The new Noir Muse blog is up and running. Finally.

www.NoirMuse.com

A thousand thanks to the Programming Brawler.

Good night.

Good night all. This blog is dead. I killed it. It was found beaten to death with a fire extinguisher and the details are still coming in now.

I think it's time to start over fresh in a new home. I'll let you know when it's up and ready - the programming brawler has already set up the domain and I am actively preparing the design.

In the meantime, I can only announce that my hair looks so kick-ass in a beehive, it's not even funny. I mean, serious - it's really cool.

Til' I have the new space ready, folks...

--NM

Summers at Bells

Reading the blog of my former English professor feels just a little bit shameful.

She used to mark our creative writing in pencil in the margins - suggestions more than critical comments. She's amazing really. Not only is she a twice published author, but she's bicycled across Russia, owns a country farm that she runs with her husband, has a masters degree in high math as well as English, sports a black belt in marshal arts, lays tile, teaches at the university... Is there anything she can't do?

I invited her to my wedding, not thinking that she would really show up. But she did, just long enough to congratulate me and hand me a package. It was a 1950s book called "Bride In the Kitchen". Inside she wrote, "You're beautiful - but can you cook?" And there was also a picture of me. It was photograph that her husband had snapped when I ran in to them at Bells Brewery some summers earlier. It looked like he processed the film himself.


There's a little part of me that would love to post witty comments on her blog. The other 75% of me doesn't want her to see what I've done.

I'd rather live in Russia on brown bread and vodka...

Programming Brawler: (shells almonds and hands them to NM to eat) Look at this! Two little almonds were inside. What do you think that means?

Noir Muse: (Takes the two almonds) It's a "double" which means that whoever eats it can make a wish and it will come true. (eats both almonds like a evil, selfish squirrel.)

Programming Brawler: So....what did you wish for?

Noir Muse: Mmmmmm. A pint of vodka. (Looks over at the empty liquor cabinet, disappointedly)

Programming Brawler: Oh. I would have wished for us to be together forever in bliss...but whatever.

Commuting On A Good Day

If there ever was a beautiful example of the organic back and forth swish-swishing movement of the metropolitan currents, it would be the dance of the commuters within the arteries of the Detroit highway system.

Never before speaking to or knowing one another’s tendencies, we race along (on the good days) weaving among one another passing and rearranging our alignment with a minimum of signals: the Hand Wave, the Blinker, and the F-You, Buddy.

One fellow commuter, inching his way into a lane in front of me and not knowing if there was room hesitated for a moment. In turn I flashed my Brights as if to say, “I see you there. I know that you want in, and there is indeed room, my fellow.” He understood my signal and gave me a Double Fist Pump (A gesture which shows more appreciation than the simple Hand Wave. Think of it as a Hand Wave plus two.)

Then, at 7:45 am, some of us break off from the group and turn East onto the exit for I96, waaaaaay up there, where you can look down onto the hoods of the cars below. Just as we snake along the turn, the sun hits my eyes and I see the silhouettes of the drivers ahead. Two cars in front of me, the driver slaps the visor down. With perfect timing, the driver ahead slaps hers and I slap mine too. If I peeked in the rear-view, I would see only the blinding sun, but I know that the following cars slapped their visor down as well.

We travel on…

Ten Things I'll Never Do...Again

Last night as I was celebrating someone asked me if I had a resolution. Of course I relayed my usual answer - "smile more and cry less". However, just today I was inspired by someone else's list of "ten things I'll never do" so here's mine with a twist.

Ten things I'll never do...again.

1. Beat myself up for not writing enough, reading enough, doing enough, living enough or loving enough.

2. Involve myself with low calorie diets.

3. Let some foul person cut in front of me in line just because they are bold and I’m aghast and afraid of confrontation.

