Be My Villain

RT-Fest 2011

2011-09-10T12:51:00.000-05:00

Hopefully, this will answer any questions you may have about what's been going on as a result of this Twitter post.

As many of you know, I got married last Sunday (YAY!).

See? Wedding party. Yes, I wore a black dress.

As at least some of you know, my husband (the blonde guy next to me) is from Scotland.

As a few of you know, marrying someone who is not a US citizen when you are a US citizen is nothing whatever like it is in the movies. I won't go into it all here, but I encourage you to check out the K-1 (fiancé(e)) and K-3 (spouse) visa sections at VisaJourney.com. You'll see guides on how to fill out the numerous forms required, support groups for coping with the stress and forced time apart, advice from people who have done it before, and a place to vent when it all just gets to be too much. It is an extremely long and expensive process that can take months or years and thousands of dollars.

Remember in Cheers when Woody's girlfriend Kelly had that French friend, Henri, who wanted Kelly to marry him so he could stay in America? Well, if it had been real life and Kelly had gone through with it, she would have faced 5 years of jail and Henri could have been permanently deported. It's considered a very serious type of fraud and the government doesn't take it lightly.

A few people have asked me recently, "but you're married - how can there be any more obstacles and fees?" Good question. The answer: Okay, so, the government gives K-1 visa holders 90 days from the day they enter the country to marry their American fiancé(e) and file what is called an Adjustment of Status to the Department of Homeland Security. Even if you follow that link, I really don't expect you to read through all of the government jargon, so in short, that is what changes a K-1 visa holder into a person who is allowed to stay in the US indefinitely. I knew that we would have to file this form, but for some reason, I thought we were done with the fees, since there have been SO many and have added up to SO much money, and I really thought that that part was overwith.

I learned just the other day how wrong I was. It turns out that the fee, which must accompany the Adjustment of Status form, is $1070. To some people, that's not a lot of money. To us, it is a fortune, and we just didn't have it. Failing to file that form and pay that fee, however, would mean that Fraser's visa would expire and he would have to exit the country until we had re-filed and gone through a whole new process.

The thought of that happening was exhausting and scary, so I posted to Twitter that if enough people bought photos from our Etsy shop, that would help us raise the money we need to pay the fee. You know what I thought would happen after I posted that? I thought a handful of personal friends would buy something and say they hoped it would work out. When I saw people start to retweet my post, I was touched. When people kept retweeting it, I was overcome with thanks that for at least a few seconds, complete strangers as well as amazing friends cared. When I woke up the next morning to see that Neil Gaiman had retweeted it, I was truly gobsmacked. A few people have asked me how I "got him to do it," and the answer is that I didn't. He must follow someone who posted it and then felt compelled to share.

Whatever the reason, his heart or his shoes, that had a massive impact. About half of the sales we have made have been a result of Mr. Gaiman's retweet. As it stands now, we're more than halfway to our goal and our outlook is much sunnier.

Unfortunately, some of the people who have been kind enough to help out have taken some flack. I understand that there are people who (rightly) do not believe everything they read on the Internet and (also rightly) do not automatically assume that everyone is honest. The comments from those people, who simply want some indication that I'm a real person and this isn't all just some marketing ploy, I don't take personally. There have been a few, however, who seem to have come from generally unhappy and/or angry people, who have accused me of engaging in emotional blackmail to compel innocent people to buy something they neither need nor want. One even used the word "larceny" to describe what they saw as an elaborate scam.

To that, I can only say this: every purchase was made by an adult with free will. Also, I never asked anyone to retweet anything. As I said, I thought a few people I already know might help out by either buying something or telling that friend of theirs who just bought a house where they might get some art to hang on their new walls. That kind people chose to retweet and ask their friends and followers to help was an unexpected bonus and a real, tangible help. I hate that their good deeds have been punished by harsh words.

Contest (CLOSED): Win an Original Piece of Art from StreetSpirit Photography!

2011-06-09T18:40:00.004-05:00

***UPDATE*** The contest is now closed. We have a winner! The lovely Nikki has correctly identified this as a photo of rocks and snow! She has chosen "The Doctor Is In" as her prize.

In honor of it being only a week until Fraser makes the move to this side of the Atlantic, I've decided to have a contest!

Look closely:

The first one of you to identify what this is a picture of, by either commenting here or sending me a tweet @BaronessHeather wins the item of your choice currently listed in Fraser's Etsy shop. All photos were taken by Fraser and will be professionally printed off-site on professional-grade paper. The prize does NOT include matting and framing. You will win a print and only a print. I will contact the winner to get your mailing address and to determine which print you would like.

The contest will end when there's a winner. You may guess up to 2 times: once on Twitter, and once by commenting on this blog post. If you guess on Twitter, you MUST follow me, because I will need to be able to DM you to get your details if you win, and Twitter does not allow DM's to people who do not follow you.

Update: Please do not post your personal email addresses in the blog comments. I don't want you to get spam!

Muppets Doing the Dance of Joy to Vince Guaraldi (and a cupcake recipe)

2011-06-06T13:06:00.002-05:00

I was awakened this morning to a phone call from Fraser. I answered and heard, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!" and then the call dropped.

A minute later, as I sat up and basically blinked a lot, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, the phone rang again. Imagine trying to extract information from a Muppet, say Grover, on a massive caffeine high and you'll get a vague idea of the first minute of that call. The next minutes, after I realized that he was telling me that he'd heard from the embassy and his visa interview is next Monday, it was straight up Dance of Joy time!

It's so surreal that after all the months of delays and waiting and starting to lose hope, it's finally happening, and with one week's notice! In case you're just tuning in, we first applied for Fraser's fiancé visa last year, so he can emigrate. The interview is the final step in this extremely frustrating, redundant, and expensive process. By most accounts, this is practically a formality, as they tend to weed out the frauds, terrorists, and human traffickers before it gets to this stage. He will be told on the spot if the visa is granted, and then the actual paperwork will be couriered to him within a few days. As soon as those papers are in his hand, he can get on a plane! Once he's here, we have to get married within 90 days, but don't ask me for details about that just now. One thing at a time!

In homage to my Scottish boy being soon on his way, I made some Irn-Bru cupcakes to take to a gaming night tonight. If you're not familiar with Irn-Bru, it's an orange-colored soft drink that tastes something like Juicy Fruit gum. It's made in Scotland from a recipe that is allegedly so secret that the president of the company himself personally mixes every batch of concentrate and will only grant access to to the recipe to his successor when he retires. I've heard it hailed as the ultimate hangover cure and condemned as a danger to children because of its high sugar and caffeine content. It took me a while to acquire a taste for it, and now, while I couldn't drink it all the time, it's good for a treat now and then. I'm lucky enough to have a great British (yes, Britain includes Scotland) grocery shop in town, so I picked up some Irn-Bru. There IS one tiny difference between the Irn-Bru imported from Scotland, and the Irn-Bru made by the American distributor. One of the coloring agents used in the Scottish original is banned by the FDA. However, two points are worth noting: 1. I've had both and there is no noticeable difference in taste (unless you ask a Scot), and 2. at least at my local shop, you can buy both versions. Look on the label, and if the ingredients list includes "Ponceau 4R," it's the original. Here is a list of places you can buy Irn-Bru in the USA. If you decide to try it, let me know what you think! I'm always curious for reactions to this stuff, especially since it'll be appearing in some form at my wedding, possibly in these cupcakes.

Now, as promised, here's the recipe! These give just a hint of the Irn-Bru flavor, which is boosted by the citrus zest or extracts, and the vanilla.

You need:

1 cup Irn-Bru
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
2 TBSP corn starch
3/4 tsp baking POWDER
1/2 tsp baking SODA
1/2 tsp salt
1/3 cup vegetable oil (or 1/2 cup softened butter, but that'll mask the Irn-Bru flavor, and it's only a hint to begin with)
1 cup granulated sugar
1 egg
1 tsp vanilla extract
1-2 tsp orange zest OR 1/2 tsp orange extract (real, not imitation)
1-2 tsp lemon zest OR 1/2 tsp lemon extract (again, seriously: real, not imitation)
12 cupcake wrappers

Steps:

Preheat oven to 350 F and line a muffin tin with the cupcake wrappers.
Combine oil & sugar. I used a stand mixer with paddle attachment, but a wooden spoon or hand mixer works just as well.
Add the egg and extracts. Beat until thoroughly combined and has a smooth consistency.
Mix the dry ingredients in a separate bowl. No, it's not fine if you don't do this and just dump it in with the wet. Trust me.
This is where the stand mixer is really your friend: Add a little Irn-Bru to the wet mixture, then alternate adding dry mix with Irn-Bru until you've used it all and the consistency is mostly smooth. There will be a few lumps, and you might think the batter looks too runny, but it's okay. It's supposed to look like that.
Fill each cup of the prepared tin NO MORE THAN 3/4 FULL. Seriously, if you have batter left over, start a second pan (just fill any empty cups with water), do some individual cakes if you have freestanding cups, or something, but DO NOT OVERFILL THOSE CUPCAKES! If you do, it's not my fault when they overflow, run together, burn on the edges, and sink in the middle.
In my oven, it took 22 minutes for them to bake perfectly, but check them at 20 minutes. If a toothpick inserted in the center of one of the middle ones comes out clean, they're done, even if they look a bit wet on top (they're just on the shiny side).
Let them cool completely before frosting. I topped mine with justJENN's whipped cream frosting (though I used regular granulated sugar instead of brown sugar).

Passing the Horror Check

2011-03-26T02:48:00.001-05:00

This week has been pretty stressful. It hasn't been all bad, but it's had me preoccupied and made it difficult to retain a lot of things I should have been paying attention to. I'm dimly aware that one friend got a new exciting job, another broke up with someone, and others have had various joys and stresses. I've failed to call a friend I reconnected with, after I said I'd call. I forgot to confirm plans for tomorrow until my friend contacted me, wondering if we were still on. I've barely gotten any work done, I answered almost no email, and any non-essential projects have just been shoved aside. I feel terrible about these things, but at the same time, I was stressed out and useless for a reason.

You may be aware that my fiancé is in the process of emigrating here, and as part of that process, he had to go through a routine medical exam. After he got home, I got a phone call that terrified me more than anything has in recent memory. The x-ray showed that there could be something seriously wrong with him. There were two obvious things to be worried about here, and we each took one. While I was having these horrible visions of his health failing, he was raging at how this is causing delays, meaning we'll have to be on separate continents longer.

The good news is, he's had another visit to a doctor, who has given him a clean bill of health. This is the important thing to focus on. I am now so acutely aware of how much worse things could be right now. The disappointing news is that because the first x-ray turned out to be invalid, he's got to make more appointments and wait, and wait, and wait for things to be processed and submitted and gotten to the right departments at last. We're not sure yet how long a delay we're looking at, but I'm coming to terms with the likelihood that our wedding plans will need to change and it'll be longer that he's so far away.

At the end of the day, though, I can't be too depressed about that. He's okay. He's not sick or injured. I can breathe again, and sleep, and think about things other than how I'll scrape up airfare to get to him and all the various ways our life would turn nightmarish and overwhelming. I'm so relieved that now I'm having a hard time focusing on anything but how relieved I am. Sure, I'm disappointed, and it hurts to think that it could be more weeks or months we'll be apart, but before the disappointment can really set in, I think about how it won't matter in the long run, because he's okay. It was just a false alarm. We won the luck check, too, and instead of having to fight a tentacle monster, we're just delayed in another dimension a little longer before we can get home.

To everyone who gave me bonuses to armor and courage by offering reassurance, distraction, or other kind words, whether they came in the form of a tweet, a Facebook comment, a text, phone call, or instant message, thank you. You helped me stay just this side of functional. There are a lot of really good people out there, who still offer to chat or try to cheer you up, even if they don't know you that well, and that's one hell of a silver lining to a stressful situation.

Some Wedding Stuff and Where to Get Reproduction Fashion

2011-03-17T14:34:00.001-05:00

I've been trying to strike a balance between letting myself express the excitement and happiness I feel because of my impending wedding, and not wanting to be annoying and be one of those women who babble endlessly about it and can't ever seem to talk about anything else. I know my friends are lovely and supportive, but it would annoy me if I caught myself doing it. Therefore, I haven't blogged every single detail, but I have been having fun talking about dresses, and in discussing that topic, I've been made aware of some amazing websites and want to pass them on.

Love it, but a mis-match

The Internet is such a wonderful invention. Sometimes, I think it's mostly a tool for all the jerks who would normally just spew nonsense to their cronies in some bar or meeting to in instead post them in comments, but thankfully, it also lets people keep in touch and find others who like the same things. From Beth, Chia, Theresa, and Nina, I've had this whole world of retro and reproduction fashion opened up to me and have in turn shared it with a few others who also got excited about it.

I'd already heard of and browsed through Mod Cloth, but didn't find anything in my size that really interested me. I'm 6' tall and not a toothpick. Luckily, where I was ignorant of where else to look, others are expert! First, Theresa told me about Trashy Diva. I really like the look of some of the dresses there, but the prices, while not unreasonable, put them out of my budget. Still, they were a lot of fun to look at, and I have bookmarked it for a future date when I can afford to expand my wardrobe.

Chia then told me about Stop Staring!, which is when I started really getting excited. These dresses are not only gorgeous, but I got sticker shock in a good way! After hearing Nina's glowing reviews of the fit and quality of the dresses she's gotten from there, including her own wedding dress, it's really surprising to me that the average price of the ones I really liked was only about $150. In fact, the dress I'd originally decided was going to be my wedding dress is a Stop Staring! style. As much as I love it , I ultimately had to admit that it's a mis-match to what Fraser is going to be wearing, and I'm really looking forward to seeing him in his new kilt and the more formal rig to go with it.

Fraser will be in something like this

In choosing a dress, it's also important to me that the dress is one I can wear again. I'm just not interested in spending a bunch of money on something I'll either have to give away, re-sell at a loss, or allow to gather dust in my closet for the rest of my life. Plus, I think it'll be nice to wear it again and remember the first time I wore it.

Oh, and I don't want to wear white. I'm not going to post a picture of it here just yet, but the dress I've now chosen is actually black, and I think it's perfect. At first, I was a little

worried about what people might think or say if I wore a black dress, but then I saw pictures of Nina in her black wedding dress, and man, that is a classy look. Not to mention, if anyone's going to be rude enough to say anything negative about my attire at my wedding, then that'll only reflect badly on them, not on me. I found the dress I will be ordering at Unique Vintage, which Beth pointed me to after learning that I liked the styles from Stop Staring! and Trashy Diva, as she wore a Trashy Diva dress to her own wedding, along with having some other pieces in her wardrobe. She also sent me to Daddy-o's, which I've bookmarked for future reference as well.

Black & White MacFarlane Tartan

The dress I chose is a 50's reproduction, and while it's black, it's not just flat black, and it does have some adornment that makes it a little fancier. It'll also need a crinoline, and Fraser and I decided that it'll be fun if we get my crinoline and his cravat in the same color. He'll also be mostly in black, largely because his new kilt is being made in his black and white clan tartan. That way, we each get to wear a little color and inject some more fun and personality into the whole look. While we're not planning an overly lavish or large affair for the wedding, we'll be happy with what we're wearing and what will be in the pictures we'll get to have forever.

Now, what I really need are shoes, and I keep being taunted by ads for John Fluevog's designs. If anyone knows where to score a pair of those on the cheap, that'd be great. If I could afford them, I'd totally be wearing these or these.

Writers Beware

2011-03-16T20:25:00.001-05:00

You know how it is when you've just come up with a great new character, or you've finished a draft of a story you're happy with, or need to bounce ideas off of someone. When you think of the people with whom you want to discuss these things, you might reach out to friends who are writers, and this can be a great idea. They know the elations, the frustrations, and the fears that come with creating a new piece of fiction and with sharing that with others.

I've done this myself, many times. I don't share my work with just anyone, and when I do, it's someone I trust, not only personally, but professionally. We need to have people we trust in order to survive in a mostly solitary industry. We work alone a lot, so when we reach out, we need to know that we're reaching for someone solid and unimpeachable.

Because of a recent incident that happened to a friend of mine, I beg you to guard your work jealously. I know what it's like to want to share it with everyone, but wait for publication, or at least for copyrights to be in place before you do, outside of those you really know you can trust.

Note: This post originally contained information about the specific interest, but as the friend has expressed a desire to let the dust settle, any specific mention of it has been removed here and at blogs of others who talked about it.

Life, the Universe, and Homemade Nachos (Vegetarian, Gluten-Free)

2011-02-27T18:25:00.001-05:00

If you're a regular visitor here, you've noticed that I've sort of gotten out of the habit of blogging. It's one of those things where life has been so eventful that I just don't know where to start. I'm hoping that this will get the ball rolling again, but it will unfortunately involve just listing, probably in an excruciatingly boring manner, the stuff I'd have blogged about if I'd taken time to when it was new. For your trouble, I'll also share the recipe for some nachos I just made, which made Sam declare they were better than any she'd ever had in a restaurant.
So, the news:

The petition for Fraser's visa was approved near the beginning of the month. Hooray! That's the first hurdle done. He has to go to London in a few weeks for a medical exam (after filling out umpteen more forms and waiting for a couple of other things to process), after which the embassy will schedule his final interview, after which they will at last issue his visa and he'll be able to come over here for good.
One outcome of the above is that we will be getting married within 90 days of his entry into the USA. The tentative date we've set is May 21, but I can't stress enough that that's tentative. We just can't make solid plans yet without knowing when his final interview is. We're planning a fairly small affair, knowing that hiked travel prices and worldwide financial issues will prevent many people from making the trip. Still, those who attend will be treated to homemade goodies, music, and fun on the theme of "stuff we like." So far, that includes Willy Wonka, Doctor Who, and Star Wars, but expect that list to grow. Fraser will sport a snazzy new kilt, and I have no clue what I'll be wearing. That is, until the costume party bit, where we're encouraging Scottish/American character mashups.
I am back in the USA now, as of 2 weeks ago Wednesday. It's weird, and it has its ups and downs, and of course I miss Fraser, and of course I'm glad to see family and friends again.
I'm actively looking for a decent job. I have a couple of leads to follow up, but no news there yet.
Before leaving Scotland, I got to see more of the country, including Aberdeen and the northeastern coast, along the North Sea, including Pennan, where the movie Local Hero was filmed. I'll be posting pictures from that trip as part of a forthcoming article on Pop Bunker, so stay tuned for that. I did post reviews of a lot of the places I visited on Yelp, so if you're interested, you can see those here.
I've brought on a new batch of writers at Pop Bunker, so hopefully things will pick up there and get fun again.
I'm going to be writing more for the Geek Girls Network, once I get my posting credentials, so look for me there too.
Supersecret project I can't tell you about yet goes here.
More stuff I've forgotten and may get to later goes here.

Now, for the nachos! I was just feeling snacky, but didn't want anything sweet, so I raided the kitchen to see what all we had. There was a package of corn tortillas. There was one tomato, some onions, some dried cilantro, some lime juice, some garlic powder, some ancho chili powder, and a nearly-full bag of shredded cheddar cheese. Therefore: Nachos!

Use a pizza cutter to cut a stack (don't ask me how many - about 1/4 of the package) of small corn tortillas into quarters. Spray some Pam (I used the organic canola variety) into a gallon-sized ziploc bag. Dump in the tortillas & sprinkle in some garlic powder & ancho chili powder. Zip shut, shake like crazy til evenly(ish) coated. Spread on cookie sheets. Bake at 400F for 5-10 minutes (crispy but not burnt). You might have to check them pretty frequently. Throw away the ones that burned because you weren't checking frequently enough.

While the chips bake, dice up a tomato & a bit of onion (less onion than tomato). Mix in a bowl with a bit of cilantro, a dash of salt, and several generous squeezes of lime juice.

When the chips are done, switch the oven from bake to broil. Spread a layer of chips on an oven-safe plate. Top with shredded cheese and 1/3 of the salsa, making sure you get some of each on every chip (because those dry, bendy chips at the bottom of a plate of restaurant nachos are just nasty). Lay more chips on top and top with more cheese & salsa. Repeat one more time until you've used everything up.

Pop in the oven for just a minute or two, to get the cheese all nice and melty.

Remove with an oven mitt, bring to the table, and warn your friends that the plate is hot!

The Metal Tiger's Last Hurrahs

2011-01-31T12:23:00.000-05:00

This is the last week of the Chinese year of the Metal Tiger. That worthy animal has been something of a totem since it was born last Feb. 14th. Its time will be done on the 5th, but as one might expect from a tiger - an animal of action and strength, it is going out not quietly into that good night, but with many mighty roars to call the universe to action.

What the hell is this chick babbling about? you may be asking, and you'd be well within your rights to tell me to just spit out the facts.

Since yesterday:

Fraser and I celebrated 1 year since we met, along with some early birthday cake, since we'll be out of town for Fraser's birthday on Friday.

We booked our trip up to Pennan, which is the fishing village on the North Sea where the movie Local Hero was filmed. That'll be this coming weekend, and we will definitely toast the Metal Tiger's passing with a pint of the Inn's reportedly-excellent ale.

I received notice yesterday that my short story Sick Weather will appear in the 100 Stories for Queensland anthology. This will be my first print publication in fiction. I'll post more information about the book, where and when you can order it, and how much it will cost when I know those things. Right now, I can only tell you that the proceeds from the sale will go to the Queensland Premier's Flood Relief appeal.

Today, I was notified by the US Citizenship and Immigration Services that our petition for Fraser's visa has been approved. This means that as far as the US government is concerned, he can emigrate. It's not quite finished yet, but we're getting there!

Recipe: Roasted Sweet Potatoes with Cinnamon & Crushed Chili

2011-01-17T16:01:00.000-05:00

Just in case you were wondering, roasted sweet potatoes with cinnamon and crushed chili (red pepper flakes in America) is a wonderful idea. Fraser and I had it with the chicken curry we made for dinner. After learning how to cook basic roasted potatoes, thanks to Gordon Ramsay, I decided to see if it'd work with sweet potatoes and if that combination of tastes would be good. In short: SUCCESS! They were so good, we ate all of it before it occurred to me that a picture would be helpful with this post.

