was about half an inch long by five microns wide. I ate it for dessert. I think I detected a molecule of carrot.
The bad news is that I’m not the only one snacking in the garden. Every black-eyed susan bud has been chewed off. Every piece of cucumber vine that sticks outside of the cage has been chewed off. Chewed-off ends, rather than neatly clipped ends, implicate deer as the culprits rather than rabbits. And the cucumber cage is tall enough that a rabbit would probably need stilts to reach some of the vines.
The vines on the ground remain unnibbled (perhaps because of their cover of weeds). So I gently unwound all the soft green tendrils and laid the cucumbers back on the ground. I tied some soap scraps to the wire cage, although I suspect soap’s efficacy as a deer deterrent is a myth perpetrated by Unilever. The approaching thunderstorm will probably dissolve all the soap anyway. Just as long as it makes the cucumbers happy...
17 July 2005
Kim's Online Dating Tips
- If you say you are educated, be sure you spell “educated” correctly, or at least come close.
- Do not refer to the “stigma of meeting online.”
- Do crop your main photo so only you are in it. Do not simply cut your ex’s head out of the picture, leaving her body hanging by its hand from your shoulder.
- Choose a nickname that does not include the number 69. “NoCreditsNoClue” isn’t a good one either.
- The suggestions offered on the site to help with writing your headline are...suggestions. If you copy and paste one into your headline, you have the same headline as the thirty other guys who just did the same thing.
- If you state you are 25 and you last updated your profile on August 10, 2000, you are 29 or 30 now. Time to freshen that up, bud.
Got one of your own? Leave a comment...
15 July 2005
Chain of Fools
Today I received an actual, honest-to-goodness, old-fashioned chain letter in the mail. The US mail. You remember the postal service? Yeah. This isn’t some sorry chain e-mail promising me a million dollars from Bill Gates or threatening that I will eaten alive by rabid hamsters if I don’t forward to thirteen people in thirty-nine seconds.
This letter came with a scratch-off instant lottery ticket. I am to retype the letter with my friend’s name at the top of the list, and add my name in slot two. Then I am to send a scratch-off lottery ticket to six people I know, or return the unused ticket to my friend if I don’t want to play.
Well hell, I want that lottery ticket. “Over $3 million in prizes from $9 to $90. Top prize: $9.000.” The music from the Pennsylvania lottery (which my sister once pointed out sounds oddly like the intro to Megadeath’s “Symphony of Destruction”) plays in my head when I look at it. I’m warming up the edge of my dime right now.
I guess if I scratch off the ticket, I have to play, and then I’ll have to venture into Meijer to buy lottery tickets for six lucky people in my address book.
I remember the last time I participated in a chain letter scheme, back in the summer between high school and freshman year of college. A different friend sent me a letter with a pair of underwear as part of a “pretty panty” exchange. I was instructed to buy a pair of pretty panties for the next girl on the list, and if I kept the chain moving, I would receive no fewer than sixteen pairs of new, sexy panties.
The next girl on the list requested size twelve. I headed to Boscov’s, the department store where the grown-ups seemed to shop, and found some size twelve ladies’ underwear. Do you know how big size twelve ladies’ underwear are? Hint: I could wear them as a bolero vest. Nevertheless, I found a suitably lacy, satiny, aquamarine-colored pair that fit the bill. They went into the envelope and off to the unknown recipient.
Weeks passed. I did not receive any additional panties. Not one single pair, pretty or otherwise. I complained to my friend, but she really didn’t have anything to say about it.
Well, I scratched off my ticket. The odds of 1:4.88 were just too great and I didn’t win a dang thing. But it’s all right. I should receive thirty-six different tickets in the next few weeks.
This letter came with a scratch-off instant lottery ticket. I am to retype the letter with my friend’s name at the top of the list, and add my name in slot two. Then I am to send a scratch-off lottery ticket to six people I know, or return the unused ticket to my friend if I don’t want to play.
Well hell, I want that lottery ticket. “Over $3 million in prizes from $9 to $90. Top prize: $9.000.” The music from the Pennsylvania lottery (which my sister once pointed out sounds oddly like the intro to Megadeath’s “Symphony of Destruction”) plays in my head when I look at it. I’m warming up the edge of my dime right now.