4. Get a degree.

5. Count on someone else to save or do something for me – we’re all out here on our own, sucker.

6. Own a TV.

7. Eat a doggie treat.

8. Believe in god or any benevolent, all knowing being that gives two shakes about what happens to me or anyone else.

9. Snort garlic powder. (Ouch!)

10. Waste time trying to figure out what other people think.

Winter Driving Issues at the Office

Winter has begun as of last night here in the Motor City with icy rain, some snow, cold winds, and so forth. The beautiful and trendy Intern and I had an interesting conversation in the warmth of the office regarding her recent speeding ticket…


Noir: Please take this to the post office and pick up some stamps while you’re there?

Intern: Ok.

Noir: And be very careful while you’re out there driving, alright?

Intern: Alright. (tossing her long black hair over her shoulder dismissively)

Noir: I’m serious. Be very careful, ok? By the way, what happened with that last ticket you got?

Intern: Ohhhhh yeah! I forgot to tell you about it! So, like, I got the speeding ticket and instead of actually taking my license away they only leeeeeeengthened my probation period. And I had to pay a hundred an’ eighty dollars, you know. Like, how am I going to buy Christmas presents now? Anyways. So I’m ok. Which reminds me, I gotta call while I’m driving to the post office* and pay for that over the phone.

Noir: Um, no. Call while you’re in the parking lot, ok? Not while you’re driving.

Intern: Ok.

Noir: Promise me that you won’t call while you’re driving in the car.

Intern: (Laughing) I promise. **

* She actually said this.
** This is probably a total lie.

An Open Letter

To that guy in the nice suit standing behind me at the Espresso Royal Cafe cream and sugar station – either crowd in next to me and fix your damn coffee or be patient. I seriously don’t mind if your elbow touches mine while you reach for the cream pitcher. I do mind that you are too close and breathing down my neck while tapping your foot.

Also, to the guy sitting to my left at the public speaking seminar. Quit touching/rubbing my shoulders and telling me I’m doing a great job. The discomfort I feel due to your invasion into my personal space far exceeds any discomfort I would feel talking in front of a crowd. In fact – don’t even think about touching me again... and you know what? Don’t talk to me either, you creep.

Guess what! While you mull over your weighty decision for choosing a basket or a cart, please please, stand aside from the automatic doors, lady. My potato chips and champagne are calling my name and begging that I liberate them from the grocer as soon as possible - and you're thwarting me.

Halloween 2006

I promised myself that I wouldn't drink too much this year.

It's not the first time I've lied to myself.

It was a beautiful night with beautiful people. Everyone was there: The Yooper, The Vikings, The Naughty Nurse and Satin herself. The two Frankenstein Monsters looked upon one another with awkward and haughty competitiveness that is usually known only to the two women who wear the same dress to a party.

The one thing I remember hearing all night; "Another Cigarette girl?! How many are you?" It was a legitimate question. We covered more ground apart than we did together.

The only possible answer is: "Three. I'm the Hostess Cigarette girl – would you like a Twinkie? A Snow Ball? Have you had your Ding Dong today?"
My partners in crime did a great job circling the room hocking boxes of candy cigarettes. I watched them smile, shake the hip, laugh, wink, and finally - press a bubble gum cigar into a hand.

I wasn’t so successful. No one would admit that they would ever lay a finger on a Hostess Snack Cake. However - I set my tray down to get another drink and two Snow Balls were gone.

My skills came in later when the voting for best costume came around. As I helped distribute slips of paper to the guests, I spoke softly before relinquishing the pencil; "Vote 'Cigarette Girl.' Got it?"

We won second place, received a Big Boy Bobble Head Trophy and shed tears of joy.

Clydesdale Queen

I’m thinking about running in a local 5k race this Novemeber known as the “Turkey Trot” for runners and walkers.

There are several categories to place as a winner: one for youngsters, one for the older people, and a third category known as the “Clydesdales”. This aptly named category is for heavyweight runners over a certain poundage. I’m not that far off from being able to compete in the Clydesdale category – pretty damn close actually. I was thinking about entering under that category (who would know? They aren’t going to make us weigh-in) – but I had to ask myself, what would I do if I actually placed?

I’d have to go up to the podium to accept the Clydesdale trophy, raise it above my head triumphantly and declare:

Hey world! Look at me! I’m Queen of the Fatties!