It goes like this:

1. Peel and cut up sweet potatoes (however many you want to eat) and boil with a little salt for about 10 minutes.
Put just enough oil in a rectangular baking dish to coat the bottom, and place it in a hot (200 C/ 400 F) oven for a few minutes to get the oil hot.
Drain the sweet potatoes, then toss them with some cinnamon (enough to give each chunk of potato a nice sprinkling) and a dash or 2 of chili flakes (depending on how spicy you like things). Season with a little salt & pepper, then toss with a drizzle of oil to help it all stick.
Put the potatoes into the heated pan and carefully toss with the hot oil. Roast until crispy, or until you can't take the smell of deliciousness any longer and must eat them even if they're still a bit soft (30-45 minutes, depending on how crispy you like them). Turn them once or twice while roasting.
Remove from the pan with a slotted spoon and spread them on a paper towel to remove any oil that stuck to them.
Devour.

P.S. If it won't alienate anyone, I think I'm going to ditch the Tumblr account and just post my recipes and cooking adventures right here, in the mix with everything else I babble about. Tumblr is too buggy, and it's not like I'm over-posting and flooding the Internet with this thing, right?

Realization, Not Resolutions

2011-01-01T21:33:00.000-05:00

One year and about 6,000 miles ago, I spent a New Year's Day contemplating just how little the passing of the old year meant to me. Admittedly, I was pretty depressed at the time, and feeling profoundly unconnected and lost. A lot has changed in my life since then, and not one iota of it could have been done if I didn't have the most amazing support network, most notably made up of my mom, my boyfriend, and a few very wonderful friends. That said, I have realized that I still don't believe in New Years. Obviously, I don't mean to say that I don't notice the fact that 2010 is over and 2011 has begun.

No, I mean that even though I'm a little financially better off, with better prospects and more experience, and vastly better off when it comes to my personal life, as I have found a true partner in life, of the kind I'd begun to think didn't actually happen in real life, I still don't place any significance on January 1st. I know a lot of people consider it a good day to evaluate and make resolutions, or start fresh, or wash their hands of the old year, but I am just not one of them.

I actually find more comfort in pretty much ignoring all of that. If the New Year is supposed to be a fresh start, then I find way too many things to be well past their expiration, yet still lingering. However, if I look at the things as happening at random, on their own schedules, then I don't have to be upset about a spoiled celebration, or take it as a bad omen that casts a shadow over the year when an unhappy event happens and isn't resolved before midnight on December 31st.

I have a lot of hopes for the coming year, but I won't get to hoping for them in earnest until some things have been dealt with. Processes that were begun last year have yet to finish, and New Year's Eve itself heralded a family sadness that will not be swiftly relegated to auld lang syne.

In the coming year, I expect a lot of big changes, in addition to the ones that took place in the previous year. A lot of them will be related, though, and in my mind, I haven't parceled them up so that they belong to last year - a thing that is over and done.

My Mom's Christmas List

2010-12-11T11:30:00.000-05:00

My mom is the smartest person I know. She's also the most supportive. I can't think of a single time when she's refused a person in need, even if it wasn't convenient or simple to help. Therefore, the Christmas wish list she posted to Facebook earlier isn't all that surprising to me, but it is inspiring, so I thought I'd share it (and hope she doesn't mind).

Dear Santa,
How have you been? How is Mrs. Claus? How are the reindeer? I have been very good this year, so I have a very long list. Please note the size and color of each. (Okay, so I didn't have much choice about being good, but really, I probably would have been good anyway even if I could afford to be bad ;-)...so, here goes:

1) One extra large size of happiness for all of my kids and rent-a-kids
‎2) A double shot of good health for all of my family and friends
3) A renewable subscription to hope for all those who despair
4) A venti non-fat no calorie sense of purpose for all who feel helpless
5) A dollop of good cheer to spread around the workplace
6) A giant size safety net to protect all those who serve
7) A bottomless cup of understanding to be shared among those who have hardened their hearts
8) A heart that grows three sizes for anyone who lacks compassion
9) A bright shiny new welcome wagon for those who are displaced or alone
10) and maybe a pair of gloves since I lost one of mine somewhere and now I can only keep 5 fingers warm at a time :-)

Thank you for your time and attention to this matter. Oh, and please play the song "Let There Be Peace on Earth, and Let It Begin With Me" throughout the halls of all legislative bodies throughout the year.
Your Friend,
[My Mom]

A Wintertime Message

2010-12-07T15:07:00.000-05:00

10 Things That Will Make Your Writing Better (and Your Editor Happier)

2010-11-25T12:11:00.000-05:00

It's line-editing time for the book I've been working on as part of the editorial team. As we've been going along, there are some things that seem pretty universal, not just for this project, but for others I've edited in the past. It seems like there are just some issues that lots of writers have, and maybe they keep doing it because they honestly don't realize it's a problem. Some of these items apply more to collaborative writing, but may have their uses in traditional styles. It's true that it's an editor's job to fix problems in the work they're editing, whether they're structural or stylistic, but it's also true that your work is more likely to be selected, and you are more likely to earn the respect of your editor if you turn in your best work.

If you're a writer, pay attention to these items before you submit your next piece. It might make the difference between acceptance and rejection if it's a tight contest or if the editor doesn't have a lot of time for basic corrections.

Know how to use punctuation. If you're going to call yourself a writer, this is about as basic as it gets. Know what a semicolon is and how to use it before you even think about pressing that key. If a line of dialogue is exclaimed, called, shouted, cried, bellowed, or otherwise pitched loudly, use an exclamation point for heaven's sake! Otherwise, your characters will all sound like Ben Stein. Ellipses, or "dot dot dot" marks are so overused and improperly-used that they'll probably go on strike any day now. There are so many resources to teach you this very thing that there's really no excuse for turning in anything but a first draft with punctuation mistakes. If you're not sure, look it up.
Use correct verb tenses. This is another thing that we're taught in elementary school, but you'd be surprised how many adults get it wrong and turn in what they consider to be polished pieces of writing, full of improperly-conjugated verbs. Again, there are resources available, so don't cry that you don't know when to use the present-perfect tense or subjunctive mood. If you're a writer, it is your job to know how to use words. Look it up. Also, write in the same tense throughout your piece, unless you're dealing with a flashback or other situation that requires a deliberate change in tense. I see instances all the time, where a story written in the past tense suddenly switches to present-progressive. This is maddening.
Know your characters. Two-dimensional, cookie cutter characters are not only boring, but they cause confusion when it comes to dialogue. If every character talks the same, it can become hard to follow. Also, know what your character looks like and keep it consistent. This is especially important in collaborative writing. It's bad news if one writer has the main character being an American who is six feet tall, with a bristling, red beard and hazel eyes, and another writer makes the same character a black-haired, blue-eyed dwarf with a French accent.
Write believable dialogue. Real people don't talk like Data from Star Trek. They use contractions. They use slang and colloquialisms. They have dialects and accents. Believable characters do not engage in High Fantasy Speak or Soap Opera Speak. I want you to think for a minute right now and ask yourself how many times you heard your own name in the last conversation you had. Not more than once or twice, right? Possibly, you didn't hear it at all. Remember that next time you write dialogue. These tips may stop you from writing things like, "No, Jessica! I did not put the empty carton back in the fridge! Nary a soul saw me, and you cannot prove that it was I!" and "Liar! You always do it, Brian, and the time has come for you to pay for your actions! I will not stand for this insolence a moment longer!" You snicker, but any fiction editor who reads this will be cringing in recognition of a painfully familiar style.
Understand and refer constantly to source material. This applies to writing on assignment, as part of a group, or any other situation where you are writing something that takes place within an established universe. For example, there exists in this universe a device called a Frappengiddygapper, which renders its wearer immortal. It is spelled with a capital F, is worn as a necklace, and pulses a dull red in time with the wearer's heartbeat. These facts are non-negotiable. If these have been stated in story contest rules or the source material for an anthology to which you are contributing, you have to get them right 100% of the time. You must capitalize that F. You must spell it F-r-a-p-p-e-n-g-i-d-d-y-g-a-p-p-e-r every single time. You may not have it glow green or purple or white. You may not enlarge it and have it worn as a belt buckle. You may not allow your character to keep it in a knapsack. You may not change its powers so that instead of making the wearer immortal, it allows them to see the future.
Know your setting. You know how in Disney's Pocohontas, there are all of those lovely waterfalls and high cliffs? Well, I'm from coastal Virginia, and I've been to the very place where that story is set, and I'm here to tell you that the coast of Virginia is submergent, meaning that it slopes down into the ocean instead of sticking out of it in cliffs. There are no waterfalls until you go much further west. This kind of thing is highly annoying to audiences who are familiar with the place. If you think it would be amazing to set your story during the French Revolution, you'd better learn everything you can about that time and place. Know how people dressed. Know what the street traffic looked like. Know how buildings were furnished. Know about the food, the music, the political hierarchy. It is your job to know this stuff.
Use complete sentences. Unless you're writing lines of dialogue where characters are speaking naturally, and being interrupted or not completing a thought, there really is no excuse for writing in fragments. I see this kind of thing a lot: The air was crisp and clear. A mountain paradise. He gazed at her with longing. Breathtaking beauty. Do you know what that's called? It's called bad writing, folks. Part of it goes back to the afore-mentioned learning how to use punctuation, but mostly, it strikes me as lazy. If you submit that to me, you're giving me the job of changing it to: The air was crisp and clear; it was a mountain paradise. He gazed at her with longing, struck by her breathtaking beauty.
Get your facts straight. If you're going to use a person who really lived, or an event that really happened, get it right. It may be tempting to throw Shakespeare into a story, but you need to know when he was born, when he died, that his wife was named Anne Hathaway, and that he probably didn't write his sonnets to your main character, unless you're attempting to identify the "W.H." to whom some were dedicated, or the "dark lady" of others. If you are saying that your character called Winifred Hastings was that "W.H.", you'd better be prepared to show proof, because lots of experts think it was Henry Wriothesley, the third Earl of Southampton. The point is that you tread on thin ice when you use something real in your story. You really need to get it right.
Be consistent. If you head the first chapter with "Chapter 1: The Yabba Hooba Experiment," then the next chapter should be headed with something like "Chapter 2: Blippity Bloppity Bloop." Don't give the first chapter a name and a number, then call the next one "Chapter II" or "Chapter the Second." If you invent the Frappengiddygapper for your characters, spell it that way throughout. If your character's name is Sarah, don't switch it to Sara now and then.
No "and then"! She saw him and then turned to face him and then saw the dagger in his hand and then he lunged and then she ducked and then he swung again and then they fell to the floor in a passionate embrace and then the police burst in and then a spark was ignited and then the curtains caught fire and then the flying saucer landed and then a dinosaur trampled on it and then an asteroid flattened the dinosaur and then it began to rain and then the Loch Ness Monster bellowed its terrible cry and then the villagers ran for the hills and then the ninjas killed them all. You see where I'm going with this, don't you? If you find yourself writing "and then," take a moment to consider whether or not there's a better way to phrase what you're trying to say.

...with liberty and justice for all

2010-11-09T16:57:00.002-05:00

Have you seen the latest Facebook meme? It goes like this:

I am an UN-APOLOGETIC AMERICAN!! I pledge allegiance to the flag of the
United States of America, and to the REPUBLIC for which it stands, one
Nation under GOD, indivisible, with LIBERTY and JUSTICE for all!!! I
grew up reciting this every morning in school. It is a shame we no
...longer do...for fear of OFFENDING SOMEONE...!! Let's see how many
Americans will re-post this and not care about offending someone!!

Is it really just me or do the phrases "with LIBERTY and JUSTICE for all" and "not care about offending someone" contradict each other?

The Pledge of Allegiance is not normally something I'm on a soapbox about, until this meme business started cropping up. I'm writing this because I've written essentially the same reply on a few of these Facebook posts now and I'm tired of repeating myself. I realize that by posting this here, I'll be largely reaching two audiences: 1. those who already think as I do and 2. those who will never try to see the other side of the issue and get really mad about it.

So why bother? Because I'm also tired of just biting my tongue while people marginalize my beliefs and make unfair and untrue judgments about my character. These people have no idea how demoralizing and exhausting it is to constantly have to argue that I am just as American as they are.

I'm not sure what sparked this whole fusillade of rants about the Pledge of Allegiance, but since it's going on, here's what my opinion actually is:

I think that its current incarnation (which is a few edits different from the original) does not apply to every citizen who has occasion to recite it.

I think that it's not about people being offended, but rather about feeling marginalized and like their fellow Americans consider them to be lesser citizens.

I am not offended by a Christian swearing fealty to his or her God. It's only right and proper that they should.

I think it would make me a liar and a hypocrite to stand with my hand over my heart and pledge to live under God, and I further think it would cheapen the faith of my Christian fellow-citizens if I did. Also, last I checked, lying was a bad thing and therefore I tend to stand silent and contemplate the parts of that Pledge that do apply to me when it is recited.

I do not actively advocate that the Pledge be re-edited at this time. I think there are more pressing issues just now and that offering the alternative of a long moment of silence where students and citizens can contemplate the pledge or their patriotism in their own way is an acceptable compromise.

I think that's reasonable.

What I don't think is reasonable are the responses I've gotten as a backlash to my opinion.

I am told that I just don't support the troops. Oh, really? So when I sat up on many, many long nights with my friend who was in Afghanistan, talking until the wee hours of the morning because he just needed someone to unburden himself to, that wasn't supporting a troop? When another friend came home and was so screwed up after his last tour of duty in Iraq that he didn't trust himself at home with his wife and baby, so I let him stay at my place until he could figure out what to do, that wasn't supporting a troop? When another was mobilized and needed help to figure out what on earth she was going to do about her pets and her vehicle and all of her other various commitments, and I was there to help, that wasn't supporting a troop?

I'm told that I just hate Christians and think they should have to hide their faith. Anyone who actually knows me knows better than that. Like I've told everyone who has raised this issue: If you have faith in any religion and it has enriched your life, made you a better member of your family and/or community, and you practice it without harming anyone, then I am happy for you. All I ask is that you be just as accepting of my beliefs, though they may differ from yours. I don't go around telling people why they should believe what I believe and calling them names if they disagree.

I'm told that it doesn't matter if non-Christians are marginalized, because "America is a Christian nation". I'm also told that people are so fired up about it because it's another way that the immigrants are winning our country away from us, because people are supposedly forbidden from saying the pledge because it makes the non-Christian immigrants who come to America to take our jobs and enjoy our freedoms feel less at home.

When I point out that I was born in Pennsylvania, and therefore a natural-born American who pays taxes, votes, volunteers in my community, supports the troops, etc., I'm told that I still don't count because I'm not in the majority (which I'm pretty sure is defined as "camp that shouts the loudest"), I need to just suck it up and go along with what they want. Again, how does that agree with "justice for all"?

I'm told I'm just a liberal/socialist/communist who actually hates America. This hasn't been limited to this issue, either. At an office party for a former job, a coworker marched into the room, pointed at me, and screamed "YOU'RE the terrorist!" This was because she figured out which car was mine and I had a sticker for a Democratic candidate in the window. I don't actually have the words to express how offended I still am when I think about that moment. This was from a young woman who had also recently pontificated "Berlin Wall?! Well now I know you're just fucking with me, 'cause I know for a FACT that the wall is in China and it is still there."

I'm told that people can say whatever they want and I don't have a right to push my opinion on them in response, even when that opinion is posted in a public forum. I've also gotten a "why do you keep responding to these?" The answer to that is: because people keep posting them and it keeps bothering me.

I am so, so tired of this.

People who keep posting these messages are only serving to foster divisiveness and hostility that is actually harming America. Saying "I don't care if you're offended. Shut up and do it my way!" is not how to open a dialogue where anything good will come of it. I want people to understand that we are real people who are hurt by the implication or outright statement that we don't count, that we don't care, or that we matter less.

Also, by the way, the Pledge of Allegiance was written by a socialist who didn't actually mean for it to belong just to America, and when it was edited in 1954 to add in the words "under God," it was done against the express wishes of his estate. I only point that out because the people who DO advocate changing it back so that it'll accommodate Americans of all religious or non-religious inclinations aren't exactly proposing anything shocking and radical.

Say the Pledge of Allegiance in its current form if you want to, but please be mindful that some of us have very good reasons for choosing quiet contemplation instead, and that we matter just as much as you do. It doesn't make us unAmerican.

It Gets Better

2010-10-20T12:22:00.001-05:00

What is it about 5th grade? It seems that's when it starts, if it's going to start. That's when it started for me. It wasn't just one bully. It wasn't just kids in my class. It's more like the act of tormenting me was what got everyone else accepted into the club of those who were allowed to be normal teenagers.

This torment took on various forms. Some chose name-calling - barnyard animals were the favorite, spreading rumors, and making verbal threats. Some took it a step further and resorted to tripping me, stealing my things, putting gum in my hair. One went so far as to set my hair on fire in class (the teacher pretended not to notice).

To this day, I'm not exactly sure why it started. It probably had something to do with my exceptional height making me stand out. That's the thing about bullies, though, and a thing that's very important to remember: there is nothing about you that makes you deserve it. If there's nothing overtly different about you, they will just invent something, because you're not the one with the defect; they are. In my case, my guess is that I was just an easy target and the kids who started it were popular.

I remember the kid who started it, and I remember the ones who were the worst. I remember the first boy I ever had a crush on, neighing in my face the first time I worked up the nerve to smile at him. The thing is, I don't remember the last time I saw any of them.

My 10-year high school reunion is happening this month, and I will not be attending. That's in large part because as an adult, I have the power to choose who I do and don't let into my life. That's the most important thing to remember. You may be stuck with a bunch of cretins while you're in school, but eventually, you're just not anymore. You're not George McFly, who will forever be in Biff's power as he graduates from class bully to office tyrant.

I got a Facebook friend request from one of the guys were the worst. In response, I sent him a message, just asking him to satisfy my curiosity and tell me why on earth he'd sent the request. He replied, at very great length, about how horrible he felt about the way he'd behaved toward me and was trying to atone for the sins of his youth. I accepted his apology, but denied his request to be Facebook friends. I'm glad that he's grown as a person, but it doesn't mean I want to invite him into my life. Just the memories that involve him breed negativity, and I do not have to expose myself to it.

Now, I have a good relationship with my mom. I have found the love of my life, and he's a really great guy. I have friends who like me for who I really am and respect me as a human being. I have professional colleagues who support my endeavors. In short: it got better. My life is not perfect. There will always be obstacles to overcome and negative people who need to be dealt with. Still, it is pretty damned good, and I wouldn't trade it.

I don't dwell on those middle and high school years, but when I do think of them, it's usually when I hear of someone bullying another person or group of people, and maybe because I know how it feels, it makes me a better advocate. I'm not saying I'm glad I was bullied, but at least I can channel those experiences into helping others. I'm coming out of the locker now just in case you needed to know you're not alone, just in case you're looking for all the examples you can to prove to yourself that it gets better.

Please do not end your life. If the thought even crosses your mind, call 1-800-SUICIDE.
Please do not deprive the world of your gentle soul.

And hey, if they can't say something nice, you come sit next to me.

What's in a Flag?

2010-10-14T10:27:00.000-05:00

David Sedaris has said that when he travels, he likes to ask people questions like "what are your local gun laws?" and "what do you do for Christmas?". I've decided that I'm going to start asking "what do you do with your flag?".

In the United States of America, we have a series of regulations to dictate what is or is not to be done with the American flag. There are rules about how to fold it, carry it, display it, dispose of it, and what you generally may or may not do with it. Some of them are pretty straightforward and make complete sense without leaving much room for debate. For example, if you want to fly an American flag along with that of another country with whom we are not actively at war, you can, but they need to be flown at the same height. Some rules, such as the particular triangular folding pattern to be used when storing a flag, seem to be in place to give a sense of ceremony when handling it. Some might see that as nitpicky, but I can appreciate the occasional slowing down to reflect upon that which the flag represents.

Some other regulations are a bit more controversial. There is one that states that the flag must never lie flat upon the surface below it, such as the ground. For this reason, it was remarked upon with varying degrees of snark when then-President George W. Bush and his wife stood upon a rug that featured the image of the Stars and Stripes. Some people thought it was ironic and remarked upon the obvious symbolism this could reflect. Others said they were offended that the flag would be depicted on a floor mat at all. Still others said things like "it's just a rug. Get over it."

This commentary was still nothing to the response Kid Rock received after appearing at the 2004 Super Bowl (yep - the same one famous for that other wardrobe malfunction), wearing a flag as a poncho. I remember how profoundly offended my friend's father, a Senior Chief in the Navy, was by this. He felt that this was a profound desecration of the flag and a slap in the face to all of the servicemen and women who put their lives on the line for all that it represents. The federal flag regulations are with him on this, stating that the flag shall never be worn as a garment. Still, not that I'm holding Kid Rock up as any kind of moral paragon or even fashion icon, in an interview with the Daily Mail, he said:

I don’t regret it. At the end of they day I’m pretty vocal about America and our soldiers. It was just my way of expressing my patriotism.

These two examples, to me, illustrate an interesting disparity in logic. For the most part, it seemed that the same people who said "it's just a rug, Get over it." are the same ones who were most offended by Kid Rock's flag poncho. Would it have been different if Pres. Bush had been standing on an actual flag, instead of a mat bearing its image, or if Kid Rock had been wearing a t-shirt bearing the image of a flag, instead of a garment made from a real one? It's tough to draw clear lines while still allowing for freedom of expression.

Because of all of these rules, regulations, and controversies that have just been a part of the backdrop of the society in which I was raised, it was surprising to me to see my Scottish friends, along with several thousand strangers, crowding together in a sea of flags and tartan as they marched toward Hampden Park to support the national football (soccer, that is) team. Some wore their flag like a cape, tied together at the short end and left to flow and flutter behind them, letting every fan take on the persona of a patriotic super hero. Others wore them like a shawl, literally wrapping themselves in national pride, while adding the symbolism of the flag protecting their bodies from the cold night air. It's a beautiful thing to behold, and there is absolutely no room for offense to be taken at the sight. These are the same people who, when the Scottish team was down and in need of encouragement, sent 50,000 voices raised in the national anthem. I'm actually getting a little choked up thinking about it, so strong was the outpouring of hope and pride that rode on every note.