I guess if I scratch off the ticket, I have to play, and then I’ll have to venture into Meijer to buy lottery tickets for six lucky people in my address book.
I remember the last time I participated in a chain letter scheme, back in the summer between high school and freshman year of college. A different friend sent me a letter with a pair of underwear as part of a “pretty panty” exchange. I was instructed to buy a pair of pretty panties for the next girl on the list, and if I kept the chain moving, I would receive no fewer than sixteen pairs of new, sexy panties.
The next girl on the list requested size twelve. I headed to Boscov’s, the department store where the grown-ups seemed to shop, and found some size twelve ladies’ underwear. Do you know how big size twelve ladies’ underwear are? Hint: I could wear them as a bolero vest. Nevertheless, I found a suitably lacy, satiny, aquamarine-colored pair that fit the bill. They went into the envelope and off to the unknown recipient.
Weeks passed. I did not receive any additional panties. Not one single pair, pretty or otherwise. I complained to my friend, but she really didn’t have anything to say about it.
Well, I scratched off my ticket. The odds of 1:4.88 were just too great and I didn’t win a dang thing. But it’s all right. I should receive thirty-six different tickets in the next few weeks.
14 July 2005
Happy Bastille Day
Just in case anyone thinks bombs bursting in air make for a violent national anthem, here is a translation of La Marseillaise:
How about I just send an animated Blue Mountain e-card instead?
Arise children of the fatherland
The day of glory has arrived
Against us tyranny's
Bloody standard is raised
Listen to the sound in the fields
The howling of these fearsome soldiers
They are coming into our midst
To cut the throats of your sons and consorts
To arms citizens
Form your battalions
March, march
Let impure blood
Water our furrows
How about I just send an animated Blue Mountain e-card instead?
10 July 2005
Ciao, Mio Caro
The caption on the right should read: “Non-Exercise (Time Kim spends at a desk working two jobs so she can pay her own health insurance costs. Ironic, no?).”
I spend way too much time at the desk and way too little time getting any measurable exercise. And it shows. In the past two years, I have gained twenty pounds. I plugged my numbers into one of those little BMI calculators on the Internet and it spat out a “26.” Not obese, but definitely over the limit.
Now I appreciate everyone who tells me I look good. I appreciate all the guys who tell me I’m sexy. I appreciate it, I do. But the scale isn’t lying and the zipper on my nice shorts ain’t gonna hold if I try to force it closed.
I can understand why some people think I haven’t gained much weight. I didn’t suddenly grow a huge gut. My butt hasn’t ballooned. I have some muscle tone. Still, I can tell where I am a little rounder, a little fuller. And when I put on certain bras, my cups runneth over.
Lack of exercise isn’t the only culprit in my expansion, though. Since I’ve never been on a diet in my life, I really had no idea what I’ve been eating. So I spent a few days this week tracking it, writing everything down. Everything being calories, fat grams, carbohydrates, and protein content of everything I’ve consumed.
Holy frijoles.
The biggest surprise: my favorite sandwich at Panera Bread. While I realized that the Italian Combo, a variety of meats and cheeses on ciabatta was not actually good for me, I had no clue how fattening it really is. This bad boy packs 1050 calories, 486 of them from the 54 grams of fat in it. Of course it’s nice that it also contains my daily requirement of protein, since if I eat one it’s nothing but iceberg lettuce for me for the rest of the day.
Ciao, Italian Combo. You are so good; I’ve thoroughly enjoyed you. No, no, no, it’s not you. It’s me. I’ve changed. I’m sure you’ll find another soon. Really. Take care.
09 July 2005
Small Town News
My friend D. and I once talked about how we think everyone in America should have the opportunity to live in such a pleasant town as Chelsea. Sure, it might not be for everyone, but everyone should have the opportunity to live in a safe neighborhood, with shopping and art and restaurants within walking distance.
Still, however much I try, I cannot seem to muster much interest in local government. A major story in Thursday’s Chelsea Standard might give a clue as to why. Yep, I’m sorry I missed the sandwich board debate.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not knocking Chelsea and I am glad that there are people who run it and people who want to keep their businesses here (especially Cranesbill Books - thank you, Cranesbill Books). But this seems like much ado. The sandwich boards don’t detract from downtown any more than the horrid, touristy new purple and green street signs do. In fact, I rather appreciate the sandwich boards, because in Chelsea a few businesses have variable hours, and if the sign is out then I know they’re open. (Here I interject that I’m sorry I wasn’t able to buy more knitting supplies at the now-closed Gathering Basket, but the shop was rarely open at a time when I could patronize it.)
Besides, the way people drive in this town is a bigger impediment to foot traffic than an entire obstacle course of sandwich boards. Drivers speed down residential streets at 20 miles over the posted limit. ‘Cuz you know, Chelsea’s huge and it takes forever to drive that mile to Pamida. Cats are run over, parents with small children put out big fluorescent admonishments to slow down. Drivers treat stop signs like green lights and practically mow down pedestrians trying to get to the post office. My favorites are the ones who wave you across, only to drive around you when you’re in the middle of the street. I have considered carrying a bag of ping-pong balls, or some other small, projectile objects, to lob at their windshields as they narrowly miss my toes.
Yeah, okay, rant over. Yeah, I know. Take it to City Council.
Still, however much I try, I cannot seem to muster much interest in local government. A major story in Thursday’s Chelsea Standard might give a clue as to why. Yep, I’m sorry I missed the sandwich board debate.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not knocking Chelsea and I am glad that there are people who run it and people who want to keep their businesses here (especially Cranesbill Books - thank you, Cranesbill Books). But this seems like much ado. The sandwich boards don’t detract from downtown any more than the horrid, touristy new purple and green street signs do. In fact, I rather appreciate the sandwich boards, because in Chelsea a few businesses have variable hours, and if the sign is out then I know they’re open. (Here I interject that I’m sorry I wasn’t able to buy more knitting supplies at the now-closed Gathering Basket, but the shop was rarely open at a time when I could patronize it.)
Besides, the way people drive in this town is a bigger impediment to foot traffic than an entire obstacle course of sandwich boards. Drivers speed down residential streets at 20 miles over the posted limit. ‘Cuz you know, Chelsea’s huge and it takes forever to drive that mile to Pamida. Cats are run over, parents with small children put out big fluorescent admonishments to slow down. Drivers treat stop signs like green lights and practically mow down pedestrians trying to get to the post office. My favorites are the ones who wave you across, only to drive around you when you’re in the middle of the street. I have considered carrying a bag of ping-pong balls, or some other small, projectile objects, to lob at their windshields as they narrowly miss my toes.
Yeah, okay, rant over. Yeah, I know. Take it to City Council.
06 July 2005
Here There Be Tractor Pulles
The Onion reports on the discovery of Michigan and the rest of the Midwest.
04 July 2005
If I Could Save Tan in a Bottle
A few weeks ago while waiting for a movie to start at the Michigan Theatre, my companion asked me the name of the familiar tune that was being played on the historic organ. It was “The Girl from Ipanema.” The Girl from Ipanema is tall and tan and young and lovely, which, with the possible exception of young, is just about everything I am not. So I made up new lyrics for my non-Brazilian-beach-strolling self: short and pale and kinda dumpy, the girl from Pennsylvania’s walking, and when she walks she stubs her toes and says...
Yeah, I’m about as short and white as they make ‘em. I am a pale creature of the northern forest, and I think that’s why I’m okay with Michigan winters: I belong to cloud cover, snow cover, quilted covers.
Summer is another story. Summer fashion, in particular, is another story. My exposed flesh comes in one of two colors: translucent white or boiled-lobster red. My numerous freckles bloom in the sunlight, and they might become populous enough to meld together, but I’m not really ever tan. I do not remember being tan since I turned twelve. Oh, to live in a time when a woman’s fairness was praised, instead of worrying whether I am blinding passersby with the brilliant light reflecting from my legs.
“I use one of those self-tanning lotions,” said C., the blonde, girly-voiced receptionist at work, “I leave it on for a while, then wipe it off real good before I go to bed.” She waved her ringed hand at me. “You should try it.”