Not that it's likely, but if Kid Rock had been the celebrity guest singing Flower of Scotland, and wore a Scottish flag as a poncho, I'm pretty sure the fans would cheer extra loudly and probably copy the look. I think everyone has the right to be offended or not and feel what they feel, as long as they express their opinions about it with some modicum of forethought and rationalism. There is no one who gets on my nerves faster than a fanatic extremist, no matter what they're shouting about, whether it's flags or religion or the Star Wars prequels. I'm happy to invite rational discussion, but don't call somebody Hitler because you disagree with them. I'm only pointing that out because my concluding statement may be one you disagree with, and that's fine. I have never been in the military, though I have many loved ones who are. I've never walked a mile in your shoes to know what it is inside you that makes you disagree if you do. If so, I'm interested in your opinion and the reasons for it.

Fraser loves his flag

Now that that's out of the way, I'm not saying that the Scots are doing it right and America is getting it wrong when it comes to flag etiquette. Not exactly, anyway. Justin, over at Geek Shui Living, asked me recently if being abroad for an extended period has altered my view of American society. I basically told him that it has, but I'm still processing and observing and contemplating how it has. It is in this vein that I contemplate the difference in what we do with our flags and see how this issue illustrates a concept I've had difficulty putting into words.

I fully acknowledge the right of a nation to impose rules, regulations, and to some extent even societal standards for proper conduct regarding its national symbols. However, when I saw that stadium full of flag-wearing Scots, my heart swelled. These were people who were together. They were one, singing the same anthem without being prompted. I just can't help but like this system better, as a matter of personal opinion, than the one that sparks yet more arguments and scandal, with the national anthem only sung when the announcer says it's time. I know that the differences between the two societies run much deeper than that, but I just like how the flag in Scotland is like a favorite teddy bear, instead of a thing made inaccessible on a pedestal of regulations. Fraser said to me, "I love my flag. Every spot of mud on it or snag in the fabric is from a time when I wore it proudly."

I just can't help but wish I could see a crowd of Americans who felt the same, insulated from the cold wind by Stars and Bars, who, at least for a little while, stop bickering about what makes them different because everywhere they look, on their very bodies, is a symbol of what holds them together.

Separated by a Common Language

2010-10-03T17:05:00.004-05:00

Fraser got me a magnetic poetry kit of Scottish colloquialisms. Before I could make use of it, he had to give me a glossary of terms. There's no way I could recreate the hilarity of his examples and exaggerated accents, but I thought I'd share the results nonetheless. You might, as I did, think you know some of these words, but you might be wrong. False cognates abound!

Note: definitions come from Fraser, who did have to wrack his memory for some of them.

bampot - a person displaying general daftness with a kind of insanity that looks for trouble.
noo - not later
pit - verb, to place
stoor - stirred up dust and grit - blowing around or kicked up in a cloud, as opposed to lying on furniture
wan - less than two
footer - verb, to fidget or tinker
greet - verb, to cry
aw - not just some
disnae - opposite of "does"
feart - afraid
fankle - to get in a tangle (not opposite of "cankle")
baffies - slippers
och - all-purpose utterance
bairn - people who need babysitters when their parents go out
gang - going, also to go
cannae - opposite of "can"
carry-oot - takeout, but mostly alcohol
hoose - where you live
dae - do
oxter - where you put deodorant
ran-dan - all-nighter (drinking, not studying)
neeps - turnips
blether - chat
swally - a drink... or several
cludgie - bathroom
frae - from
hen - woman (affectionate, not a reason to slap someone)
toty - little
boak - verb, to retch
wean - similar to bairn, but smaller
bide - dwell
cauld - opposite of hot
fash - a fuss (dinnae fash yersel'.)
crabbit - crabby (not strange hybrid of crocodile & rabbit)
lang - opposite of short
messages - the stuff on the shelves in the grocery store
awfy - awful
fancy - to like-like someone
whit - what
oot - opposite of in
gonnae - please
deid - opposite of alive
dunt - somewhere between a nudge and a shove
youse - y'all
dram - a serving of whiskey
aye - affirmative
aboot - about (not footwear)
ken - Scottish for "grok"
tak - take
cowp - landfill, dump
haver - to talk nonsense (now you know what that means.)
tae - to (not to be confused with the Tay, a river)
awa - far, far
keek - peek
efter - after
fer - for (not the stuff that grows on the cat)
hae - have (not what you feed to livestock)
yon - over there
gey - give (not boys who date boys or girls who date girls, nor merry)
onie/ony - any
ither - either
sair - sore
wee - not big (except as in "the wee big thing"), impossible to complete a sentence without
jiggered - ranging from tired to exhausted (Och, hen, you make the tea. I'm jiggered.)
birl - turn, as in a trip around the block, not as in a board game.
eejit - see "bampot"
claes - stuff you wear (not what flower pots are made of)
lum - what Santa slides down to deliver the presents. (Look at the state o ye. Ye look like you've been up a lum all day.)
yin - one, as in, the personal pronoun (Billy Connolly = "Big Yin")
heid - it's like Sputnik! Like an orange on a toothpick! (it sits on top of your neck)
jessie - sissy (not short for Jessica)
guid - opposite of bad
intae - opposite of "out of"
scooby - a clue (Jinkies!)
yer - not mine
braw - see "guid"
muckle - unnecessarily big
canny - cunning
dae - opposite of "don't"
ne'er - opposite of "ever"
fair - "totally"
doon - opposite of up
ma - not yours
dinnae - don't
ain - opposite of rent
gaun - going
aff - opposite of on
haud - hold
brae - a hill
wi' - opposite of without
fu - opposite of empty
baw - what you kick up the footbaw pitch
jings - Jeebus! (see also "crivens" and "help ma bo'ab")
nicht - opposite of day
glaikit - gormless, naïve (Jings, ye glaikit-lookin bampot, ye!)
sae - so OR sew
girn - make a face
dreich - rainy, gloomy weather
wabbit - sickly (like you might be after a long night of hunting some long-eared rodent or about to boak.)
skelp - slap
they - those
hame - where the heart is
huv - or to huv not
oor - not your
mind - remember
twa - more than one, less than three
mair - more
guddle - fishing, but by hand
ben - back in
goonie - gown
een - you have to wear glasses if yours don't work
tattie - potato
bucket - a large quantity of drink
jeely-piece - jelly sandwiches
ower - the end, opposite of under

Not in the kit, but Fraser adds:
burd - a thing that flies, but also how a less-educated man might refer to his girlfriend
drookit - drenched
crivens - see "jings"

Now, use it in a sentence, such as:
Don't gies any mair o ye cheek or ye'll git a skelp aboot the heid, ye bampot!

When Life Takes Your Pumpkins...

2010-09-28T16:24:00.001-05:00

For at least all of my adult life, Fall has been my favorite season. My friend Scott does the best autumnal things, like getting candles in all the right smells, hosting pumpkin carving contests, and, along with the rest of a group of like-minded friends, plans outings to haunted hayrides and Hammer movie marathons. We used to walk at the beach a lot, and my favorite walks were the ones where the salt air was cooling off and there was a 20 degree difference between the stretches of sidewalk under the shadows of all the emptying hotels and the gaps where the sun came through.
I found myself missing that this year, sad that I'll miss out on all the fun.

Along with that, there's the food - the pumpkin pie, pumpkin bread, pumpkin spice lattes, and I thought surely, that would help fill in some of what I was missing, but alas, pumpkin is really hard to come by in Scotland. Even Starbucks, which I figured would be the same everywhere, doesn't offer the Fall seasonal flavors that they do in the US. I spent a little too much time whining and convincing myself that I was homesick for these things. I didn't make it home for Thanksgiving last year, and I won't this year either, but I'd decided that since our friends here seem to rotate hosting little gatherings at home, one of our turns would be a Thanksgiving dinner. After seeing how hard it is to find pumpkin, my ears drooped and I became convinced that it just wouldn't be the same.

Then, tonight, while I was putting some dessert together, I took a good look at what was in front of me, and what it all meant:

See the mug? Not only does it say I [heart] boys in kilts, reminding me of the sweet Scottish guy I'm here to be with, but it's full of coffee from my new coffee maker, a gift from my mom to give me back one of those comforts of home I'd been missing. Then, there's the Mackie's honeycomb ice cream, which may possibly be the best ice cream I've ever had in my life. If you've ever had a Cadbury's Crunchie bar, it's like the inside of that, mixed in with this amazingly light ice cream, and, more to the point, is not available in America. Granny Smith apples, oatmeal, and brown sugar are plentiful enough in America, so I could make that apple crisp at home, but the important thing is, I could make it here.

I realized that I actually have everything I was missing, with the exception of the specific friends who are back home. I miss them, and if there were some way to get everyone all together at once, I'd do it, but I have memories of previous years and more years to look forward to with them, and I'm sure we'll make the most of them.

Right now, I have autumnal food; I have a damn fine cup of coffee; I have new friends and my boy; I have things that I can enjoy here, that I couldn't if I were anywhere else but where I am right now.

If you're going to write, do it right.

2010-09-27T17:42:00.001-05:00

Sadly, it bears repeating, so I'll say it again: If you're going to write, do it right.

As someone who is struggling to build a resume and make enough money to pay the bills by writing web content, participating in collaborative writing groups, editing and contributing to various websites, I find it very offensive when other professionals get away with producing shoddy work. It's even more demoralizing when said professionals draw steady paychecks and make no apology for said shoddy work.

For example, the social media person, presumably employed by ABC, who is responsible for posting the updates to the Brothers & Sisters Facebook page got away with this:

Now, you may say, "it's just a Facebook post. Nobody cares." and I say that's the problem. It is hard enough to make a living when you have to compete against other qualified, competent, talented people within your industry, whatever it may be, but it is devastating to see things like this and know that I could do a better job, but nobody cares - at least, nobody who's willing to pay.

Suppose you're an out-of-work auto body specialist who is an absolute genius when it comes to restoring classic muscle cars. Then suppose that while you're out pounding the pavement in search of work, you see a '68 Corvette peel out of the parking lot at an auto body shop that wouldn't hire you. The car is being driven by some teenager who probably doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground, so he doesn't notice the giant smear of Tuxedo Black paint that had been allowed to drip off the side and dry on the chrome. Are you any less appalled at seeing a job you would have put heart and soul into getting right, done slapdash and shoddy by someone who got the occupation you'd have killed for, just because the owner didn't care enough to inspect the work?

That's how I feel when I see online articles with celebrities' names spelled wrong. That's how I feel when I look at a published writer's bio and see typographical errors and the wrong homophone used. It's even how I feel when I see a social media person misuse punctuation in a socnet post.

When it happens in a company or organization I belong to, I am embarrassed. If I have the authority to, I fix it, even if I don't have to, because if my name is going to be associated with it, I want it to be something I can be proud of. I don't think this makes me a snob. I think it makes me professional. I understand that some people are just bad typists. I understand that things are often written in drafts. I'm not talking about first drafts here, though. I'm talking about things that are presented as a polished piece of writing to an audience of literate readers.

I'm not all sour-grapesy at talented people who get good jobs by working hard and doing a good job. I'm not even writing this to say I'm jealous of inarticulate hacks who get good jobs that aren't within my grasp. I'm speaking as a writer and editor who has allegiance to that wonderful, boundless continuum that is the community of working writers. I could have been a mechanic instead, and in that case, I'd probably right now be griping about the slobs who charge extra for "blinker fluid" and forget to screw caps all the way back on.

I'm just saying, I want my industry to be represented by the competent and talented folks who deserve the credit. It's that simple, or at least, I think it should be.

Like I said, if you're going to write, do it right, or I will scoff at you.

Sue me.

Better yet, hire me. I'll do the job properly and heap scorn and disdain upon those who take your money in return for shoddy work, even if you don't notice how shoddy it is.

Cook, Eat, Love

2010-09-22T10:09:00.000-05:00

I've never been all that interested in cooking. Baking, yes, but not more frequently than once a week at most, and generally only sweet things. Other than that, I've always seen cooking as a chore - a thing that needs to be done. That's not to say I always minded doing it, but I also never looked forward to it either. I might have looked forward to the meal that would be the result of it, but the act of actually putting it together just wasn't something I would get excited about. That is, until recently.

Fraser working on a Guardian recipe

I've been in Scotland a little over a month now, getting used to sharing my everyday life with someone again, after a really long hiatus. One of my favorite parts of this is, to my surprise, the time we spend in the kitchen. Without consciously setting out to, Fraser and I have become these people who like to cook. Neither of us is particularly gifted when it comes to culinary creativity, but we can follow a recipe with the best of 'em, and we know what we like.

We've taken to cutting recipes out of the newspapers, bookmarking ones that people post to Twitter or Facebook, and even flipping through a Jamie Oliver cookbook (Say what you will about him, but the guy comes up with some good stuff.).

We don't eat out much, partly because, well, everybody knows we don't have any money. The silver lining to that lack of funds is still pretty shiny, though. If we had a bunch of money, we might have taken to eating out a lot and missed out on some really good experiences. Just about every day, when we start getting hungry, we wander into the kitchen. As we rummage through the cabinets, preheat the oven, boil water, chop vegetables, or whatever is required, we're not only doing a chore that needs to be done if we want to eat anything remotely healthy and within budget, but getting some quality time to follow whatever the day has brought. This is when anything remarkable about the day will be brought up, when plans will be made, concerns addressed, and silliness ensues. Also, if dinner gets messed up, it's hard to place blame if both of us are equally involved in creating it. That's a rarity though, as we've pretty much gotten the hang of it at this point.

There was some burned rice and improperly-stored and consequently rotten veggies in the beginning, but we're getting steadily better. We don't do pasta a lot, but when we do, we've figured out what to add to it to make it less boring. We've also officially mastered the Scott Pilgrim shepherd's pie. If it was a rough day - the kind where he was hassled at work or I've had a project blow up in my face, this goes a long way toward making it better and restoring balance. If it was a good day, then it continues to be a good day, turning into a good night.

I just can't help but wonder how many people who live together would be happier if they also cooked together. It really is a good way to make a chore enjoyable while spending time together without needing to go out and spend money or be camped in front of the TV. If you also do this, let me know. If you don't already but decide to try it out, let me know how it goes. If not, come have dinner with us sometime. It probably won't be too fancy, but it'll be made with love.

To Do: Drink Coffee

2010-09-15T08:19:00.000-05:00

I once had a roommate who used to go nuts at me for my to-do lists. She told me it was "cheating" to put things like "drink coffee," "put on socks," and "eat lunch" on the list. Presumably, she thought this was a way of falsely appearing to be more productive by padding the list with easy things. I suppose you could look at it that way, but really, I find a to-do list - especially one that has many time-consuming or otherwise taxing items on it - to be pretty intimidating, and it's really easy to feel a sense of despair when contemplating said list and seeing no check marks on it.

Today's list, for example, is such a one that contains various time-consuming and brain-engaging items. I could sit here, staring at the list, wondering where, oh where am I going to start, but instead, I look at it and see, hey! I have already started! And look - I've gotten the ball rolling by accomplishing some things I either needed or wanted to do, even if they were small things. I get to feel like I can get things done, because I have empirical proof that I have already gotten things done. A side-effect of this is that when I'm about to fall asleep later, wondering what in the world I did with my day to make all that time go by, I have a record of it.

...and yes, I will go back and add "Blog about this list" to today's list.

Thousands of Words, Mostly in Picture Form

2010-08-24T09:14:00.000-05:00

I promised myself that I was going to only write words I'd get paid for today, but since the work site is undergoing maintenance, I figured it'd be okay to post some pictures and stuff from the past few days.

Friday, we went to see The Illusionist - the new animated one, not the boring Edward Norton one - and sooner or later, I'll get around to posting a spoiler-free recap of that over on Pop Bunker. This tied nicely into Saturday's trip to Edinburgh for the Festival Fringe, as I got to see in real life some places that were beautifully drawn into the movie, for example:


Tatischeff performs in the window of Jenner's


The real Jenner's in today's Edinburgh

We saw lots of cool things that are always there, like the Sir Walter Scott Memorial, which I think looks more like the place a wicked queen in a fairy tale might live:


Unsurprisingly, Fraser got some really cool pictures of it.

...and lots of things that were not as they always are:


The Police Box may be a fixed point, but the really amazing Johnny Cash singer is sadly not. He serenaded us as we had lunch outside one of the numerous cram-packed pubs on a side-street.


If anyone knows what this is all about, by all means, enlighten me! There were no signs or actors around - just these dummies, looking more than a little disturbing.


Best money-making scheme ever! Why did I never think of this?

In addition to lots of wandering among the crowds and sights, we did catch 2 of the festival shows - one stand-up comedy act revolving around Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and one 80's-themed sketch show. All in all, a pretty good time!

There will be more trips to Edinburgh in the not-too distant future, for the Storytelling Festival, and to finally meet up with Joe Peacock, whose rockin' Art of Akira exhibit has been accepted as part of the Scotland Loves Animation festival. (Man, this town loves a festival!)

Elvis and Other Religious Figures

2010-08-19T18:00:00.000-05:00

Today's exploring had a slightly more pious bent than yesterday's. We visited the altar of Saint Elvis - King of Rock and Roll at The Kelvingrove Art Gallery & Museum, then fled an impending pipe organ recital to have lunch at a pub inside a building which was originally a church. Really good food, although I'm not exactly sure what it was that I ordered. I had some kind of sandwich with cheese and... some stuff. I want to go back there again, for their A Play, a Pie, and a Pint lunchtime theatre. It was also pretty cool to get to see some of the things I've seen in Fraser's photos, but in their real-life locations and states of being.

That doesn't sound like much, but there is a ton to see at that museum, just among the free exhibits - everything from taxidermied jungle creatures to oil paintings, with the odd airplane suspended from the ceiling or cartoon instructions on how to become an authentic mummy.

Meanwhile, I'm highly amused that some friends and relatives that I almost never talk to have begun a debate on my Facebook page, over which is the better Glasgow football team, just because... uh... I'm here.

Free-Range Haggis

2010-08-18T17:54:00.000-05:00

Muppet roadkill?! Ikea is a strange and scary place.

For starters, Fraser and I have reached a new level of relationship status: the all-important Ikea phase. There is an Ikea dangerously close by, and we got some stuff to make life a little easier as we occupy this space on loan to us from a generous and lovely friend. He's putting together a chest of drawers right now, while I mostly laugh at the grumbling and occasional swearing coming from that direction.

Most importantly, to my thinking anyway, is the coffee maker. I dunno where these Europeans get off calling that watered-down espresso an Americano and trying to tell people that it's the same thing as brewed coffee. Take it from a lifelong American coffee drinker - it is so not the same. Oddly enough, we had lunch at a nice pub in the city, where they had great big signs in the window, advertising that they serve real, regular coffee, but I didn't have it then. It was the first thing I did when we got back from this first day of being shown around.

Duke of Wellington statue, with upgrade

We did some window shopping and walking around the City Centre. There was the modern art museum, where we might have momentarily pretended to be statues, unless you were that pair of non-English speaking tourists who happened by at just the right moment and gave us funny looks, in which case, those statues were totally real.

I've also gotten to meet a lot of people this past couple of days - no thanks to the extremely surly customs agent who demanded all these insane details before stamping my passport - given that I've only been here less than 2 days. Every single one of them has remarked upon my height - mostly in complimentary ways, but some, not so much. Fraser's dad was funny about it, taking great delight in standing next to me and seeing how tall he could stand.

He also gave me quite the history lesson on the time-honored tradition of raising one's own flock of haggis, nurturing them and caring for them, until Burns Night, when, just as you pick a lobster out of a tank at a seafood restaurant to have it cooked for you, you select your haggis, then catch and kill it yourself, a cruel process much like boiling crabs (In my head, this was actually a lot more like the scene in Son In Law, when Crawl attempts to slaughter the Thanksgiving turkey he frightened to "death" in the barnyard). I was much chastised for not giving this ancient and sacred practice its due reverence upon its being recounted to me, as I was being delivered of a solemn trust to welcome me into the fold. I have promised to try harder next time.

As far as getting back on the grid goes, this post marks the successful implementation of the wireless network here, and my iPhone has picked up the signal, though it doesn't seem to like any of the free wifi networks we encountered around town. At any rate, I should be able to use Skype on the iPhone from here, and/or at least access email and socnets.

You Can Call Anywhere In The World From Here

2010-08-05T01:24:00.000-05:00

It took a bit of doing, but I finally got my tickets booked for my trip to Scotland! Instead of rehashing all the stress, I'm just focusing on the excitement of getting to go and spend some time with my favorite guy in a place I've always wanted to visit. I'm really looking forward to (and also fairly nervous about) meeting his friends and family and seeing some of the places we've planned to visit.

Most of the time will be spent in and around Glasgow, and after seeing all the pictures Fraser has sent me (and posted on his site), I'm excited to see them in real life. I've also been made aware of some quirky features, like the police box (read: TARDIS) coffee shops. Fraser might be the proper photographer in this relationship, but if I'm gonna be a tourist, you'd better believe I'll be taking pictures of my own and most likely posting them here. There'll be some special outings planned in town - Fraser got us tickets to see Joshua Radin, and I'm hoping I'll get to a soccer game too. And some out of town - to various festival happenings in Edinburgh, and to visit friends and see sights a little further north. I won't go into detail now; I'll save that stuff to talk about once it actually happens!

For now, here are the basics:

I'll get there on the 17th of this month, and have booked my return flight for December 15th. That could change, depending on a few things, but for now, that's where it stands. Why am I staying so long? Because I can. A tourist visa is good for up to 6 months, I can keep up my hack-writing from there, and I can spend more time with my boy.

I'm not sure exactly what the phone and internet situation will be just yet, but I'm planning to stay in touch and keep writing for Pop Bunker while I'm there. I have a Google Voice number, so messages can be left for me there. I also have Skype and will likely be using that for the majority of my overseas calling. If AT&T will unlock my iPhone for me, I'll get a SIM card I can use there, but otherwise, my regular phone number won't work, as I'm having my account set to vacation. Email, Twitter, and Facebook should continue as normal. I will have at least daily access to the Internet, even if I don't check it after the end of the workday. I'm pretty much planning to work the same hours as Fraser, and then use any downtime I have to work on my much-neglected novel.

If you'd like to keep in touch, send me your Skype ID if you have one, your mailing address if you like postcards, and follow me on Twitter (which I think will be easiest to update, as I can do that even from my Kindle, with its free 3G connectivity!).

American Gets Soccer (and other breaking news)

2010-07-20T02:42:00.002-05:00

It's possibly a little late to still be talking about the World Cup, but I kept forgetting to blog about it, and really - we can't let the word vuvuzela just disappear from our collective vocabulary. I haven't been a total slacker; I've been writing at Pop Bunker... but not about the World Cup. Maybe by the next one, I'll have gotten my act together enough to write about that one while it's going on. The point is, while I was not writing about the World Cup, I was watching it.

But...

But you're American!

Hey, knock that shit off, Rest Of World. Americans don't not-get soccer. Yes, we call it soccer. That's because we have another sport which, like it or not, is called football, and calling two sports football when we could call one of them soccer and avoid confusion, would just be silly.

This was the first World Cup I ever really paid attention to. I read all over the Internet that I'm not alone; apparently, the Spain/Netherlands final was the most-watched televised soccer game in the history of American soccer-watching. Now, I can't speak for the rest of the country, but before, when I wasn't watching soccer, it wasn't because I didn't get it.

I'm not even sure what that means, though I hear it all the time in this context. It's not like there's something coded into the DNA of anyone born on American soil that prevents comprehension of how players move on a pitch. No, I wasn't watching because I'm not usually particularly interested in sports. I go through phases where I care about hockey. I actively loathe baseball and try to avoid it whenever possible. Other than that, sports just haven't interested me much - to the great disappointment of my mom's side of the family, which is populated by ardent supporters of the Pittsburgh Steelers. Seriously, there's this game outcome prediction game they like to play, and last time I attempted to join in, I just made my picks based on which team mascot would win in a one-on-one cage match. It got difficult when the game was something like Jets vs. Browns. It's hard to anthropomorphise a color.

The point I think I'm trying to make is that until recently, I just had no real motivation to consider watching any sport. I was no more nor less dimly aware of my local teams or the national teams than I was of teams playing basketball, rugby, or American football.

So, what changed?

You might scoff at the answer at first, but it's the truth and I dare you to hold it against me: I started dating a guy who is really excited about soccer. It's not like the relationship would suffer if he had this thing he's interested in that I wasn't. He likes horror movies, which I don't, so he'll watch those on his own or with other friends, and it's fine. Still, because he is a life-long lover of the sport and I'd never really thought about it, I decided to check it out and see if this was something we could share. He got me a copy of this book, so I could experience the game through a medium I know and love - through stories. In return, I decided to experience the game his way - by just tuning in and watching.

I sort of expected that it'd turn out to be the kind of thing I could tolerate for his sake, but not really be truly interested in. I was wrong. The first match I watched was Bayern Munich vs. Inter-Milan. It was fantastic. I found the game streaming online at a site Fraser sent me and we both watched, while he helped out with various questions along the way. He'd also typed up and sent me a little introduction to the rules and relevant history, which helped a lot. The station that had the best reception was a Spanish channel, which ended up making it even better, as I also got to experience Andres Cantor for the first time. Along with Cantor, whom I found hilarious, I got my first glimpse of Arjen Robben, whom I found obnoxious in his melodrama. I couldn't tell you who won that game. I wasn't watching it just to see who scored and who won (breaking another stereotype I've heard about Americans who deign to watch a soccer match). What I remember is that I found the game itself exciting. The next game I watched would not be just because I wanted to share something Fraser was interested in. I'd watch because I wanted to watch, then look forward to talking about it with him.

As for the rest of the country who suddenly tuned in to this World Cup when, according to ratings and statistics, they never did before, surely they have not all suddenly acquired boyfriends who were raised in a culture that loves the sport and cultivated it into a proud part of their personal identity. Who knows - maybe it was outrage at some bad calls that raised enough dust to get the rest of the hivemind buzzing. Maybe it was the fact that we made it beyond the first round. Hell, maybe it was Landon Donovan's good looks or even the vuvuzelas. This also comes in direct contradiction to those who assumed we'd all stop watching when the US team was eliminated.

I don't know every American in the country, so I can't say what sparked their interest this time around. All I know is that whatever the reasons, our hearts or our horns - we stood there on World Cup day, yelling with the rest of the world.

The Photographer Dances

2010-07-01T01:36:00.001-05:00

Actually, this one doesn't really dance, except for the occasional happy dance or ironic white-boy shuffle, but that's not the point. I was asked if I saw Fraser's face at all while he was here, which was a valid question since a lot of the time, he looked like this:

I said I wasn't going to worry unless the camera became part of his face and he started wandering around, saying nothing but "are you my mummy?" Those of you who aren't Doctor Who fans, watch the clip and you'll understand.

I got tons of pictures of Fraser with the camera and a look of fierce concentration on his face. If you're reading this, odds are you follow me on Twitter or are a Facebook friend and you might have seen the pictures I took while he was making with the art. Now that he's beginning to put some of his work up for sale, I thought I'd let you see what he was taking pictures of while I was taking pictures of him taking pictures. I hope you'll go and check out his Artbreak site, where you can inquire and make arrangements to buy prints, and his Picasa site, where you can preview other photos that'll be up for sale as well! If you like what you see, tell him so in the comments or even just click the little "like" buttons. If you love what you see, there's a secure contact form on the Artbreak site. I promise, he's a super-nice guy and he'll be delighted to hear from you.

Click on the picture here to see the picture he got!

***UPDATE***

You can now also find Fraser and his work on Facebook and on Twitter.

Proper Care and Feeding

2010-06-14T19:43:00.011-05:00

Today marks the first day back from my mostly-offline vacation. I've been trying to figure out where to start to recount the events that might be of interest to others, and I realized I've done an awful lot of talking about cooking and wanting to share recipes. Thanks to a Scottish boyfriend who appreciates sweets, I've learned some good ones I'd never heard of.

Fraser brought me a cookbook of Scottish Teatime Recipes. Upon receiving it, I said, "now, this isn't really a present for me, is it?" He just grinned, like this:

So far, I've only tried one recipe in it, which is the same as this one for flapjacks, which are absolutely nothing like pancakes. I've made these before, but they're so good it's worth repeating. The recipe calls for golden syrup, which I couldn't find, so I used maple instead (note: not artificially-flavored pancake syrup, but real maple syrup). The batch I made to send home with Fraser had cinnamon and raisins added, mostly because every time we passed a bakery case or grocery shelf that had oatmeal-raisin cookies on it, he'd sigh and go "mmmmmmmoatmeal cookieeeeeeeeeesmmmmmmmmmm," but then move on because there were already baked goods at home.

I had already made what Fraser calls shortcake but has nothing to do with strawberries. The recipe I used refers to it as "Millionaire's Shortbread," but he said it was exactly right, and even bestowed upon it the ultimate compliment: his Gran would have approved of it. The recipe calls for either premade dulce de leche or homemade caramel. I made the homemade caramel, and I like to think that (since it was really time consuming, though not difficult) this was the extra touch that prompted him to roll his eyes back in his head and profess his undying love for the cook.

Working together, we made another favorite of his Gran's, which was new to me in its entirety. The closest thing I've ever eaten to Tablet is the maple candy you can get in Canada and New England. It's hard to describe, but imagine a sort of caramel fudge or soft toffee. It's as sweet a thing you can eat without digging into a bag of sugar.

I love the commentary attached to the recipe, such as "if black streaks appear, you've burnt it and good luck cleaning the pan." After a half hour or so of mostly stirring, we were awarded with a tray of melt-in-your-mouth, caramel-colored squares of what my best friend referred to as "holy sugar coma, Batman!" I discovered by accident that a bit of it dissolved into a cup of coffee is a nice alternative to artificially-flavored creamer. I don't usually sweeten my coffee, but since half my piece of tablet just broke off and landed there, then dissolved instantly, I went with it, and it was good!

We took some of that, along with the results of another recipe I'd never heard of, Empire Biscuits, with us to visit Spike. Yep - same Spike of The Paul & Spike Show. If you remember, I was a guest on the show along with some other Pop Bunker contributors, prompting Spike to play matchmaker and set me up with his best friend. As a tiny thank-you, I had Fraser find out what kind of baked things Spike might be partial to, and he came back with these. I followed this recipe, except Fraser said that his Gran always put a gumdrop on top instead of the cherries called for, so that's what we did.

I struggled a bit with the shortbread, but I attribute that to the 98 degree heat and extremely high humidity. When the dough is half butter, it just won't stay firm in those conditions. Still, after lots of grumbling and getting the dough as chilled as possible in the fridge, I did manage to get it to work. I was afraid they'd be tough after having to re-roll it a few times, but thankfully, they were not. Fraser said they "taste like childhood," so I'll take that as a good sign!

There are lots more recipes in the little cookbook, and I'm sure even more out there, and I'm enjoying having them introduced to my life.

I'm just drawn that way

2010-05-14T14:47:00.000-05:00

Apparently, it's Blogging Without Makeup Day, and here is a chance for all of you who keep asking me on Twitter what I look like without a big cello hiding most of my face.

Well, here you go. You not only get me without cello, but also without mascara, black eyeliner, cover-up for the eye circles, or even so much as lip balm. I also don't have a cute cat or dog to distract you from the zit.

Aren't you glad you asked?

Welcome to Dizz Knee Land

2010-05-12T23:08:00.001-05:00

I am officially more excited at this moment than I have ever been in my life. I don't know about you, but when I was a kid, getting to go to Disneyland was just about the most exciting thing ever. Now, I have been actively trying to remember any point in my life when I have been as excited, and I just can't think of a single one. I was excited to move to California, but I wasn't counting the days, and there was so much uncertainty tied up with it. I was excited enough to actually jump up and down and squeal when I got a job at the American Cancer Society last summer, but that was still different.

No, I am not going to Disneyland again. It's just that going to Disneyland as a kid comes as close as I can get to describing this feeling of just running headlong toward what I want, with arms outstretched, in full knowledge that it's going to bring me joy, but this is so much more. If you're like me, you grew up knowing about Disneyland and how awesome it's supposed to be, and if you're under the age of ten, it pretty much lives right up to the expectations.

I'm not saying that I have never been excited since. Of course I have. I get excited about a damn fine cup of coffee. I get excited about a shiny new book. I get excited when Livin' On A Prayer is playing on the overhead speakers when I walk into Target. You know, ordinary excited. I even get really excited. I get really excited when my tax return is way bigger than I expected it to be. I get really excited when a friend gets a story published or books a gig to appear on national television. I get really excited when a little kid asks me to read her a story.

Put all of that together, PLUS Disneyland and you might come close to how excited I am right now, as it is officially SIX DAYS! LESS THAN A WEEK! before I get to pick up The Boy from the airport. I know, I know. You could vomit. Too bad I couldn't care less about your gag reflex right now. This is me - physically incapable of maintaining the façade of aloof calm for another minute. It'll probably only get worse. Consider that your fair warning. I grew up knowing how awesome Disneyland is and then getting to experience it while I was still young enough to see only the awesome. Nothing in my adult life (defined here as "period of time since I started dating") led me to expect anything like this.

As an adult, looking at Disneyland, I can see things like how expensive it is, how long the lines are, how many screaming children there are, and how obnoxious the It's A Small World song really is. Looking at what's ahead of me now, I may be aware that nothing and nobody is perfect, and I even know the specific flaws, but then again, that's kinda part of what makes it great. When you're a kid, things need to be simple - either they are good or they are not. Perfection exists for little kids in a way it can't for an adult, so any pretense of it is a turn-off. It's so much more satisfying and magical to see the imperfections and embrace them, knowing it's worth it.

So, basically, if you don't see me posting to Pop Bunker, or responding as quickly to your calls, tweets, texts, and instant messages, don't worry - I've just gone to Dizz Knee Land.

Are We There Yet?

2010-04-26T22:10:00.000-05:00

As with any departure or major life change, of course there are going to be people and things I'm sad to leave behind. Just for now, though, I want to focus on the things I'm looking forward to, eagerly awaiting, and will generally become unbearably excited about in the very near future.
Let's see.
In...
...about an hour, I am meeting friends at a place with really good desserts.
...the morning, I will begin a full day of moving-related chores. Post office, UHaul place, storage unit, etc. But I also get to see more friends and possibly something really cool (but more on that if it actually happens).
...another day, I'll finish the last-minute errands. Drop off cable box, etc. After the errands are done, I'll have lunch with another friend, then get on the road.
...less than a week, I'll be in Virginia.
...about 2 weeks, I'll have finished or be about to finish a government-related temp job and helping my mom redecorate/rearrange her house.
...3 weeks, be checking the clock every 5 seconds, change my outfit 93 times, and generally drive everyone around me insane while I pace around and wait for The Boy's plane to arrive.
...about a month, attend the wedding of one of my best friends, and be in the company of my date, whose skirt* may be shorter than mine.

*yes, I know a kilt is not exactly a skirt, but I wasn't raised in Scotland, so the thought is kinda funny to me, despite The Boy looking really hawt in it. Don't kick my ass.

Pensieve

2010-04-13T21:58:00.005-05:00

If you've never experienced insomnia, it really can be difficult to understand just how maddening it is. You can see what insomnia looks like. It looks like dark eye-circles, stumbling footsteps, wrinkled clothes, or unbrushed hair. It feels like sand in your eyes, bones replaced with Jell-O, brain replaced with oatmeal, extremities filled with lead. It leaves you trying to think through peanutbutter, hear through static, see through salt-water...

If you've ever wondered what insomnia sounds like, I'll attempt to describe it for you. It sounds like a perfect, tranquil spring day... until every dog bark, bird chirp, or voice floating in becomes an air-raid siren. And then, there is the voice. Not a schizophrenia-type imagined voice. It's your own voice, babbling, babbling endlessly as it recounts the day's events, things you've wondered about, snippets of pop culture and news items, things you're worried about or stressed about...

If you're familiar with the Harry Potter stories, it's like all you need is a pensieve - a basin you can pour your thoughts into, so they can be examined later, outside your head.For example, I didn't really sleep last night (Hi. I'm Heather. I'm an insomniac.) and tried to take a nap this afternoon. That episode of insomnia sounded like:

Wow, I need sleep. Sleep now. Just an hour or so, then I'll get to work. Ugh. So much work to do. I don't even know where to start. What he said, that was really nice. What a great guy. I can't believe I'm getting a hassle over this transaction. Why don't things just work how they're supposed to? What is that, a car alarm? Figures. It's nice out. Good day to have lunch outside. My friends are the best. I think I ate too much. Oh well. Loving you is eeeeasy 'cause you're beautifuuuuuul la la la don't know the rest of the words to this song. SHUT UP. I hope my tax return comes on Friday. I have to write up the review of that EP. I have to read that book, then write up that review. I have to write all those articles. I hope this girl decides to rent my apartment. I have to go to the store. I'm almost out of toothpaste. And I need milk. And packing tape. Everyone is moving. Did I remember to email her? LET ME SLEEP. I think I banged my knee on that shelf. Ow. No that hurts. No that hurts. No that hurts. What day is it? Is Lost on tonight? Did I watch it last week? Right. Desmond. Why is there nothing good on TV anymore? What about Saturday cartoons. Used to be so good. Man, I just had a birthday. How old am I again? I have gray hair. And a zit. It should be illegal to have both. Did I turn off the coffee pot? Did I lock the door behind me? Should I set the alarm? Where's the phone? I sure hope I get all of my security deposit back. Damn. I left those receipts in the car. Where did I park? I'll just walk down to the place tomorrow. I hope these people know what they're doing. I can't deal with any more crap over this. What day is it? It's not Friday. Did I tell her I wanted to meet on Thursday, or Friday? Saturday? No. Not Saturday. How many days left? A little more than a month. So much to do. I have to call that donation pick-up service. I wonder if it costs anything. SHUT UP! I want to read that book. First I have to finish this book. Did I already pack that book? 88 MILES PER HOUR! Why 88, anyway? 88 keys on a piano... What did I do with the Sharpie? I hope he's okay. I'm sure someone would've called if it was serious. I should call my mom. I can't sleep anyway...

Now maybe you get why there are so many Facebook statuses and Twitter postings of "AAAAAAAUUUUUUUGHHHHHH!" around three in the morning from all corners of the globe.

I Could Never Love A Baywatch Fan

2010-04-06T21:04:00.003-05:00

In 1996, my best friend and I saw the Smashing Pumpkins play at the Hampton Coliseum. As we were walking up the sidewalk to go inside, this guy jumped in our path from behind a table of books and pamphlets. Being young and unaware of such things, we let him go on for a minute in what was ultimately to be the plot of some hippie looking to score money for Phish tickets off a couple of teenagers.

"It's about your KARRRma!
...and your reincarNAAAtion!
...and the fact...
...that we are not a BODY!
...but a SOOOOOOUUUUUUL withIN!
...
...
...
So. You wanna buy the book?
How 'bout a dollar?
You got a dollar?
Not even a buck?
Really?"

We still quote this at each other whenever we need a reminder that, as John Hannah's character says in Sliding Doors, "there's always someone sadder than you."

Carburetors, Man - That's What Life is All About!

2010-04-01T23:45:00.003-05:00

The great attorney Vincent LaGuardia Gambini once said, "You know, when you rebuild a carburetor, the first thing you do is you take the carburetor off the manifold? Supposing you skip the first step, and while you're replacing one of the jets, you accidentally drop the jet, it goes down the carburetor, rolls along the manifold, and goes into the head. You're fucked. You just learned the hard way that you gotta remove the carburetor first, right? So that's all that happened to me today. I learned the hard way. Actually, it was a good learning experience for me."

That pretty much sums up the past several months. I didn't really know what I was doing when I opened up the hood and started messing around with things, but I saw possibilities and just went for it. I'm not saying I regret it - not all of it anyway - but there are consequences to that learning style. I've got some parts I have to repair or replace in order to get back up and running reliably again, but I'll get there. Now I know where I'm going, and having this really great destination in mind is the best motivation to just keep at it, even when the wrench slips and leaves me with one more thing I have to deal with before I can sit back and call it a job well-done.

I guess this is my roundabout way of announcing that I'm not going to be staying in California much longer. I'm not saying I regret coming here, but it just turns out that it's not right for me after all. There are people I love here - friends who have stepped up and stuck by me and shared good times and hard times alike, but this isn't geographically where I need to be. I didn't end up finding a job, and the pace of life just doesn't agree with me in the long-term. I'm going back home. I miss my family and lifelong friends, I need to recover financially, and there are a few other things that'll agree quite nicely with a return to the east coast.

I can't tell you at this moment exactly when I'll be moving, but if I'm given my druthers, it'll be in about a month. There's a contract job I can do if I can get there, and a friend of mine is getting married, so both of those are motivating factors. There's more, but I'll wait until things are a little more certain before I elaborate. Suffice it to say that while I will miss the people I leave behind, I'm going to find it extremely hard to contain my excitement in the coming weeks, and I'm hoping to have some extraordinary things to share to balance out the recent negativity.

Walk On

2010-03-31T14:09:00.003-05:00

To end the month on a high note, here's a chance to pump some good karma back into the universe:

To balance out giving him a hard time for his funny words, I thought I'd try to help in getting the word out that this boy really is a good sport. Check it out. He's doing this:

Clicking on the image above will take you to his fundraising page. Come on - we're talking about a cute guy doing a marathon in a kilt to raise money for underprivileged children. How can ya not support that?!

(Personally, I'm a little bit in it for the pictures that are sure to ensue, but hey...)

Things to note if you're not in the UK: When you click the "donate" button, make sure you check the option that says, "I am not a UK taxpayer." Also, right now, £1 = about $1.50.

...And the Horse You Rode In On.

2010-03-30T00:26:00.006-05:00

You know, I've worked in enough customer service jobs in various capacities to know what it's like to be on the other side of the desk or telephone when an upset person calls or arrives. I've also been a customer and constituent who has had occasion to complain or otherwise express some dissatisfaction. That's why I make it a point to also share my feelings when I have a good experience. I spent a good 20 minutes on the phone with a supervisor at Progressive, telling her how glad I am that I have my car insurance through them. Not only have I never had a problem, but during this past week, which I'll get to in a minute, they have gone above and beyond, doing things like just calling to check in on me or admitting that they've also done boneheaded things like letting their car registration lapse. I told this supervisor that they were single-handedly responsible for my having some faith left in humanity beyond my circle of friends.

In case you missed all my ranting and raving, I'll give a brief recounting of the sheer ridiculousness I've experienced in the past week. Especially to those in California, and who might have occasion to interact with the LAPD, I have a piece of advice: Don't.

If you can help it at all, do everything in your power to ensure that you will not have to deal with these people, and I'll tell you why, but first, let me make one thing clear: I don't have a problem with police officers in general. One of my best friends is a cop. I have known many other fine men and women who wear that uniform and do not disgrace it. I am simply stating that the ones I've dealt with and the rules they have cited to me in the past several days have not made me feel particularly protected nor served. The Incredible Scooter Cops, they ain't.

Last Wednesday, I had an errand to run, so I walked out to where I'd parked my car the night before and found the car gone. I couldn't think of a single reason for the car to have been towed - there were no signs, no red curb, no loading zone, no driveway I was blocking, and most notably, I hadn't been notified. My subsequent dealings with the LAPD are as follows:

1. Wednesday: Call to report missing vehicle. Transferred to 6 different people. The 6th person, a detective, types my VIN into the "system" and then informs me that the VIN is invalid, therefore, "as far as I'm concerned, the vehicle doesn't exist," and then more or less hangs up on me.

2. Wednesday: Discover via a website that DOES recognize my car's VIN that the car has been impounded for lapsed registration.

Intermission. Thursday: Okay, that's my bad. I pay the registration and it's updated and reinstated. I have a receipt that confirms this. Remember that. The receipt states that I paid Department of Transportation, Division of Motor Vehicles in the correct amount for vehicle registration on my vehicle, on that date.

3. Thursday: Call LAPD and am told that all I have to do now is show up at the station with my driver's license and proof of insurance, and my car will be released. I tell the officer that my license is from Virginia, and she says that's not a problem.

4. Friday: My friend drives me to the police station. Because of traffic, we arrive around 3:45, but that's okay; the posted hours are until 4:30, right? Wrong. No one is there. The officer at the information desk says, "I dunno what to tell you - it's Friday and they might've closed up early." I tell him, "I'm sorry, but that's unacceptable. I was told to come in by 4:30. It's not like we rolled up here at 4:27. You need to get a supervisor or someone." He goes away, then comes back and wordlessly points at us to go up the stairs.