When I was in CVS yesterday, selecting toothpaste from an entire aisle-full of it, a section of golden bottles caught my eye. I paused before the display of self-tanners. My eyes flickered from shelf to shelf. Do I dare try it? I don’t want to be orange. They say they have better formulas now. C. doesn’t look orange. What a bewildering array of choices. Do I want lotion or spray? Light-to-medium or medium-to-dark? Do I need one with aloe? Do I need a separate one made especially for my face? The prices vary wildly, for no discernible reason other than brand name. I’m not paying $25.00 for 6 ounces of cream that might not get used. I took the $5.00 bottle of light-to-medium lotion and put it in my basket. Then I put it back. Then I put in my basket.
Once home, I stood in the bathroom and read the label. It says to distribute thinly and evenly, to wait 2 to 3 hours for full effect, and to wash your hands immediately after application. The cream is white and smells funny. It is harder than you think to distribute it evenly. I rubbed my legs and arms and put the bottle in the cabinet. I caught sight in the mirror of the pale triangle shape around my neck made by my tank top. I got the bottle back out and rubbed the triangle. I put the bottle back. Then I thought about the backs of my arms. I got the bottle back out and rubbed the backs of my arms. Then I put the bottle back and washed my hands and waited.
Nothing really seemed to happen. I went outside and read in the sun for a while. I came back in. Still pale. I cooked dinner, ate. Still pale. Surfed the web. Still pale. Oh well.
This morning when I got up, I turned my legs and arms in the light. There’s a bit of color to them. Not orange. Hey, I think it might work. But I don’t like the unnatural brown, jagged lines around my ankles. I scrub them off in the bathtub and apply more self-tanner. I am humming Jim Croce. I am happy. I am no longer a pasty Michigander. I get dressed and vogue for the mirror. Yes, I am tan and lovely. I drive to Ann Arbor and walk around. I am smiling. I am tan and young and lovely.
I am walking up Liberty Street and the sun is warm. What’s that smell? It’s sort of plasticy. Some city workers are cleaning up after the parade. Maybe it’s a trash smell. I am in Borders and sipping a vanilla Italian soda. I am tan and lovely and smiling at a dark-haired guy. What’s that smell? Something burning in the cafe? I am walking down State Street and the sun is warm and the Diag is green. What’s that smell? I sniff my arm. What the hell? It’s me.
I drive back home and look in the mirror. The backs of my arms are blotchy. The pores on my shoulders are dark, like I’m studded with poppy seeds. There’s an oval stain on my wrist and a corresponding white oval on my knee. I scrub the stain. It’s not coming off. Apart from the white spot, my legs look better than my arms. Still, they smell. So I took a second bath for the day and dusted myself with some baby powder.
I think I need to talk to C. about her self-tanning secrets before I try this again.
Otherwise, I’ll just remain a whiter shade of pale.
Yeah, I’m about as short and white as they make ‘em. I am a pale creature of the northern forest, and I think that’s why I’m okay with Michigan winters: I belong to cloud cover, snow cover, quilted covers.
Summer is another story. Summer fashion, in particular, is another story. My exposed flesh comes in one of two colors: translucent white or boiled-lobster red. My numerous freckles bloom in the sunlight, and they might become populous enough to meld together, but I’m not really ever tan. I do not remember being tan since I turned twelve. Oh, to live in a time when a woman’s fairness was praised, instead of worrying whether I am blinding passersby with the brilliant light reflecting from my legs.
“I use one of those self-tanning lotions,” said C., the blonde, girly-voiced receptionist at work, “I leave it on for a while, then wipe it off real good before I go to bed.” She waved her ringed hand at me. “You should try it.”
When I was in CVS yesterday, selecting toothpaste from an entire aisle-full of it, a section of golden bottles caught my eye. I paused before the display of self-tanners. My eyes flickered from shelf to shelf. Do I dare try it? I don’t want to be orange. They say they have better formulas now. C. doesn’t look orange. What a bewildering array of choices. Do I want lotion or spray? Light-to-medium or medium-to-dark? Do I need one with aloe? Do I need a separate one made especially for my face? The prices vary wildly, for no discernible reason other than brand name. I’m not paying $25.00 for 6 ounces of cream that might not get used. I took the $5.00 bottle of light-to-medium lotion and put it in my basket. Then I put it back. Then I put in my basket.