5. Friday, continued: We are met by Detective R., who tells me flat out that it's not his job to be there, it's the end of the day on a Friday so he can't help me and he's not even supposed to be there today. I missed the part where the LAPD handbook was written by Kevin Smith. He also decides to lecture me about how nobody lets their registration lapse and drives around on an expired tag. I tell him I really don't need him to tell me this and ask if we can just move this along. He tells me that the "system" doesn't show my registration as being paid and that my receipt (see above) is not good enough for him, but he really wishes he could help me.

2nd Intermission. Weekend: No one is available to help me, and yet, I will be charged about $40/day for the privilege of storing my car in the impound lot while it is physically impossible for me to conduct any business to get the car back.

6. Monday: I call the police station to find out if the "system" has decided that my registration has been updated. I'm placed on hold for about half an hour, then disconnected twice before being told that the "system" now has no record of my vehicle ever having been impounded. I argue with the person as politely as I can, resulting in her doing some more research and telling me at last that the report shows that my registration was updated on Friday. [beat] The woman tells me all I have to do now is go down there, show my license (which I again state is a VA license and am told that's fine) and proof of insurance (since they have lost the one I faxed on Friday), and they will release the vehicle.

7. Monday, continued: My friend drives me to the police station. Again, no one is at the window. After 20 minutes of knocking, shouting, and asking anyone who happens by to get someone to assist me, someone finally shows up. It is the woman with whom I'd spoken earlier. She gives me a release to sign, I give her my paperwork and my license, and she said, "Ohhhh... this is a Virginia license. We can't release the car to you."

I'm sorry, what?

I'm then told that the California penal code states that an impounded vehicle can only be released to someone with a valid California license, regardless of where the vehicle is registered or the permanent address of its owner. She goes on to tell me that this is all Schwarzenegger's fault. At this point, my friend looks the woman in the face and informs her that she and her colleagues are a bunch of retards and this is the most preposterous thing she's ever heard in her life. How does the woman react? She says she'll release the vehicle to my friend if she'll fork over her license and allow a photocopy of it to be made. Outstanding. Now my friends are being dragged into this fracas. (Sidebar: If you want a new car, call the cops a bunch of retards, apparently. Try it. I dare you. Except not really. I'm not liable for anything stupid you do as a result of reading this). The woman further tells me that usually when this happens, people will just grab someone from the lobby or off the sidewalk and get them to show their CA license. See comment about retards. How does that make any sense whatsoever? I feel for the person who goes on a road trip from Nevada or something, to visit LA for a weekend and has to deal with this...

8. Monday, later: Paperwork in hand, we go to the impound lot, where we're given a bunch of lip and the credit card machine won't read one of my cards (I have to split the payment across 2 accounts, so expensive has it become). After arguing with the attendant some more, he shoves a map at me, showing me where my car is... across the freaking city, in a satellite lot in Chinatown. At this point, I'm nearly unable to speak. Smoke is surely coming out of my ears.

9. Monday, later still: Arrive at incredibly sketchy-looking lot in the bowels of Chinatown. Sign paper. Wait for attendant to scrape a bunch of crap off my windshield. Notice giant gouges in the paint on the driver's side door as well as some scratches and a new dent in the front-driver's side wheel well. At this point, I scream. I don't mean I yelled at the attendant. I mean, I freaking screamed a wordless, primal scream that lasted at least two or three blocks as I was driving away.

Now I'm home - broke, and in possession of my car and its fresh dents and scratches. Thank you, LAPD, for driving home the decision to not stay in this city a moment longer than I have to. At my earliest convenience, I will be returning to the east coast. I'll come back and visit the people I love here, but to hell with the rest of it.

English as a First Language Barrier

2010-03-28T03:06:00.006-05:00

In a previous post, I told you I met a boy, but I didn't really tell you much about him. Well, I need something fun to focus on right now, so I thought I'd share a source of amusement that this awesome boy has inadvertently provided. Because I'm a language geek, I've found it hilarious that even though we are both native speakers of English, there are these... differences between the English I speak as an American and the English he speaks as a Scot. It makes me really glad he's such a good sport as I find it impossible to suppress a giggle.

Whichever English you speak, or if you're even a speaker of anything else, I thought these examples might amuse, so here they are:

1. Hire: As in, "I need to hire a kilt."

Of course, he meant:

...but in my head:

2. Shorties: As in, "I watched the shorties while they went out."

He meant:

...but in my head:

3. Shortcake: Okay, this one's not as funny, but it's important to know this distinction if you also might find yourself baking for someone from the U.K.

He meant:

...but in my head:

...and of course, this post would not be complete without one more, and you can guess the word. Just for my mom:

He said:

...but in my head:

Things I Will Never Again Take for Granted:

2010-03-19T21:35:00.000-05:00

Garbage disposal
Dishwasher
Assigned/private parking
Non-coin-operated clothes washer & dryer
Toaster
Counter space
"Play All" option on DVD menus
Nearest neighbor being more than a foot away
Windows, cabinets, and drawers that close all the way
Pipes that don't leak
Dunkin' Donuts
A proper desk
Smooth airplane journeys
Reliable paychecks
Being in the right place at the right time (zone)

Reformatting February

2010-03-03T19:50:00.000-05:00

For the past several years, February has just been an inordinately difficult month for me. That's when I've tended to get dumped, laid off my jobs, have fallings-out with friends, and so on. Despite its containing the birthdays of lots of my favorite people, I've just identified all too well with Dar Williams' song, named for the month, in which she declares that she has "lost to February."

Then, I realized something the other day: This year, this February, however, I did not have the urge to listen to that song a single time. In the past month, some other tunes that have been stuck in my head have changed as well.

It was:

I had resigned myself to probably never actually finishing this novel I've been working on (in an on-again/off-again sort of way) for a while. I was stuck on a major plot point that kept me from knowing where the rest of the story was going to go. Furthermore, the 30,000 words I had written were in notebooks that seemed to have gotten lost when I moved.

Aside from the fiction-writing, the site that was paying me to write started presenting just problem after problem. It went from being mediocre to hateful in a very short span of time, so that by the time I'd finished with that for the day, the last thing I felt like doing any more of was writing. Pop Bunker was the exception, as a relatively pressure-free environment where I could just write a few hundred words of what I felt like and know that a couple of nerds would laugh either at or with me over it.

Add to the professional and creative failures this feeling of social detachment because I couldn't afford to go out and do anything, seeing my friends and family depressed at their own crummy work/social/financial/creative situations, homesickness, and middle-of-the-night loneliness, and yeah, I was on team LifeSucks.

but now it's more like:

But then, just standing in the shower one night, this simple, painfully obvious solution to my plot problem just hit me over the head with staggering force. I dried off, made some notes, and decided I'd just start over if I had to, because after that moment of inspiration, I just saw the entire book unfold before me. But wait! There's more! As I rummaged through drawers in search of a pencil sharpener the other night, I found the missing notebooks! After the new revelation, a lot of those 30k or so words are going to end up on the cutting room floor, but there's a lot in there that I want to keep! I started writing the new beginning, and I think it'll shape up nicely.

As for the paying work, I've got a couple of new avenues I'm pursuing. One mostly involves ghostwriting and general online copywriting. The other is a job I'll report to, which has nothing to do with writing, but depending on how it goes, could be an excellent source of income, allow for a pretty flexible schedule, and let me travel a bit - and maybe rack up some frequent flier points, which brings me to the next change.

Socially, well, things are definitely looking up there as well. It seems like lots of friends are finally catching a break here and there, and there's a general upswing in the mood of those around me. I've been able to visit with a friend who's in town for work, spend some time getting to know some newer friends, and catch up at length with some long-standing friends who had fallen out of touch or been stuck in phone-tag limbo. Also, here's where the frequent flier points come in handy - I've met a boy! A really awesome one! It's new and involves a long distance, but I have a really good feeling about it. When I find myself continually looking over my shoulder to see who he's talking to, then realizing with delight that it's actually me... yeah, that's worth putting up with some inconvenient miles and wait-and-seeing.

It had been brought to my attention that I've been lax in my updates of late, but there you have it - so far, the Metal Tiger has been here for two things: to kick ass and chew bubblegum, and he's all out of bubblegum.

Happy New Year!

2010-02-14T03:47:00.003-05:00

I've heard that there's some kind of other significance to Feb. 14th, but as far as I'm concerned, it's the beginning of the year of the Metal Tiger. I'm not Chinese, but for some reason, I feel a certain kinship with this day and the creature associated with it.

If you remember what I had to say about January 1st, you know that I really wasn't feeling like there was any cause for celebration at the turning of the calendar year. I still pretty much stand by what I said - that life doesn't happen on a schedule dictated by numbered blocks on a page, but it just happens that as of this writing, I do feel like things are changing, and for the better. I think it's for that reason that I feel it's apropos to embrace a symbol of a new start.

On a few different fronts, I feel not only hope, but a certain confidence in things working out. That is a thing I haven't felt in a really long time, and it is such a sweet feeling. The things I'm looking forward to seeing through are new, so maybe there's still some fear that I'll jinx it by saying too much. I will say that instead of everything falling apart, it's like things are being rebuilt, and as one thing gets stronger, the rest seem to be reinforced too. As I see small victories adding up in one area, I'm more motivated to have successes in the others.

I'm not the kind of person who believes that everything happens for a reason. Like the man said, I don't believe in an interventionist god. I do, however, believe that sometimes, you just don't question it when life throws you something awesome, and then paves the way for you to make the most of it.

It feels good to look the world in the eye again.

To those of you who know who you are, it's really good to see you rockin' out and having fun, and thanks for letting me be a part of it. I can't wait to see what happens next.

Bring it on, Metal Tiger.

It's Good to Be Me

2010-02-03T15:04:00.001-05:00

I've had this thought several times over the past few days, a thought which surprised me a little when I caught myself thinking it. Still, it is true. Why is it so good to be me? Am I free of stress and worry, and is life all sunshine and roses? Not remotely. Still, sometimes, I just have to marvel at how lucky I am.

Things that are good about being me:

I get to be one of the Pop Bunker crew. You knew that already, and I hope you also already know what Pop Bunker is. I woke up to a notification about this post, and that pretty much illustrates how much fun it is to be a part of this thing. I never expected that I'd get to throw my weird opinions on everything from cult films to the Smurfs out there for an audience to actually read, or to find in my fellow contributors the kind of friends who laugh with you and perpetuate such incredible silliness that it's insanely difficult to be depressed for any length of time. The really cool thing about the Internet and living in this day and age is that it doesn't matter how far-flung we are. We are just a Skype call, instant message, tweet, email, Googy Wave, or Facebook comment away from an inside joke (see: "Googy Wave" and listen to us on last week's episode of The Paul and Spike Show if you want in on the joke) or some wacky new project. I'm telling you, I have been giggling for pretty much a solid hour this morning.

Speaking of great people and technological advances, do you get email that comes with a soundtrack? If not, then you are missing out. It's good to be me because I do. Thanks to one I got yesterday, I have discovered the hitherto-unknown to me Frightened Rabbit, Reindeer Section, and Florence and the Machine. There was more, but those are the ones that are new to me. This also falls under the category of the strange and wondrous ways that people can enter and exist in our lives now.

Do you come from a big, insane family? I come from a big, insane family. I have, at various times in my life, shared a home with my mom (who is responsible for her own laundry list of reasons it's good to be me), my brother, 4 of my uncles, a few of my 30ish cousins, and a number of friends who are family in every way but blood. This is probably why I don't tend to stand on ceremony with guests and have a very low expectation of privacy. I am so thrilled beyond words that more of them are getting on Facebook and we can talk and feel closer, though we're hundreds or thousands of miles apart. As my cousin Maggi (who I can't believe is in high school already...) said in a recent status update, "you don't know how good of family we gott until you eat dinner with us!!! Ribs, Jokes, "observations" , alott of laughs." She's absolutely right. There's this thing that the Fergusons (my mom's side of the family) do, that you just... have to experience to understand. It goes something like this:

You might say, "Hey, why don't we order pizza?"
And Dave will say, "No, I know - we'll have pizza."
And Paul will say, "Hey, no no no. We should have pizza."
And Mike will say, "Look, I dunno about you guys, but I could really go for pizza."
And Lisa wills say, "Why doesn't someone call and order a pizza?"
And Dave will say, "Now, look - we're gonna have pizza, and you're gonna like it!"
And this will go on until you just leave and show back up with a stack of boxes from Hi-Way Pizza (Not Sarina's - they changed the sauce and it's just not the same anymore). It is impossible to convey the true nature of these exchanges, because they're also peppered with quotes from whatever movie was on TV (last time, it was My Cousin Vinny, and everything came back to "These two yutes."), lines from Ray Stevens songs, and opinions on everything from online poker to foreign policy.

I could go on some more about my awesome friends who support me, laugh with me, and make me feel like the person I am is okay, but to give them justice would take an encyclopedia, not a blog post. I guarantee that if you get to spend time with them, it'll be good to be you.

Take the Hint (A True Story)

2010-01-18T23:01:00.005-05:00

I'm keeping this one all real for a few reasons: 1. It almost doesn't work if I don't use the villain's actual name (and you should beware of this guy if you ever encounter him), and 2. I promised James West that I'd never forgive him for his part in it.

One night back in 2006, I went out for drinks with the girls. Sam, Betsy, and I went to Conklin's Irish Rover, where our friend James was singing. After James finished his set, he sat down and joined us, as did Jeff and Jac (that's not a typo; Jac-with-no-K made it a point to introduce himself as such), who had also come to the pub that night to see James.

As it happened, Sam and Jeff were already acquainted and became engrossed in conversation, catching up since the last time they'd seen each other. That left Betsy to my right, Jac-with-no-K to my left, and James to his left. Even if Jac-with-no-K had been an ordinary Jack, I still would have been instantly turned off by this guy.

It's totally fine if you want to wear a burgundy velour smoking jacket out in public (okay, unless you're Vincent Price, I really don't think it's fine, but if it makes you happy, carry on), but if you wear one and are chain smoking Blacks and mainlining Jameson, I'm afraid you're just not my type. Invade my personal space, blow smoke in my face, interrupt me every time I speak, and boast about how you're barely old enough to drink, yet working on your 3rd DUI, and I will officially despise you.

I like to think that I'm a nice person. Even if I dislike someone, I can usually be civil for the sake of not spoiling the evening for everyone else. This guy, however, was oblivious to my subtle scooting away from him, monosyllabic responses, and even pointedly ignoring him. I think it was the point where he got so bold as to touch me that I forgot that I'm a nice person.

He laid a hand on my shoulder, and I told him, "you'll remove that unless you want to pull back a bloody stump." He did so, but said, "see, this is why I like you!"

I said, "you don't like me. You don't know me. You will never know me well enough to like me. Got it?"

He didn't get it. What he did was later talk James into giving him my phone number (under some pretense of asking me about some book I mentioned, please. James, how could you?) and then proceed to text message me intermittently for the next few months. MONTHS! Usually, I ignored him, but at one point, I got fed up and tried to put a stop to it.

He asked if I wanted to go for a drink and I replied with an emphatic, "NO!"

He asked why, and I said, "because you annoy the f--- out of me and I don't like you!"

He didn't get the hint that time either. I later learned that he'd run into Sam, who is an officer in the Navy, while she was out entertaining some visiting officers from the British Navy. Apparently, Jac-with-no-K insinuated himself into their group despite Sam's multiple protests, and attempted to pump her for information about me.

Eventually, after I just never replied again, he stopped contacting me and no one I know ran into him again.

The moral of the story is... good grief, don't be that guy. I admit that there are some language issues between men and women, but some things are pretty crystal clear, no?

My Only Story with Conan

2010-01-16T05:35:00.000-05:00

The end of 2006 to the first part of 2007 was a strange time in my life. I lived in Virginia, but was spending lots of time in North Carolina. I was married, but newly separated. I was a college graduate, but working at a tiny diner in the industrial part of town, waiting tables and doing dishes for the same bunch of roughnecks every day.

On weekdays, I showed up at the diner a little before 6:00 AM, started the coffee, grunted a greeting at Tim, the owner/cook, turned on the radio, and spent a few minutes crying in the bathroom before the first customer arrived. At opening time, it was also time for the Daily Gospel According to Forrest, an obstreperous geezer who thought there was nothing wrong with the world that couldn't be fixed with a well-placed nuclear explosion. Between the Gospel and 10:30, there wasn't much going on. I'd write little stories in the margins of the discarded newspaper and throw things at Tim whenever he said something insensitive - roughly every ten minutes.

Next, lunch: Billy and Huey at the end of the counter - Billy's place with a Diet Coke, Huey with a Sprite. The brothers Harris (no relation to me) at the table in the corner, Ronnie from Maypaw Tire one over, and the guys from the AAA garage would take up the other end of the counter. What a great bunch of guys. It was like Cheers, but without alcohol (and if Carla wasn't pregnant all the time, was double her height, and had purple hair).

The problem with going home after spending all day there was that it was sooooo quiet. So, most Fridays, after the lights were off and the sign was flipped to CLOSED and Tim had been told to go to hell, I drove to my weekend home - Emily's couch in North Carolina. I've known her since 2nd grade, and she was gracious enough to take me in when I needed a break from uncomfortable silence. Aside from the camaraderie and space from my problems, I enjoyed a constant dull roar. Emily has two cats who would rummage and run around, and at least at the time, she had a habit of leaving the TV on all night, tuned to NBC, I guess so she could hear it faintly as white noise in the next room.

Since I was a guest and not bothered by it, I just left the TV on. Those Friday nights, I slept better than I did any other night of the week, drifting off to the antics of Conan O'Brien, in a place where I was at least temporarily safe from the crap that was getting me down. So thanks, Conan, for having stuff like a guy dressed up like a wookiee on your show, and for helping me fall asleep with a smile during a time when those were at a premium.

Mostly True Stories #5

2010-01-14T11:30:00.003-05:00

I love that people tell me their stories. My head is full of these memories, details, and endings that I've decided shouldn't stay locked in my head. Therefore, with no specific number in mind, I'll post one a day until I don't feel like doing it anymore or you beg me to stop. I say they'll be mostly true because I will change names and other details that would reveal the subjects' identities. I might also embellish to fill in details where the memory has gotten fuzzy. Before you ask, yes - some of the stories are mine, and while you're welcome to guess, I won't tell which they are. If you know me well and already know the stories, I'll ask you to just bear with me and not rat me out!

Mostly True Story #5: The Best Laid Plans?

Olivia was doing a study abroad semester in the United States. Being the incredibly beautiful girl with an accent, she didn't want for attention from the guys in her classes. Despite the abundance of attention, she had eyes only for Jake. He was far from indifferent to her, and the pair formed an attachment that was to last beyond the semester and continue after Olivia had returned to Italy.

Because this was before most people had Internet at home and overseas telephone calls were a luxury reserved for very special occasions only, Olivia embraced what she thought of as an old-fashioned romance. She wrote to Jake often, at least once a week, but frequently more. She awaited his letters with eagerness, and when they arrived, and they did regularly - albeit less so than Olivia's letters to him, she was happy and looked forward more and more to summer break, when she was planning to return to America to see him.

Finally, the time drew near, and she wrote to Jake to tell him she would be buying her plane ticket soon, and she asked him to confirm that the dates she was looking at were good for him too. A week went by with no response. Then another week went by. The end of the third week finally brought a response.

Jake's conscience had gotten the better of him, and the pages and pages of his letter explained to Olivia how he just couldn't allow her to spend the money on the trip, knowing that he really didn't feel anything for her. You see, her letters really boosted his ego. Reading them felt good, and so he wrote back just enough to ensure that the letters kept coming. It wasn't that he didn't care about her at all; it was just that he had no romantic desire for her, and as the months carried on, he couldn't ever seem to make himself tell her. He'd been sitting there hoping that she'd lose interest or that some other catalyst would take care of the deed for him, sparing him the necessity of hurting a friend.

At first, Olivia was heartbroken. She cried to every girlfriend she knew. Then, she got mad. She spent hours composing responses, then crumpling them up and throwing them away. Eventually, in a fit, she called the travel agent and bought a plane ticket. She knew where Jake hung out and had this beautiful plan all laid out in her head. She imagined herself strolling into the bar in her sexiest outfit, ordering a drink, and after taking one long, slow sip of it as she approached him, throwing it directly into his face and then leaving without a word.

Well, she put on that sexy outfit and showed up at the bar. She ordered a pomegranate mojito and spotted Jake at a booth on the far end of the bar - and he was with a girl, all the better. She grinned as she wound up for the toss, but then stopped in her tracks when her ears picked up the thread of conversation coming from Jake's mouth.

"...so trust me," he was saying to his female companion, who was tearstained and surrounded by a pile of tissues, "men are scum. No listen - I let this amazing girl, Olivia, think I was into her for way too long just because she stroked my ego. I'm not proud of it, but it happens, and that's what this guy is doing to you. We can smell our own kind and I'm telling you..." The rest of his sentence was cut off by the sputtering he'd succumbed to as ten ounces of top-shelf liquor and mint leaves hit him full in the face.

Mostly True Stories #4

2010-01-13T11:30:00.002-05:00

Mostly True Stories #3

2010-01-12T08:30:00.001-05:00

I love that people tell me their stories. My head is full of these memories, details, and endings that I've decided shouldn't stay locked in my head. Therefore, with no specific number in mind, I'll post one a day until I don't feel like doing it anymore or you beg me to stop. I say they'll be mostly true because I will change names and other details that would reveal the subjects' identities. I might also embellish to fill in details where the memory has gotten fuzzy. Before you ask, yes - some of the stories are mine, and while you're welcome to guess, I won't tell which they are. If you know me well and already know the stories, I'll ask you to just bear with me and not rat me out!

Mostly True Story #3: Touché

Ebony had, as many of us do from time to time in our lives with mixed results, fallen in love with her best friend. She and Darrel had known each other for years, and she finally realized that he was the one guy who'd always been there for her. Unfortunately, this realization came about after he'd started seeing Tiffany, whom Ebony had managed to avoid meeting for a couple of months by the time this story took place.

Darrel was an avid fencer, and had just gotten a job as the new fencing teacher at the rec. center. To support her friend and to spend time with him, Ebony signed up for the class. She was one of the first to arrive on the first day of class, and took a seat between the only other two students to have gotten there. One of them was half-asleep, but the other struck up conversation and kept it coming to pass the time until class started.

Once they were suited up in protective gear and had their swords, Darrel had the students break off into pairs, so Ebony and the girl she'd been chatting with chose to partner up. Through the course of the class, the two earned lots of stern looks from Darrel, as they just couldn't keep straight faces as they went through the motions of the exercises. Finally, as Ebony's partner had just stabbed the fencing sword into the padding over Ebony's heart with an emphatic "touché!" Darrel strolled over to have a word with them.

"Well, I'm glad the two of you have hit it off at least," he said to the pair, still holding their pose and suppressing giggles. Well, Ebony's giggles subsided as the staggering symbolism hit her: how ironic that it should be Tiffany holding a weapon (a blunt one, but still) to her heart after they'd instantly become friends.

"It's a good thing you never confided in your new friend how you felt about the teacher!" I said to Ebony when she told me this story.

"Yeah," she agreed, "if I'd done that, then I'd have just gone out to the freeway, laid down in the center lane and let nature take its course!" She went on to tell me that what she had done was get the hell out of there the instant class was over and tried to just go about the rest of her day.

She'd promised her roommate that she'd stop by the grocery store on her way home from class to pick up something to make for dinner. She got to the store, but as soon as she set foot inside, she realized that she'd been so shaken by her encounter with Tiffany that she'd completely forgotten everything she was supposed to buy. Of course, the battery on her cell phone was dead and she'd failed to write her shopping list down.

"So what did you do?" I asked her.

"I did what any sane, rational woman would do in that situation," she replied. "I bought cookies. Lots and lots of cookies."

Somehow, I don't think her roommate could blame her.

Mostly True Stories #2

2010-01-11T08:30:00.001-05:00

Mostly True Stories #1

2010-01-11T01:24:00.004-05:00

Blackest Coffee*

2010-01-04T19:51:00.003-05:00

I was talking to Christina the other night, about the things we cling to when we're defeated - the things which, tiny though they may be, remind us of who we really are, deep down. Who are we, when all the armor is stripped away?

Me? I am a coffee drinker. I don't mean I'm a person who drinks coffee. I mean, at the core of my being, there is coffee. When I conjure up thoughts of peaceful, simple moments of my life, the portrait wouldn't be complete without mugs of coffee on the table, or in the hands of people I love, or scenting the air of any place I've been able to think of as Home. To me, a good cup of coffee is my grandparents visiting at Christmas, and my uncle Ed smiling wordlessly at the foolishness of my cousins and me, and late nights and live music at the Jewish Mother, and sunrises at the beach, and watching Golden Girls at 3:00 a.m. with Nins...

If a guy knows how I take my coffee, that gives him mega brownie points. I used to drink it with lots of cream and sugar, but then, in a bizarre turn of events, that changed. An odd side-effect of my last real broken heart was that I couldn't stand the taste of my coffee anymore. Realizing this, I became even more desolate than I already was after being dumped and losing my job as a direct result of a trusted friend lying to our boss about something I hadn't actually screwed up. Luckily, one day I just decided to try drinking it black, and lo and behold, it tasted good. Whew. I was still me.

Fast-forwarding to about a month ago, I started experiencing a really wicked case of insomnia. This time, augmented by some heartache and job troubles, it seemed again like the coffee might have to go. I just couldn't give it up though. I need that ritual of comfort and reminder of simple moments. Luckily, there's such a thing as decaf. I used to totally scoff at the idea, and even now, I can admit it's not ideal, but it's okay, and I'm okay with okay. I'm still me.

*I almost titled this "Black Coffee Blues," not caring that Henry Rollins beat me to the title, even though it's apropos, but one member of my social circle has already been physically threatened by that worthy, so I'd rather not risk it. To my knowledge, Geoff Johns has never come close to beating up anyone I know, so I'll keep riffing on his work instead.

Vanilla Sky Extract

2010-01-01T22:33:00.000-05:00

"Every passing minute is a chance to turn it all around," or so Sofia says in Vanilla Sky. "Minute," she says - not day, or year, or decade, although she could have easily said any of those. She's not the only one who said such a thing. Mahatma Gandhi said, "Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn."

Today, I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around these concepts. We mark our lives by the passage of minutes, days, years... and it makes sense. We'd go crazy if we had no system of keeping track of time. That's not the part I don't understand. The thing is, life does not actually happen in these easily-delineated chunks of time. Today is January 1st. Today's date ends in /10, while yesterday's ended in /09. Today, I am a day older than I was at this time yesterday, but yesterday, I was still only a day older than the day before that.

My point is - none of my problems went away because I participated in the ritual of welcoming the new year. I'm not arguing with anyone who embraces a feeling of starting over, a virtual reset button as Danielle suggests. If you are able to feel hope and renewal, please don't take this to mean I'm here to rain on your parade. I'm glad that you can. I'm just saying that I, at this moment, on this first day of this new year, feel no such sensation. The things that made my heart ache yesterday still make it ache today. The things I was worried about yesterday, I am still worried about today. It's just another day that I got out of bed, made the coffee, and started going about my business.

Last year, I felt differently. Last year, I said, "this is going to be the year." This time, I have no expectation that anything is going to be different because it falls between January 1 and December 31 of the year 2010. Things will happen, and they'll last a minute, or 42 minutes. They'll last a day or 87 days, 2 hours, 8 minutes, and 22 seconds. They'll last a year or 3.94 years.

Todd pointed out to me just now that this is why Anniversaries were invented. These allow us to assign an event its own New Year's Day. It's a point, to be sure, but it's the same thing to me. People don't unfailingly die on their birthdays. Relationships don't always fail on the anniversaries of their beginnings. Life just does not happen according to the calendar.

I wish I believed that today's date meant something. I wish I saw that reset button. Instead, what I see are the dishes that were in the sink last year. I have the same hopes I had last year. I am brought to tears by the same things that made me cry last year. So what? Last year was only yesterday and tomorrow won't be much different.

Every Woman Needs...

2009-12-31T02:50:00.002-05:00

I wish I could find this list my friend's stepmom "Mary" had of things she'd decided over the course of her life that every woman ought to have. I should enter the caveat that this was created from her worldview - that of a straight, white, late-middle-aged, Southern, Christian woman with a fantastic sense of humor and a heart rivaled in size only by her picnic baskets full of the best pies you've ever tasted. That said, as I try to remember her list, change the wording as you see fit according to your worldview. Since I can't remember them all, I'll take this opportunity to add some of my own based on what I've collected or found myself wishing for.

Mary's list included some of the following:

A pair of diamond earrings
Appropriate footwear for all occasions
A man who wasn't good enough for you, but you dated anyway
A man you dated only for his looks
A man you loved, who did not love you back
A man who loved you, but you did not love back
A piece of real jewelry you bought for yourself
A place you can retreat to, whether a friend's kitchen table or your own garden, where you are always welcome and can be your true self

There was quite a bit more, but that's all I remember. By that checklist, I'm doing okay. I have all of those crossed off but one, and I reckon someday I'll be able to afford real jewelry.

Some things I'd like to add from my experiences, that I think every woman (if not every person) would benefit from:

A friend in whom you can confide anything - someone you can really trust to never betray even your deepest, darkest secrets
Self-defense training
A man you can think of when you're about to say, "I hate men," who makes you remember that there are good ones out there
Someone who can be trusted to give you a good haircut
A love letter*
A reliable road atlas
A friend who will tell you the truth, even if it isn't what you want to hear

*maybe you don't care about that kind of thing, but there's just something about the thought of seeing words in real ink on real paper you can hold in your hand, words that can't be backspaced or retracted, saying that at least for one moment in time, someone loved you enough to give that moment a little permanence. This is the one thing from that list I have yet to collect.

I didn't mention anything about the kind of guys or gals you should love or have relationships with because frankly, everyone's needs are different. It'd be a whole other post to go into the massive education I've had on my own in the past few years.

What would you add to Mary's list?

"You Can Waste Time With Your Friends When Your Chores are Done"

2009-12-26T00:12:00.000-05:00

When I was in high school and college, I worked at a shiny new ice rink that opened up not long after my group of friends had decided that we liked ice skating and it was officially Our Thing. As a result, lots of us ended up getting jobs there and becoming fast friends with the other coworkers who stuck around for any significant length of time. After we closed on Saturday nights, after the busiest and most stressful sessions, we had a habit of unwinding at the IHOP until the wee hours of the morning. It was great - all of us so loopy by that point that we thought it was hilarious every single time Scott Lyons ordered onion rings and upon their being delivered to the table, would hold one up to the waiter or waitress and say, "look, sir, droids!"

It wasn't much, but it's those little things that get you through. I miss having things like that, and I wonder if it's not a big part of the reason I've been such a chronic procrastinator lately. I don't know a whole lot of people in my new town yet, and I don't have any rituals or standing plans to look forward to at the end of a day of hard work. So what happens? I end up not working so hard, because even though the reward is a paycheck, it's delayed and practically intangible as it goes straight from source to bank account to bills that need paid.

Therefore, here's another New Year's resolution: find something to look forward to at the end of every work day. Maybe it'll be a visit to some cool spot I've been told about. Maybe it'll be a walk to the coffee shop for a latte. Maybe it'll be a visit to a friend. Just... something I can put on my calendar as an appointment I've made, which can only be done once the paying work is done.

There Must Have Been Some Magic

2009-12-25T00:59:00.001-05:00

I wrote earlier this year, here, about my cousin Vicki, who I've continued to think about throughout my life, though we hadn't seen each other or spoken in nearly two decades. If you look at that old post, and scroll to the comments, you'll see what I found last week - a new comment from Vicki herself. As of this writing, I'm happy to give the update that we've shared a few emails now and we're both excited at the chance to get to know each other as the grown women we've become. Michael tells me this is a bona-fide Christmas Miracle™, and I don't disagree.

Because Vicki told me, much to my delight, that she's still a huge Bon Jovi fan, here you go:

My wish for you is that every day, you have a little of the peace and kindness associated with this time of year. So many people say they love Christmas because it's the one day everyone tries to get along. What if, in that sense, every day was like Christmas? Just think about that.

Whatever you're celebrating today, whether it's Christmas, a holiday associated with your religion, or simply another day that you've woken up to life on this planet, I wish you all imaginable happiness. To those I love, may you know how desolate I would be without you.

Time Enough At Last

2009-12-19T05:09:00.002-05:00

I've caught myself saying, "if only I'd said something sooner..." a lot recently. For some reason, this makes me think of the Twilight Zone episode Time Enough At Last. You know, the one where Burgess Meredith never stands up for himself to make his life what he really wants, and then when it's handed to him, well... it doesn't end up quite how he dreamed. If you haven't seen it, I won't spoil it. Watch the episode embedded below.

Anyway, the moral of the story seems to me to be that waiting it out and just hoping for the best really isn't the way to go about life. In actuality, that course of action turns out to lead to regret. If only... if only...

It's so strange to me that someone told me not long ago that I always know the right things to say. That was a really nice thing to say, and I'd like to try to live up to it more. Actually, I think the material goal is to not only know the right thing to say, but to actually say it.

So there you have it, 2 weeks ahead of deadline, my New Year's resolution: in 2010 and the year of the Metal Tiger (ooh, I like that. Metal Tiger. Tiger of Metal. Rock and roll and Frosted Flakes and GRRRRREAT!), I will put my heart back on my sleeve, because it's done me no good tucked away in a bag in a box in a trunk in a safe in a locked room in a boarded up house underground on another planet... and learn how to say the right things instead of just knowing what they are.

When Peter Pan Came to My House

2009-12-14T13:34:00.000-05:00

I've almost forgotten what my hair looks like in its natural state. Looking in the mirror recently, I noticed that more blonde is showing at the roots than has in a long time. I also noticed that with the blonde, there's also a substantial increase in gray and it got me to thinking. I'm not exactly old, but as I said in conversation with Danielle yesterday, it feels like I've lived a few lifetimes at least these past few years, with this year being one of the most eventful of them all, and it's not over quite yet. The Earth Ox has been stumbling of late - growing arthritic in its decline, maybe? I'm hoping it'll rally its strength for one more sprint, or at least let me use the last bit of pixie dust to take it by the horns to drag it across the finish line in victory. During its reign, I've lived in 3 states, had a few different jobs, lost some friends, made new ones, loved and lost, learned a lot.

It's easy, among all the Christmas cartoons and shiny ornaments to be homesick for simpler bygone times, but the truth is, life has never been simple. I think that's what I want for next year: just some simplicity. I've learned to fly. I've learned to fight. I've had my adventures on the pirate ship. I think I'm ready to just be home.

"Sometimes, when we lose ourselves in fear and despair..."

2009-12-12T05:47:00.000-05:00

I am truly blessed with some really important things. I am surrounded by these amazing people, some family, some lifelong friends, and some newfound kindred spirits. Every day, they save my life.

I gave in to a really foul mood earlier. You know the kind - it starts with one too many nights of not enough sleep, then continues with one too many blocks walked in the rain, and then one too many people take their bad mood out on you... Yeah, that kind. I let the last harsh word said by someone who didn't mean it get to me anyway.

Right now, though, I'm thinking of a few little things that save a minute here or there, so that they add up to a better day.

I am just a little happier than I would be without:

The radiator under my bathroom towel rack, allowing me to dry my hands on a warm towel
Santa Claus the Movie on TV with limited commercial interruptions
The bathroom scale that says I've lost almost 20 pounds since I started keeping track
A cup of coffee to keep my hands warm
Someone having told me they like the sound of my voice
A cookie made from my best friend's secret recipe
Fuzzy socks which, though they do not match, are a nice barrier between my feet and the concrete floor
Batman

E Tira Forte Vento...

2009-12-06T19:23:00.003-05:00

Caruso is probably one of the most overdone songs in, well, ever. Still, I stumbled across this rendition done by Lara Fabian and as I sit here listening to it, it blows through me, grabs debris I've been holding on to and flings it out into the world. It feels like this singer was inspired to do this song just so she could give voice to things I lack the talent, courage, and eloquence to say for myself. I don't even speak much Italian, so there's still a cloak of linguistic protection in which to wrap myself - I never said that. She said it, and she was just singing this old song.

Not Working Just to Survive

2009-12-05T05:21:00.000-05:00

Matt over at Comics Cavern said something to me today that really rattled me. I am certain that he meant nothing sinister by simply saying that he had no idea I wrote fiction, but it really made a few things hit home.

First of all, I DO write fiction, or at least, I did. In replying to Matt, I sent him links to the two-part story I wrote as supplemental material for my friend Shawn's last novel. After sharing the links, I re-read that story, and you know what? It's freaking good. Not only is it good, but I actually like it. Not only do I like it, but other people, whose opinions matter to me, like it. Why then, did I stop doing something I like and am good at?

The answer isn't easy, but it is simple: because I don't like it right now. Why don't I? That's not so simple. My hope is that this is just a temporary state of being brought on by ennui and general sick-of-it-allness with regard to how I'm currently earning my income. I've been working as an independent contractor, and the work I'm doing is just not stimulating. It's like endless homework assignments for the boring class I can barely stay awake for on the days I force myself to show up. It's not that it's difficult work - it's that sitting down to write used to be something I looked forward to. Now, I'd suddenly rather do the dishes or watch endless Three's Company reruns than compose sentences, so when the paying work is done, I'm so sick of writing that the novel doesn't get worked on. No PoetryAssignment entries are done. No PopBunker posts get done. This blog doesn't get updated.

In short - the joy is being unceremoniously sucked out of writing. This is a problem.

Problems, however, have solutions, and I refuse to accept that this solution is an empty set. I'm going to start right away applying for different jobs. I'll have to give up being able to set my own hours, leave when I want, and work from anywhere, but I still think it'll be a net gain.

This recession is a bitch. I feel compelled by it to say that I'm grateful to have any income at all, even though it breaks my heart to hear how many friends are saying the same thing as they spend day after day in jobs they hate. We are all grateful just to be able to survive. That is so far from okay that it's not even funny.

I will not be defeated by it though. You know what I did yesterday? I sat on a (really tiny) stool at Meltdown Comics and interviewed Scott Ian*.

I sat there, with a microphone up my shirt and hot lights on my face, talking about comic books with an honest to golly rock star so you know what? You're damn right I am not working just to survive. I've been invited back to Meltdown next week to join the guys on their podcast to talk about women in comic books.

I need more of this in my life. These things make me feel alive again. Last night, when Vito from Comics on Comics asked me how I felt about being on camera, I said, "not a problem," out loud while a hyperactive pogo-stick went off in my chest. Even though I was terrified enough to send a couple of spastic text-messages to Michael, who I knew wouldn't hold it against me later and gave me a calm shot of confidence in return, there was not a chance in hell that I wasn't going to see this through.

I can't express how truly grateful I am to have had that experience, and that's not obligatory gratitude to which I feel duty-bound to give lip-service so the Universe won't smite me. That's real thanks, for answering the question "why the hell am I here?" My mind, heart, and spirit have all taken a beating lately, and this chance to be among people who care about what I care about, who refuse to settle for mediocrity, and be not a spectator but a peer among them has re-lit my pilot light.

*For an in-depth report, video of the interview, and chance to win autographed copies of Lobo: Highway to Hell, keep an eye on PopBunker.net.

The Sphinxes' Eyes

2009-11-28T03:02:00.002-05:00

If you don't recognize the above, then you're probably one of the ones who make me feel old. In case you are, or if it's just been a really long time since you've seen The Neverending Story, all you really need to know is that the sphinxes you see there are the first gate the hero Atreyu must pass en route to the Southern Oracle, where he hopes to find the means to keep his world from being ripped to shreds. In order to make it through this first gate alive, one must be confident in the pureness of his heart. Anyone with ulterior motives or uncertainty about this being the right course of action will be flash-fried by laser beams shot from the sphinxes' eyes.

It's a simple enough set-up. Be confident, and you live to get your answers. Waver, and everything falls apart while you sizzle. The Southern Oracle is 10,000 miles from the Swamps of Sadness. That's a long walk when you don't have a luck dragon to take you most of the way.

I got some advice this week, and as I walk, I'm trying to follow it, even though the execution is so alien to me, I don't feel like myself. Hopefully, by the time I get to the sphinxes, I'll have been able to decide if it's worth it. Hopefully, my heart will tell me either to make the leap of faith and not look down for the safety net, or to stop and figure something else out before I approach the gate. Hopefully, when I do get there, the sphinxes' eyes will stay closed. Maybe then, I'll get to ask the Oracle where to go from there.

"Who is Colin Farrell?"

2009-11-26T05:34:00.002-05:00

About a year and a half ago, I got this text message from my mom, who was in California for a work-related conference, that just said, "Who is Colin Farrell?" This kind of random question isn't really odd for my family. My brother will probably never get a smartphone or use 411, because he just calls or texts me to ask where he can get a Bob Marley t-shirt in Virginia Beach at 2:00 in the morning. Anyway, I told my mom, who admits to just not being good with names, "He's an actor - you like him. He's one of the pretty ones. Why?" It turns out she accidentally had tea with him in her hotel. I think she'd have preferred to accidentally have tea with Hillary Clinton, who was also a guest there at the time. The next text message I received from my mom during that trip was asking me for the identity of the tall, attractive African-American actor on Heroes. I don't watch the show, so I had no answer for her other than, "why?" As it happened, she'd collided with him on a staircase. Along with the willingness to shoot the breeze with just about anyone, klutz runs strong in our family, you see.

All of this is to say that my mom has had more quirky Hollywood moments during her visits than I've had since I moved here. Yeah, this is my way of saying by the way, in case you didn't know, I moved to Los Angeles. I got to California on the 5th - Guy Fawkes Day, which I know we don't do in America, but it's easy to remember, remember.

I've been chastised for not writing about this sooner, and also for neglecting tales of driving across the country, experiences I've had, and people I've either gotten to meet or see more of since I got here, but I'll get to it. I promise. Just not today.

Vanity Goes After a Fall

2009-11-23T02:19:00.000-05:00

I don't remember the first time I heard about my mom's antique vanity; it's just one of those stories that gets repeated in the family every once in a while and just becomes part of the backdrop of the world as you know it. The world as I grew up in it included the broken pieces of the vanity, of which I only caught one glimpse when I was little, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

The story goes something like this: About 30 years ago, my mom was moving to a new apartment and, being surrounded by brothers and brothers-in-law, was not lacking in hands to help load her furniture on to the truck to move it. Unfortunately, said brother-type-people didn't do a very good job securing things and well, when you add a steep hill and gravity to a poorly-secured vanity, nature does the math and gets a grim result - all over the pavement. Ever since that day, my mom has lived by the rule "if I want it done right, I'll do it myself," and who could blame her? Lucky for her, and for the rest of us, she's competent and capable at just about anything she sets her mind to. She may be but little, but she is mighty, my mom is, and she loves as fiercely as she does everything else.

I, on the other hand, am not so little and not so mighty, not by myself anyway. I like to think of my philosophy a little more in terms of what happened to the vanity next. Sam Kelley, my great-grandfather, was a bit of a notorious packrat in the family. I was only 8ish years old when he died, so I didn't really get to know him, but from what I do remember, he was also a kind, gentle-souled sort of man. I like to think that this was the driving force behind his saving everything, as much as Depression-era thrift. Why else would he have gathered up the splinters and shards of my mom's beloved heirloom and stashed them away in his cellar, where they remained until after he died? I asked once, but no one would tell me anything other than I wasn't supposed to be poking around in the cellar.

Therefore, I'm left to draw my own conclusions. I have decided that Sam Kelley just couldn't bear the thought of seeing something treasured by someone he loved thrown away. I have decided that this was his way of loving - perhaps a subtle way, one that may not be noticed by anyone who didn't go looking for it. I could be reaching with this one, but it comforts me to know that this is at least a possible and plausible explanation, because I know how beloved he was, and still is among those who were lucky enough to know him. It comforts me because I see this pattern in myself and wonder if I might have gotten it from Sam.

I'm sure I could spend hours with an analyst to break down all of the reasons it's hard for me to come right out and just say "I love you," or why I smile and nod and keep my distance when inside I'm screaming for the chance to let go. I don't even think I could learn to flirt if it were taught at the graduate level. Well, whatever the reason, my heart or my shoes, I am who I am, and maybe, just maybe, people will see my unconventional declarations of affection for what they are. At least my apartment doesn't have a cellar, though it has got a vanity.