Once home, I stood in the bathroom and read the label. It says to distribute thinly and evenly, to wait 2 to 3 hours for full effect, and to wash your hands immediately after application. The cream is white and smells funny. It is harder than you think to distribute it evenly. I rubbed my legs and arms and put the bottle in the cabinet. I caught sight in the mirror of the pale triangle shape around my neck made by my tank top. I got the bottle back out and rubbed the triangle. I put the bottle back. Then I thought about the backs of my arms. I got the bottle back out and rubbed the backs of my arms. Then I put the bottle back and washed my hands and waited.
Nothing really seemed to happen. I went outside and read in the sun for a while. I came back in. Still pale. I cooked dinner, ate. Still pale. Surfed the web. Still pale. Oh well.
This morning when I got up, I turned my legs and arms in the light. There’s a bit of color to them. Not orange. Hey, I think it might work. But I don’t like the unnatural brown, jagged lines around my ankles. I scrub them off in the bathtub and apply more self-tanner. I am humming Jim Croce. I am happy. I am no longer a pasty Michigander. I get dressed and vogue for the mirror. Yes, I am tan and lovely. I drive to Ann Arbor and walk around. I am smiling. I am tan and young and lovely.
I am walking up Liberty Street and the sun is warm. What’s that smell? It’s sort of plasticy. Some city workers are cleaning up after the parade. Maybe it’s a trash smell. I am in Borders and sipping a vanilla Italian soda. I am tan and lovely and smiling at a dark-haired guy. What’s that smell? Something burning in the cafe? I am walking down State Street and the sun is warm and the Diag is green. What’s that smell? I sniff my arm. What the hell? It’s me.
I drive back home and look in the mirror. The backs of my arms are blotchy. The pores on my shoulders are dark, like I’m studded with poppy seeds. There’s an oval stain on my wrist and a corresponding white oval on my knee. I scrub the stain. It’s not coming off. Apart from the white spot, my legs look better than my arms. Still, they smell. So I took a second bath for the day and dusted myself with some baby powder.
I think I need to talk to C. about her self-tanning secrets before I try this again.
Otherwise, I’ll just remain a whiter shade of pale.
01 July 2005
A Simple Plan
K. dumped me on Monday. He’s been acting cranky for weeks, but he didn’t say it was anything about us, so I didn’t think (too much) that it was us making him cranky. “I’m tired of relationships,” he said. Well, I get tired of relationships too, but I rarely cut them off once they’re started. I continue to try, although sometimes too hard or for too long. I’m human. It’s what I do.
So my personals ad is back up on that Internet dating site. After several months' absence, I had forgotten how annoying so much of it is. It’s annoying to carefully craft a profile, only to have it completely disregarded by men I have nothing in common with and who are 10 years over my stated age range, but who figure they’ll give it a shot and contact me, repeatedly, anyway. It’s annoying to take the time to write thoughtful introductory e-mails and send them to what seem to be thoughtful, intelligent men, whose bills I seem to fit, only to have them ignore my heartfelt missives. At least I answer the senior citizens and tell them I’m looking for someone closer to my own age.
But the worst are the ones who instant message right off the bat.
“Hi,” Jaguar526 messaged me last night (not his real handle). “You put your 4'11. Are you really that short?”
“No,” I fired back, regretting the absence of a sarcasm point on my keyboard. “I added two inches to make myself seem even more imposing.” I mean, c’mon. Who lies that they’re not quite five feet tall?
“Really?” he replied. Yep, a sarcasm point would come in handy.
“No, I’m teasing. I really am that short.”
“You must like short men.”
“I like some of them. Some of them I don’t.” I finished paging through my search results on the dating section of the site, which are pretty much the same as my search results on the relationship section.
“What kind of man do you like?”
“Tall, dark, and handsome,” I wrote, even though 1) I know I’m not supposed to write in clichés and 2) I like tall, redheaded, and handsome too. I hadn’t looked at his profile yet, so I clicked on it.
Oops. He’s 5’2”.
“Heres my picture,” he typed. From the camera angle, it’s obviously a self-portrait. He’s not bad looking, with wisps of brown hair across his forehead, blue eyes, a cleft chin, and a crooked nose. He seems to be in a kitchen. “Do you like my picture?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied. “You’re cute. And I see you like cereal.”
“Im J.,” he said.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Kim.”