Rabbit Loses More Than His Tail, Part 3 (conclusion)

2009-11-09T14:37:00.001-05:00

Now Rabbit not only has a long skinny tail replacing his old fluffy cottontail, but one of his long ears has been blunted. Butterfly has fared no better and is hoping for some peace and quiet to recuperate on her cloud.

Butterfly had finally managed to fall asleep, but almost as soon as she'd drifted off, she was ripped awake again. Something was hurtling toward her, and before she could register what it was, it had knocked her from her resting place. Her musings about the indignity of one such as she falling to her death were interrupted by a new set of terrified ponderances as she found herself suddenly clasped firmly in the beak of a sparrow. She fought as hard as she could, but that's not saying much.

To her continued surprise, Sparrow glided to a stop on the next sturdy-looking cloud he came across, spit her out, and then collapsed. Once she realized she was still alive, she thought about jumping for joy, but passed out instead. When she came to, Sparrow was still there, still lying on his side. Butterfly crawled a tentative pace forward and noticed that the cloud was reddish and dissolving around the unconscious bird.

For a moment, she thought about just trying to fly away, but her conscience wouldn't let her. After all, Sparrow had saved her from falling, even if he had been the one to cause the fall. Besides, she probably wouldn't make it very far with only one good wing.

"Hey," she called out, nudging Sparrow with her foot. When he didn't stir, she kicked him a little harder, earning a startled "Ow!" and a "What the...?" for good measure.

When he'd gotten his bearings, Sparrow explained that he'd been minding his own business, singing to himself in his tree, when Rabbit had told him about a shiny new birdbath that had been installed in a neighboring yard.

"The birdbath was there, all right, but so was the little Antichrist with an equally brand-new pellet gun. Little bastard got me right where it counts," Sparrow said, holding up his own tattered wing.

Rabbit, Butterfly thought. Always with the ever-loving Rabbit.

"We gotta do something about that guy," she said.

"I think we'll be lucky if we can get off this cloud," said Sparrow balefully. "We've got one good wing apiece and this thing is breaking up fast."

"Well, we've got one shot then," Butterfly stated with a determined nod. Before Sparrow could reply, she wrapped her good arms around him. The cloud was almost completely disintegrated as she screamed, "Fly! Now!"

Sparrow wanted to argue, but knew there was no time. He squeezed his eyes shut and beat his good wing for all he was worth. To his surprise, they did not fall to their death. They were falling, to be sure, but with Butterfly's wing working with his, the descent was slow and controlled. They were going to make it.

Sparrow opened his eyes just in time to see Rabbit poking his nose out of his hiding place.

"Look!" called Butterfly, who had spotted not only Rabbit, but Cat, who was crouching in the alley shadows, watching the oblivious Rabbit.

With a little more effort, the pair hang-glided right up behind Rabbit, letting Sparrow catch him by his remaining long ear. Rabbit screamed and squirmed and wriggled so hard that his ear broke right off in Sparrow's beak. Deciding he'd worry about how ridiculous he looked - with two blunt ears now AND that stupid long tail - he made a break for his hiding hole once more, but Cat had other ideas.

Butterfly and Sparrow watched as the speeding trickster fled, while they made gentle contact with the ground.

"At least we know Cat will never give up," Sparrow chuckled. "That guy has a serious one-track mind."

He was right, as you know. Cats have chased those long-tailed, blunt-eared rodents ever since, in a neverending symbiosis, whether they know why or not. What you might not know, however, is that without ever formally deciding to do so, Butterfly and Sparrow were also partners from then on. Neither ever flew on their own again, but when they got tired of walking, all they had to do was lean on each other and the skies were theirs.

Rabbit Loses More Than His Tail, Part 2

2009-10-30T21:09:00.004-05:00

When we left Rabbit last, he had just sent the beautiful but poisonous Butterfly unwittingly into the lair of Alley Cat, satisfied with himself for defeating both his enemies at once.

Having dealt with his tormentors so quickly, Rabbit decided to focus on getting a new tail. He felt off-balance without one, but he couldn't find anything fluffy; all around him were just vast stretches of the tall grasses of the field.

"It's only temporary," he told himself, sticking a long, whiplike blade of the golden grass to his fur where his tail had been. He was too busy examining his handiwork to notice the winged, purple streak hurtling toward him.

"Asshole!" Butterfly screamed over her shoulder as she darted past Rabbit. Cat was hot on her heels, knocking Rabbit head over long-tailed behind in pursuit of his new prey. One of Cat's razor-sharp claws caught Rabbit's ear, slicing half of it right off and flinging it backward into the alley. Cat stumbled a little, giving Butterfly the chance to get ahead, taking refuge on a low cloud.

With Butterfly out of reach, Cat turned his attention once more to Rabbit, who had made a few hops toward the alley in hopes of retrieving his ear.

"Not again!" screamed Rabbit, and he skittered back into his hiding hole. Cat glared and growled down at him for a few moments, but was too hungry to stick around for long and soon went back to the alley to scrounge in the dumpsters.

While Rabbit shivered and Cat scrounged, Butterfly panted and whimpered on her cloud. One of her wings was shredded to ribbons. She'd lost an antenna, and a couple of her legs were hanging useless at unnatural angles. Still, she was alive, and all she wanted was sleep. Deep, peaceful sleep, floating along on a cloud was the perfect way to recuperate - quiet and alone.

To be concluded...

This sketch of Butterfly came first. Words and story followed.

Rabbit Loses More Than His Tail, Part 1

2009-10-29T12:55:00.003-05:00

Between writing articles I'm getting paid for (yay!) and posts to start arguments at PopBunker.net (also yay), I haven't written much fiction. I found the idea for this in one old notebook recently, and found a few paragraphs of it in another, newer notebook. Part of my family is Native American, specifically from the Seminole and Seneca tribes. When I was younger, someone gave me a copy of Chief Jim Billie's CD of songs and stories. My favorites are the ones about Cufe-Laksv, the trickster rabbit.

One summer evening, Rabbit decided to take a shortcut home. The alley was shadowy and full of junk, but he was confident in his cleverness and hopped forth. Rabbit might have been clever, but what he failed to realize in his infinite wit and wisdom is that alley Cat, while not terribly bright, was a lot bigger and had very sharp teeth. Before Rabbit could even think, he was running for his life. He did manage to outrun the hungry Cat and dive down a hole, but not before Cat had snatched off Rabbit's fluffy tail. As he recovered from the shock, Rabbit vowed to get revenge.

The next morning, Rabbit emerged from his hiding place. With the sun shining, it was easy for him to spot Cat, who had gone back to sifting through the dumpsters in the alley in search of food. Rabbit was wondering what he could do to get back at Cat for stealing his tail, when Butterfly meandered by on a scrap of warm breeze.

"Hey, Butterfly!" Rabbit called to her. "I heard a rumor you were poisonous. Is that true?"

"Damn right, I'm poisonous!" she snapped back. "So don't get any funny ideas!"

"Who, me?" said Rabbit, all innocent surprise. It helped that Butterfly was kind of a bitch. He wouldn't feel so bad now. "I was just making conversation," he began again. "What I really wanted to say was that someone planted some honeysuckles over on the other side of that alley and I thought you might want to know."

Butterfly blinked. "Wow, thanks," she said and flew off in the direction Rabbit was pointing.

Staring after her, Rabbit congratulated himself on settling the score for two insults at once.

"That was almost too easy," he thought with a grin.

To be continued.

Another Tuesday

2009-10-20T19:56:00.000-05:00

A few years ago, my friend Scott and I were in the habit of eating Mexican food and walking at the beach on Tuesdays. Now that the weather's getting cold and I just found myself wondering if they'd shrink-wrapped the palm trees at the beach yet, I remember a Tuesday when those went from being one of my least favorite things in existence, to one of my most favorite. I was complaining that they were so tacky I didn't understand why the city even bothered with them since they're not even native to the climate here.

"Yeah, well, neither are coffee and white people, and I don't see you complaining about either of those, so quit bitching," Scott replied. Shut me up.

Perspective: Pass it on.

My One Piece of Advice

2009-09-28T11:30:00.000-05:00

This goes out to all aspiring... anything really! I'm going to speak mostly to writers, because that's what I am and what I know, but I know actors, musicians, artists, craftsmen, and owners of all kinds of businesses who would agree with the one piece of advice I'm going to give you about how to succeed in your chosen field.

Are you ready?

Here it is: Use Twitter.

Hush your mouth if you just read that and started protesting because there's too much spam or too many idiots on there to make it worth your time. Are you hushed? I'll say it again.

Use Twitter.

It's that simple. You want me to show my math now, don't you? I suppose that's fair. I'll give you a glimpse of my network. I'll name them at the end, but these are writers I get to interact with, sometimes just commenting on daily life, but often talking shop as well. We all bring different things to the table, including our own areas of expertise, education, personalities, and yes, contacts. In the list I'll share with you, I'm only including those I've actually exchanged dialogue with. There are many more I follow because I like what they have to say and/or because they post helpful links and tips. I follow and communicate with more than just writers, but we'll stick to them for this post. If you'd like an introduction to some good folks in another industry, just ask. If you're already on Twitter, what are you reading this thing for? Skip to the end and consider it my ultimate #FollowFriday post.

I know it can be intimidating, this vast sea of names and brief bios. You may be wondering where to start, who to follow, and what to do with followers once you've got them. Luckily, it's very simple: join the conversation. You know what Twitter really is? It's a chatroom that isn't limited to any one topic. You get to tailor your own environment to be populated by people who share your interests. It becomes this great Venn-diagram of people with whom you can discuss any (and I mean any) topic under the sun.

Are there spammers and idiots out there? Of course they are, but there's an easy solution: don't follow them. Block and report the spammers, and if you don't like what someone is posting, you don't have to follow them. Is that a little bit of a hassle once in a while, sure, but let me put it this way: every single writing job, paid or unpaid, that I have gotten in the past year can be directly traced to a contact I made on Twitter. Every one, without exception, fiction and nonfiction. Think about that. I have added to my resume, gotten my name out there, gained the experience that prospective employers want, honed my craft, and because it doesn't actually go without saying, made some friends and had fun. I have done all of this without it costing me anything but time and effort, and let's face it, if you're not willing to spend that, you're not going to be successful at anything.

Okay, now your prize for suffering through my lecture! I promised you a peek into my little black book, and so here they are, some of (by no means all!) my favorite writer-people, in alphabetical order with just a few words about who they are:

@AlexBledsoe: Published novelist, loves his family, can quote Phantom of the Paradise!
@babesmcphee: Playwright and member of the Sacred Fools Theater Company. Her blog can be found here.
@BeTheBoy: His blog often makes me want to die laughing until I remember it's non-fiction, and then sometimes I want to cry. His wife is @slackmistress, who is a professional writer with her own blog and list of sites where her work can be found (including @ValemontU). Their @DaisyJDog is also on Twitter, and is always good about reminding us of the simple things in life. Why stress out too much about having a bath, when there is sure to be cake later, from @SusinaBakery (you see how it spirals out?)?
@coderster: Participates on PoetryAssignment, maintains her blog, and will be her area's NaNoWriMo Municipal Liason this year!
@CorbSilverthorn: The irrepressable Editor of Silverthorn Press. As passionate about the craft as he is silly, which is to say, quite a bit.
@David_N_Wilson: He does it all - writer, blogger, NaNoWriMo winner, and tireless fount of encouragement and useful advice.
@drunken_hopfrog: Mastermind behind PopBunker.net, where no cultural phenomenon is safe.
@ElwoodJBlues: A new voice on the pop culture blog scene. His personal blog has been entertaining us for a while now, but he's branching out, contributing to the @ComicStop's blog and more.
@GeoffJohns0: Okay, I haven't exactly had dialogue with him, per se, but he once sent me a Direct Message, so I'm counting it because it makes me feel special to include Geoff Johns on this list. You'd do it too, and you know it.
@hownottowrite: The best writing cheerleader on Twitter! Every day, he produces these oh-so-quotable messages that just keep you going! Also, his avatar is King Moonracer. You can't beat that.
@joethepeacock: The most successful self-published writer I've ever known! Whatever he's doing over there, he's doing it right. He blogs, too!
@JohnnySix: evil genius behind The Twitter Novel Project (@tweet_book), to which @blondie80 has also contributed supplemental material. Also, he controls the weather. I've seen him do it.
@jsmithready: Writer of urban fantasy novels gracing the shelves of a bookstore near you! Her characters, @ShaneMcAllister and @CiaraGriffin tweet, as does her cat, @Misha_Guy. In her spare time, she enjoys flamingo ping-pong.
@melissaoyler: Graphic designer! Blogger! Novelist! NaNoWriMo winner! Cheerleader! PoetryAssignment editor! I could go on!
@michaelrholmes: Renaissance man with firm standing in most segments of the Venn-diagram currently asserts his right to stand in the writers' circle with his adaptation of Forbidden Zone. Also actor of stage and screen on the other side of the script!
@neilhimself: I couldn't leave Neil Gaiman off this list, even though my interaction with him has been limited to one book signing and a brief exchange on Twitter about fountain pen ink. Mr. Gaiman sets a high bar for good writing citizenship, and I think we would all do well to follow his examples.
@PointlessBanter: as you might have guessed, the editor of PointlessBanter.net. If you like funny, check it out. If you write funny, he might let you guest blog!
@shadowsinstone: Her characters jump right out of their stories and make you believe vampires are real and among us, getting drunk, falling in love, and ready to hit on you or insult you depending on their moods. @crookedfang is my favorite, but don't tell him I said that.
@stina8753: Frequent collaborator with @shadowsinstone while maintaining a separate body of work. She's completed one novel and is continuing to forge ahead with her bright writing future. Her characters tweet too, with @unpleasantries at the top of the list.
@the0phrastus: Another man who wears many hats, or maybe one great, big, multi-colored hat with patches of words, paint, and magic.

Writing is largely a solitary occupation, especially for freelancers and those others who work from home. Thanks to Twitter, though, it doesn't have to be quiet, lonely work. If a co-worker is someone who works along with you in the same occupation, you get to have them - as many as you want, there to bounce ideas off of, commiserate with, and network with.

Yin and Yang, Holmes and Moriarty, Tweety and Silvester...

2009-09-27T12:47:00.006-05:00

You know, this blog is titled Be My Villain, but I almost never post anything that actually has to do with villains. Today, I'm fixing that with mention of one of my all-time favorite villains, the Joker. I know, I know, get in line. That's hardly esoteric. People retweeted the hell out of my comment yesterday that no matter who wrote any given comic in which he appears, Joker will always be voiced by Mark Hamill in my head.

Why? Because everyone loves the Joker. Oh, you don't? By all means, think about why not and be ready to discuss it when I re-read The Killing Joke and dive into all the other great volumes I haven't read yet (feel free to make suggestions in the comments, but show your math & tell me why - don't just post a list). Final Crisis and Evan Dorkin's World's Funniest are next on my list. I've never read either and have heard mixed reviews about the former, but whither Virgil leads, Dante will follow, having not been led astray yet.

I just finished reading Batman R.I.P. and though the Joker isn't the central villain, he makes a big enough appearance to enhance my experience of the book. It wasn't on my list, but my LCS had a copy on clearance, and I picked it up while I was there on other business. Remember that I'm born-again to comics, and I haven't read even close to all that's on my list. This was not my favorite Batman story, and like I said, it isn't really a Joker story, but I did like this book. I'm getting used to Morrison's style the more I read, and I'm finding it a good balance to Geoff Johns's relatively straightforward method in the Green Lantern books I've read recently.

For some reason, more folks than usual have been interested in talking about this particular book. Since Twitter is limited to 140 characters at a time, I invite you to join the discussion I've been having about it on Goodreads:

Batman: R.I.P. Deluxe by Grant Morrison

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

View all my reviews >>

I, Writer

2009-09-20T11:59:00.000-05:00

Let's face it - I haven't been much of a writer the past couple of months. Stuff happens and yadda yadda, but no more. This past week, I hauled myself over the wall and turned in some new material.

Shawn, friend and wordsmith behind The Twitter Novel Project, invited me to join the ranks of those creating supplemental material to accompany his work in progress. That was months ago, but at long last, I buckled down and got it done - if a little late, needing to be done in two parts instead of one, and almost nothing like the original idea.
Part one, Pandora's Toybox and part two, Dark Side of the Moonracer are listed as Supplemental 4 and 4.5, respectively. If you find yourself bored and wanting something to read, I'd love to know what you think.

After some really wonderful feedback (my favorite being "...makes Blade Runner look cute."), I'm feeling energized and like I want to take advantage of the momentum. It's a good thing, too, as I'm not lacking for projects! As it happened, the other day, I was accepted into a sort of freelance writing network that almost takes the "freelance" part out of the equation. No invoicing, no tracking down payments, just taking assignments, turning them in, and getting paid. This is exciting on a few different levels.
1. Someone FINALLY wants to pay me to write!
2. I can do this work from anywhere, which means that as soon as I figure out where I'm going to live, after my current job ends, I really am going to get to move to California.

In addition to that, my friend Chip has asked me to write some stuff for the website for his women's self-defense classes, and I owe Sue at Mosaic some more WM3 material on the Justice Undone blog. Furthermore, that's all not even mentioning the really fun stuff - the robot stories that keep a-brewin' in my head. The one linked to above is hopefully just one of many to come, though obviously, they're not all going to be set in Shawn's novel.

I've just had this feeling of nostalgia lately for the certain class and panache of the kind of robot tales you just don't see much anymore. Isaac Asimov and Philip K. Dick knew how to do it, as did the various minds behind Robot Carnival, but a lot of the new stuff just doesn't do it for me. I have a hard time articulating exactly the quality I'm talking about, but hopefully, you also know it when you see it and want to see more of it. I know there are at least a couple of you out there. This is gonna be fun.

Jonathan Livingston Sea-Chicken

2009-09-01T21:40:00.006-05:00

This one's for Sherry, to whom I promised a sea gull story, and not just the one about how Cooper once convinced Jason that the official name of the sea gull is The Native Virginia Sea-Chicken, because gulls, don't'cha know, are just chickens who can fly. Oh, Jason. Poor, simple Jason.

No, a better story took place a good 5 years after Jason and I went our separate ways and I found myself working at Waldenbooks during my last semester of college. If you've ever worked in a book, video, or record store, you know how accurate Clerks is when it comes to customers who need "that book by that guy," and you can spot 'em a mile away. I answered the phone one fine day and before I could finish my "how can I help y--," I was cut off by a strong, yet gravelly voice.
"Yes, ma'am, my name is Kenworthy, and I'm lookin' fer a book."
Pause.
"Okay," I began, but was cut off again.
"I don't remember the author's name, but I can tell you it has to do with sea gulls. My friend tells me I have to read it. D'you know what book I'm talkin' about?"
"Not off the top of my head," I said, "but let me check the computer."
I looked, and after a few more minutes of conversation with Mr. Kenworthy, was unable to narrow down the huge number of results my search had returned. I told him if he could get a hold of his friend to ask the author or title, I'd be happy to find it for him.
He called several more times that day with such helpful clues as to the books's identity as "It was written by a man!" and "It's about a boy!"
Finally, at the end of the night, as we were about to flip the sign to closed, the phone rang again.
"Now listen," said Mr. Kenworthy, "I want to tell you something. My wife was an Indian woman, of the, uh, Native American persuasion y'see (Persuasion? Yes. That was the word he used), and her family's name was Seagull. Now, every morning for twenty years, we'd go and have breakfast down that little place over there by your store, and she always saved some biscuits to throw to the gulls. And those damned birds'd swoop in and eat those biscuits, then shit on my car. Every morning for twenty years. So my friend tells me th'other day, I gotta read this book - Jonathan Livingston Seagull, on account of this woman that did to my life what those birds of the same name always did to my car. So can ya get me the book or not?"

You can't go home again, but at least you can shop there!*

2009-08-27T22:44:00.002-05:00

My turn to be inspired by Melissa, who is helping her parents move and finding all kinds of fun things.

Since I left you on kind of a downer (kind of, she says?) with the last post, I figured I'd take my turn at Weird Stuff You Find When You Move. As you probably know, I'm planning to move to California in the nearish future, so I figured it'd be wise to go through all the stuff I have stored in boxes in my mom's attic and closets.

First: a fortune wedged between the sleeve and the cup of coffee. "Listen to me: the one you seek also seeks you."

Rock climbing gear! The same gear being used during the Dust In The Wind story (which, incidentally still gets a ton of hits from people searching for Kansas lyrics. Sorry, folks. It's just me).

Hood from my college graduation regalia. What do they really expect us to do with these things, anyway? Secret society, anyone?

Sketchbook, circa 9th grade. I think this was copied from a poster a friend had hanging in her room.

For some of my younger readers, this is what is known as a "cassette tape." This archaic device actually holds a half-dozen tracks laid down by Chris's high school band. Of course I hung on to it; aside from the fact that I had an enormous crush on him back in the day, something told me he'd be a part of the music scene for a long time to come. And he is, which makes this officially blackmail material! If you're reading this, Mr. Rock Star, my terms are simple: before I die, you will sing Humanity for me again one day, you grok?

Another sketchbook. This one, I think was from 11th grade:

Add to that about a gazillion Marvin the Martians of various sizes and materials, more art supplies than I could possibly know what to do with, and a truly daunting pile of books. I'm sure I'll come across some really weird stuff sooner or later.

*and thankfully, this did not happen. (thanks, M.H.)

The Bittersweetest Song I've Got

2009-08-26T10:55:00.001-05:00

I've only ever lit one cigarette in my life. If I have my way, I'll never light another. That one and only belonged to a friend who had grown too weak to do it herself, and just as it would never have occurred to her to ask, it never occurred to me to refuse.

I was working as the receptionist at a skilled nursing facility (read: nursing home), and K.D. was a patient. She was a bit of an anomaly, being significantly younger than the rest of the patients, there simply because it was the only way she could receive the medical care she needed. I don't remember the point where we became officially friends, but it had a lot to do with the fact that neither of us particularly cared to spend our free time indoors with fellow patients or coworkers, respecively. We'd sit on the covered porch, shouting to each other from opposite sides of the walkway because K was a heavy smoker and I'm allergic. It didn't take too long for us to realize we spoke the same language. Her dry, sarcastic sense of humor was not appreciated by the nurses, and she existed on different plane from most of the patients.