“Im loanley.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Come have a drink with me.”
“You mean right now?” Uh-oh. There’s a feeling that I’ve already inadvertently encouraged him a little too much, just by answering him.
“Yes.”
“J., you live in Upper Sandusky. That’s in Ohio.”
“Its not far.”
“I’m in Michigan.”
“Its not far.”
“It’s too far for tonight.”
“Please come. Im loanley.”
I am torn between pity and loathing. I know what desperate loneliness feels like, like hanging onto a cold granite cliff by your split and bloody fingernails, and your chest is hollow and the wind is howling and the buzzards are circling overhead. I have frightened away good men with too-soon displays of saggy, pallid, naked need. And I know it’s not the way to go, because I have no more desire to get sucked into someone else’s need than they wanted to get pulled down into mine.
“I’m sorry,” I tell J. “I’m not going to have a drink with you tonight.”
Perhaps I take this all too seriously. Perhaps my problem is that I veer between treating it all like a joke and treating it all like the end of days.
Before I ended my online session, I read one gentleman's profile that did catch my eye. “Enjoy the Haiku” is his headline from Edmonton, Alberta:
Find the One, then leave.
It was such a simple plan,
but I am still here.
So my personals ad is back up on that Internet dating site. After several months' absence, I had forgotten how annoying so much of it is. It’s annoying to carefully craft a profile, only to have it completely disregarded by men I have nothing in common with and who are 10 years over my stated age range, but who figure they’ll give it a shot and contact me, repeatedly, anyway. It’s annoying to take the time to write thoughtful introductory e-mails and send them to what seem to be thoughtful, intelligent men, whose bills I seem to fit, only to have them ignore my heartfelt missives. At least I answer the senior citizens and tell them I’m looking for someone closer to my own age.
But the worst are the ones who instant message right off the bat.
“Hi,” Jaguar526 messaged me last night (not his real handle). “You put your 4'11. Are you really that short?”
“No,” I fired back, regretting the absence of a sarcasm point on my keyboard. “I added two inches to make myself seem even more imposing.” I mean, c’mon. Who lies that they’re not quite five feet tall?
“Really?” he replied. Yep, a sarcasm point would come in handy.
“No, I’m teasing. I really am that short.”
“You must like short men.”
“I like some of them. Some of them I don’t.” I finished paging through my search results on the dating section of the site, which are pretty much the same as my search results on the relationship section.
“What kind of man do you like?”
“Tall, dark, and handsome,” I wrote, even though 1) I know I’m not supposed to write in clichés and 2) I like tall, redheaded, and handsome too. I hadn’t looked at his profile yet, so I clicked on it.
Oops. He’s 5’2”.
“Heres my picture,” he typed. From the camera angle, it’s obviously a self-portrait. He’s not bad looking, with wisps of brown hair across his forehead, blue eyes, a cleft chin, and a crooked nose. He seems to be in a kitchen. “Do you like my picture?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied. “You’re cute. And I see you like cereal.”
“Im J.,” he said.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Kim.”
“Im loanley.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Come have a drink with me.”
“You mean right now?” Uh-oh. There’s a feeling that I’ve already inadvertently encouraged him a little too much, just by answering him.
“Yes.”
“J., you live in Upper Sandusky. That’s in Ohio.”
“Its not far.”
“I’m in Michigan.”
“Its not far.”
“It’s too far for tonight.”
“Please come. Im loanley.”
I am torn between pity and loathing. I know what desperate loneliness feels like, like hanging onto a cold granite cliff by your split and bloody fingernails, and your chest is hollow and the wind is howling and the buzzards are circling overhead. I have frightened away good men with too-soon displays of saggy, pallid, naked need. And I know it’s not the way to go, because I have no more desire to get sucked into someone else’s need than they wanted to get pulled down into mine.
“I’m sorry,” I tell J. “I’m not going to have a drink with you tonight.”
Perhaps I take this all too seriously. Perhaps my problem is that I veer between treating it all like a joke and treating it all like the end of days.
Before I ended my online session, I read one gentleman's profile that did catch my eye. “Enjoy the Haiku” is his headline from Edmonton, Alberta:
Find the One, then leave.
It was such a simple plan,
but I am still here.
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