For example, I'll spare you the description if you don't know what a wound-vac is, but when K became burdened with one, she introduced it to me as "Loretta," matter-of-factly stating that she wasn't going to live with something and let it in to her bed without so much as knowing its name. I didn't know a whole lot about Multiple Sclerosis before I met K, so while I knew she was ill, obviously, it wasn't clear to me just how grave her situation was - not that it would've made much difference in our friendship.

As we talked away lunch breaks and slow afternoons, drinking coffee and blathering on, we gave each other the best thing you can give another: stories, those pieces of ourselves that the other person can't physically experience, but only know through us. She gave me the benefit of mistakes she'd made and youthful follies, and I gave her a way to experience things she could not, confined to a wheelchair. When "we" took up kickboxing, she didn't much care for it at first, but eventually, she got cable installed in her room so she could watch MMA and at least enjoy the schadenfreude as she watched strangers beat the tar out of each other.

Because our friendship was destined to be brief, we didn't know each other's families or visit each other's hometowns, but we knew enough and our lives were better for sharing them with each other for those precious minutes every day. One Monday, I was excited to go to work. I'd been to the beach over the weekend, and had pictures to share with K, whose greatest regret in life was that she was no longer able to visit the shore herself. As I pulled out of my driveway, I noticed a little girl, waiting for her school bus and holding up a glittery posterboard sign that said, "IT'S THE BEST DAY EVER!!!"

When I got to work, I stopped by K's room to find that she was out. I took a post-it note from her bedside table and recreated the little girl's sign and stuck it to the door. About ten minutes later, my boss called me into her office and told me K had been taken to the hospital. I never got a chance to say good-bye. I'm not sure why I did, but I went back and stared at K's door for a while, then took the post-it I'd stuck up there and shoved it in my pocket, angry and righteously indignant at the irony of it.

When I look back on that day now, as it was almost exactly 2 years ago, I try to think of it this way:
That day, I lost a friend, and it was one of the worst days ever, but to a little girl somewhere in North Carolina, it was the best day ever.

P.S. I still have that post-it note. I'm looking at it right now. It's been taped to every desk I've sat at since that day.

Better Things

2009-08-21T12:04:00.002-05:00

Inspired by Michael-inspired-by-Melissa-inspired-by-Whitney, a tale of self expression through body modification:

A few years ago, during this extended period of upheaval I was going through, I decided that there wasn't enough change going on in my life and therefore started dying my hair purple. I got various reactions ranging from "wow, purple, huh?" to "whatever floats yer boat," but the best of all came from Andrew's mom.

Andrew and I more or less grew up together, having met in middle school, when I was in 8th grade and he in 6th. I don't really remember when we started hanging out or why his mom had such an intense dislike for me, but we did, and she did. His brother Seth and I got along just fine, from the first day we met, when he climbed out from under his decrepit Karmann Ghia, up to the elbows in grease, and chased me around the front yard demanding a hug. But Mrs. D? She was just not a fan of yours truly.

Shrouded in nearly as much mystery is the point in time when she decided that I wasn't so bad after all. One day after I'd graduated from college and Andrew was still away completing his undergrad, I ran into his mom at the pharmacy. I almost didn't recognize her since it'd been a while since I'd seen her, but she walked right up to me and gave me a great big hug. From that day forward, it was like we were old pals.

Cut to a year or so later. I'm about drive up to Richmond to visit Andrew, and he asks if I wouldn't mind stopping by his parents' house to pick up his cello and bring it to him. No problem. They live right around the corner from me. My hair is now purple and I've recently separated from my now-ex-husband. I pull into the driveway right behind Mrs. D and help her carry in her groceries, put them away, then am invited to sit and chat for a minute. She shows me some interior design elements she's added to the house and then goes to get the cello. It's not until I've got the cello in one hand and the doorknob in the other that she seems to notice that something's different about me.

She squints and says, "Oh, so you've done something new with your hair."
"Yeah," I said, "I just thought a change was due."
She nods and thinks for a moment before responding, "You know, my daughter did the same thing when she broke up with that boy she was seeing -" she pauses to lay a hand on my shoulder and look me deep in the eye before finishing, "-don't worry. It got better."

Just following orders

2009-08-19T10:23:00.001-05:00

My horoscope for today:

Aries: You may be thankful for a persistent friend who has stood by you through thick and thin. You are inclined to express your love and appreciation, yet you may be so overly effusive that your true intent becomes lost in your words. For now, a simple and straightforward message is worth a lot more than one that rambles on forever.
***

Therefore, here it is, plain and simple.
If you've seen my best and my worst, and shown me the same,
If you make me smile on good days and bad,
If you still make it a point to ask how I'm doing when you're having an awful day,
If you've let me in and accepted my invitation when I opened the door to you,

Thank you. I'm glad you're in my life, and I hope you choose to remain so. If you're wondering if I'm talking about you, the answer is probably yes.

Ghost Reel

2009-08-17T22:19:00.004-05:00

This is maybe a slightly less boring post than the one from earlier. Maybe. You be the judge.

While talking to Michael today about Halloween and the shortening of days, I remembered a poem that I once started to write. I'd jotted a few lines down after a class discussion I'd led in teaching Maxine Hong Kingston's The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts to my 12th graders. In giving them some cultural background to prepare them for the story, one student quietly wondered what happened to the souls of the baby girls who never survived infancy, either killed or left to die of exposure as so many were in not-too-long-ago China. I didn't have much of an answer for him, in part because this was the same kid who once asked me if I thought hurricane Katrina was God's way of punishing all the gay people living in New Orleans, but that's another story.

Anyway, the notion stuck in my head, and since it came up in conversation today, I wrote a few more lines and since I had nothing more pressing I felt like doing, sketched an illustration to go with it. The result:

In case you can't read it, it goes (with a little editing, like ya do):

The law of the land said to leave them behind,
all the girl-babies, where no one would find
No one except for one all in white -
With her, their souls would find endless delight

A beautiful vision, with flowing moonlight hair
that swirled and curled and danced on the air,
She called to their spirits and drummed on her gong
to teach them the steps so they could dance along

What you'd see when her hair was lifted by the breeze,
A visage in bone, a sight to make your blood freeze.
Around her they dance, dressed all in red
The souls of the girls who don't know that they're dead.

Is she a monster who robs them of rest,
Or is she a mother who gives them the best?
To be sure, you and I would find her a fright,
But we're not tiny
and dead
and alone in the night.
***

Author's note: Incidentally, after reading all of this Green Lantern, I find this oddly similar to the character Karu-sil, with her long hair and scary face, but you know what they say about there being no truly original ideas...

Tools of the Trade

2009-08-17T17:58:00.002-05:00

There's a very easy way to tell when I'm being a more productive writer. Productivity is directly related to how ink-stained my hands are, and with how many different colors of ink. I don't know why I feel compelled to handwrite things before I type them up, but I do. It doesn't matter that this often creates more work; it's just how I operate. In recent talks, it turns out that some people I know find this interesting, and some have asked more specific questions about the pens and ink I use, so I thought I'd share the answers with you.

Pens:
I'm not a pen collector. I have a few different pens that I've acquired because they meet various needs. The first fountain pen I bought, and have been using today, is a 1924 Waterman #52, like this one:

For everyday use, I also have a medium point Pilot/Namiki Knight. I've gone through a series of cheap pens, mostly Pelikans (Future and Pelikano Junior) and found that they're really not worth it. Even the fine pointed ones of those are too broad for my taste, and the ink feathers and blots (and is therefore wasted). I do have a nice, inexpensive eyedropper-filled generic pen, modified by the gents at Swisher, which only set me back around $5-10, and that's the one I toss in my bookbag or purse without worrying that it'll get damaged.

The main questions I ask when I'm considering a pen are: Is the point fine enough? Does is sit right in my hand without getting heavy or chafing? Is it going to last? (sadly, my former favorite, a Sensa Meridian, failed that test, and the company went under before I could get it replaced) Do I like the way my handwriting looks when using it? Those things might not matter to you, but they're my criteria. I didn't say "how much is it?" because cost is relative. I don't even look at the higher end Cartiers or Mont Blancs because I already know I can't afford them. At around $50, the Namiki is the most expensive I've purchased. The Waterman was a great eBay find at around $25.

Ink:
I love that there are more colors out there than moods I have or stories I'll write. Somehow, it just helps my creative process to fill the pen with a shade that suits the thing I'm writing. My favorite everyday inks are Private Reserve's Purple Mojo

and Noodler's Dragon's Napalm

If you get a letter from me in the mail, odds are good that it's in one of those (or crayon, but that's a different story).

Today, since I'm writing kind of a creepy story, I'm using Private Reserve's Black Cherry, which I think looks like dried blood*, in the Waterman pen.

Some other favorites: Waterman's South Seas Blue (when I had my own home office, I had paint matched & did the walls in that color); Noodler's Gruene Cactus; J. Herbin's Poussiere de Lune; Noodler's Baystate Blue (which I love, but use very rarely, as it stains like crazy).

Like I said, these are just my personal preferences and habits. My friend Scott has a newer Waterman pen, and will only use Waterman's inks in it. Sam likes a pen to be pretty as well as functional, and so gravitates toward Monteverde and Sailor. You get the idea.

*and Mr. Gaiman agrees

In Blackest Day, In Tightest Tights...

2009-08-08T12:12:00.001-05:00

You may or may not be aware that, for reasons not entirely clear even to me, I suddenly decided I'm reading comics again. I'm picking up things here and there as recommendations pique my interest, but mostly, it's all about Green Lantern and Blackest Night. This has turned out to be a pretty awesome endeavor. Not only am I really enjoying the books, but it's turned out to be a multi-media interactive extravaganza!

Todd, because he's awesome, sent me some black power rings upon learning that I didn't have one, and I shared them with Chip and Sam:

After setting that picture of myself as my userpic on Twitter, I got a direct message from Geoff Johns himself, saying, "nice ring!! ;)" The guys tell me that this is because being both a nerd and a girl gets me bumped to the front of the line, a gender bias they find most unfair.

To support this new Green Lantern habit (and because he's awesome), Michael sent me the new First Flight cartoon dvd, complete with bonus Duck Dodgers (IN THE 24 AND 1/2 CENTURYYYY!!) Green Loontern episode (I mean, how cool is that?!). My inner child reveleth big time.

Following this, I've really enjoyed the discussions about various aspects of the characters and storylines. Most of my questions are met with a resounding chorus of "just keep reading!" and of course, they're right, but I especially love that I know the kind of people who can have a conversation about comic books as literature and philosophy.

Join me on this adventure, won't you? It should still be pretty easy to find Blackest Night #1 (and maybe even #0 if you ask the folks at your Local Comic Shop reaaaaaallllly nicely!)!

Why I'm Grateful for Broken Sunglasses

2009-08-07T19:06:00.000-05:00

The day got off to a rotten start. No details; just trust me. It was a bad morning. After spending my lunch break ranting and in tears about it, I went on to have my next appointment blow me off. On the way to the appointment after that, my sunglasses broke. Just... broke. Fell right off my face in pieces with no jarring or anything. It was just their time.

After that appointment, I looked at the address for the next one and realized there was a Sunglass Hut in the same little shopping district and figured I could stop there and get a decent pair, which I'd been meaning to do anyway. I walked in and was greeted by the nicest sales clerk I've ever encountered. Actually, it turned out he was the store manager. He found me what I wanted and kept a friendly stream of conversation going while I checked out. In talking to him, I learned that his aunt very recently died of breast cancer, and that he and his mother had just been talking about trying to find some way they could get involved with raising funds and awareness for research and patient services. Guess what I do for a living. I hooked him up with everything he needs to get a team going for Making Strides Against Breast Cancer - paperwork, t-shirt, all that good stuff. By the time I left, we were both in tears and he was squeezing the life out of me with a big hug. He didn't even laugh at me when I walked right into the storefront window, thinking it was the open door.

Now, I'm not only the proud owner of a pair of decent glasses with polarized lenses, but I made a friend and feel like I'm doing a good job, even if the hard numbers don't always agree. Hooray for broken sunglasses.

Busy, busy, busy.

From Here On It Got Rough

2009-08-04T15:18:00.000-05:00

A friend recently admonished me that "Einstein said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting to get a different result." She said this in response to my telling her I'm serious about wanting to move to California. Why would she say that, you ask? From here on, it gets rough.

A few years ago, my life sort of fell apart, or I let it fall apart. Either way, I found myself profoundly unhappy with my state of being - head, heart, and spirit - and was pretty miserable for a while until I decided that I needed to make some pretty big changes. Things happened that turned my attention to North Carolina. I had friends there, people who made me feel welcome and accepted for who I was. That warmed my spirit. The job market seemed better there, and after months of searching in my current community with very little success, my head was going to explode if I didn't expand my search to find something soon. Also, my heart was being tugged in the direction of a guy who I'd started feeling things for. So, what did I do? I moved to North Carolina. I found a job. Hooray for the head. I grew closer to the friends. Hooray for the spirit. At one point, it seemed like I'd even get the guy. Hooray for the heart.

How did it turn out? From there on, it got rough. I lost the job. I started having problems with some of the friends, though many friendships did remain intact and flourishing. I didn't get the guy after all. Head, heart, and spirit were all once again waning. So, what did I do? I recognized the signs and decided that once again, a change was due.

I went to California on a trip that was a long time in the works and finally became possible. I have friends in the LA area and in the northern part of the state whom I'd been promising to visit as soon as I could afford it, and at last, I could. One friend had been telling me for 2 or 3 years that if I came to California, I'd never want to leave it, and oh, he was right. In California, my spirit was lifted. I got to see some friends I hadn't laughed with or shared stories with in far too long. I met new friends who seemed glad to have me among them. I got to see the sun set over the ocean and see places where the mountains run right into the surf. I'm sure I disturbed the woman who sat next to me on the flight back to the east coast; I tried my best to hide it or stop it, but I cried most of the way, feeling not like I was going home, but like I was leaving it and with no clue as to when or if I'd ever be able to return.

Back in North Carolina, I resumed my search for a new job, but started wondering what the prospects were like in California, so I started looking and liked the look of things, seeing quadruple (or more) the results found for my searches on the career search engines. Moreover, I was seeing jobs that I could foresee being happy in, rather than just putting up with because they paid the bills. So?

So, I've landed in Virginia for now. It happened that I found a temporary job right in the heart of my old stomping grounds, accepted the position, and here I am - in my old room, in my old town, but determined not to fall back into my old life. Here's where Einstein comes in.

In order for this to be a step forward and not a regression, I've promised myself that this temporary job and living situation is just that - temporary. It's a stop on the way to California. Why? Because once again, head, heart, and spirit are pulling in unison in one direction. As before, there are no guarantees for any of the three to be satisfied, but in all three areas, I sense possibility, and I suppose I could decide that the risk was too great, that there's a big difference between moving 200 miles and 2,000 miles, and no one would fault me for playing it safe and giving up... except for myself.

If I give up, play it safe, listen to Einstein, then one day, I'll be at work, at some job, staring at the clock, waiting for the day to end, and my head will ask what if? And then another day, or perhaps the same day, the local news will be on, and I'll be disgusted with the members of my community, and my spirit will ask what if? And then, if I'm having a really rough day, or two, or three, and I'm by myself, or I'm with someone who doesn't truly make me happy, that's when my heart will chime in, what if?

For me, that outcome is the risk that's too great. To those who still don't understand, I'm sorry. From here it's rough on you.

I Love Surprises

2009-07-21T00:28:00.000-05:00

...the good kind, anyway. Not like when someone slams on the brakes in front of you in traffic or a bill auto-withdraws early. I mean the kind where you check the mail and find

from Michael on Monday, when you know he only put it in the mail on Saturday, and especially when you're not 100% sure what it was going to be.

This seems an ideal time to plug the show to which the pictured little red book is referring. Go and bookmark http://www.fz6d.com, especially if you'll be in the LA area next May, so you can be sure to catch his adaptation of Richard Elfman's Forbidden Zone at the Sacred Fools theatre.

Incidentally, the CD, which is unrelated to the play, is pretty bitchin if you like a little Elvis in your indie rock (and I do).

Mil gracias, Mikeycito.

The Story Behind The Story

2009-07-12T23:10:00.005-05:00

My friend Drew used to own a bookstore, and since I was between jobs during that period of time, and I'd met Drew in the first place because I worked for him at a different bookstore, it was only natural that I went to work for him again. Except... "work" isn't quite the word for it. Unfortunately, business wasn't great, so there was a lot of sitting around and shooting the breeze. On one such occasion, we somehow got onto a discussion about Stephen Hawking and colonizing the moon and comets and... all kinds of things. I don't remember exactly the point in the conversation where the words "eat the comet" were uttered, but they were, and the phrase stuck in my mind.

It just happened that I left the bookstore that evening and decided on a whim to stop by the pub, knowing that big-brother Josh would be there and a cold beer sounded good. As it happened (was meant to happen?) Josh was indeed there, but so was his friend Chip, with whom I'd only been vaguely acquainted up until that point. To make a long story short, I made not only a new friend that night, but a new writing buddy. My work had been stagnant at that point as I was driving myself nuts editing and re-editing a story until I'd gotten sick of it. It had been months since I'd really produced anything new, but when Chip started sending me stories and new chapters, I felt the muse stirring.

Not long after that, I'd picked up a job at a tiny diner in the industrial part of Norfolk. It was just the owner and me all day, and we had very little in common, so during the slow parts of the day, instead of trying to force conversation, I started jotting down story ideas in the margins of the day's newspaper, which always got piled next to the cash register after the breakfast rush. At some point, I remembered "eat the comet," and came up with a character, a scene, another character, a head in a jar...

I sent the beginning to Chip, and he informed me that finishing the story was not optional. Turned out it wasn't easy, either. I've often referred to it as my red-headed step-brainchild because of all the fits it gave me. If you count all the times I had to walk away from it for weeks or months at a time, all the while enduring well-deserved guilt-tripping and needling from Chip, who had taken a personal interest in the story after I threw in a Star Wars reference, it took about a year just to crank out those 1500 or so words. I wrote other things in the meantime, but for Chip and Drew, I had to finish it eventually.

I'd never been that impressed with the result, but they loved it. I eventually revised it some more and sent it to other friends, who shocked the hell out of me by reporting that it had made them laugh. I sent it out to a few magazines & ezines, but no one was interested. Oh well, I thought, feeling like it wasn't my best work anyway, and that it had made my friends smile, so that was really all the paycheck or validation I needed for it.

Cut to a few years later. I hadn't even read Eat the Comet in months, possibly a year, when I got a message from Corbin Silverthorn about a new page launching at Silverthorn Press, asking if I'd support the endeavor by contributing some writing. It was with mixed feelings that I sent him EtC. I knew that this story was not my best work, but is the most apropos for that particular site, so off it went, my problem-child, back into the world.

It turns out, Corbin liked the story too, and it wasn't long before I received another message from him saying he'd like to use it and feature me as the first writer showcased on the new page.
You can find it here.

Once it was up, I went ahead and read the story again. I still have mixed feelings about it. I still feel like it isn't my best work. At the same time, it is my work, and I finished it, and it doesn't completely suck. Every time someone new tells me they enjoyed it, I remember that that's what this story was all about. It wasn't about dazzling the world with my talent and manipulation of the English language into something that'd win prizes. It's about a certain kind of people - my people, and how sometimes, it's okay to be flawed and dorky.

I hope you like my little story, but if you don't, that's okay. It's not for everybody. It's not even for me (I personally think I should have left in more of the head in the jar), but maybe it's for you, and if it is, I couldn't be happier.

The Stars Agree

2009-07-10T08:48:00.001-05:00

As a quick addendum to yesterday's post, my horoscope for today says:

Aries: You often push the envelope when you become excited about what you are doing. But now your enthusiasm might be less about what you do than what you say. Although you could be slow to discuss your ideas for fear of rejection, once you start talking it may be tough for you to stop. Don't overplay your hand. Share what's most important and then be quiet.

So there.

I'm Just Not That Into This Advice

2009-07-09T22:14:00.004-05:00

After yesterday's post, I got an interesting response Direct-Messaged to me on Twitter. To paraphrase, it said, "Did you read that book He's Just Not That Into You? If a guy's interested, he'll say so, and there won't be all those mixed-signals and difficulty."

I understand that this advice was kindly meant, but I can't help but find it to be tragically flawed. The responder (who was female) seems to have this misconception that somehow maleness negates things like confusion, uncertainty, apprehension, fear of rejection... need I go on? If I have hangups and haven't had the guts to come out and tell the boy "you know what? I know this complicates things, but I like you in a more-than-friends way and I really think we should explore where this could lead," then why should I assume, simply because he is male, that he's exempt from the same things that make me hesitate?

I have baggage, so I get weighed down. Well, if you remember from yesterday, if the goal is to find someone with baggage that compliments mine, then it's only natural to assume he's going to get weighed down too, and by a set of experiences that might give him altogether different reasons to keep his mouth shut. None of this means, however, that one or the other won't eventually get to a point where the timing and level of trust are right to take the risk and speak up, and I want to ask the advice-giver if she ever stopped to think that often the things you have to wait for and work for are the most rewarding.

Oh yeah, and while I do appreciate it when a guy acknowledges my femininity (such as it is), I'm not missish enough to expect that in the year 2009, it falls on the man to call, ask for a date, or otherwise make a move first. Personally, I think it's about timing, confidence, and readiness to accept consequences of taking that action (and being prepared for it if the outcome isn't the one you were hoping for) and again, I don't see that as being limited to one gender or another.

Maybe I'm wrong though. What do you think, gentlemen? Feel free to comment anonymously, but I know you're out there. Please tell me if I'm right and you're also just not that into the notion that girls are the only ones allowed to be afraid of getting hurt.

P.S. before you comment - yes, I do make room for the possibility that one reason for a guy not saying he's interested could very well be that he is not interested.

I brought you flours.

2009-07-08T22:20:00.002-05:00

I have had several conversations in the past week or so (in person, via email, on Twitter and Facebook) that have, in some form or other, touched on the subject of romantic relationships - the potential for them, what to do in various situations once they've been entered into, whether this or that is worth putting up with, working through, fighting over, or fighting for - concerning myself, various friends, and even my mom. If the run-on nature of that sentence isn't enough to convey how dizzying it all is, then you are probably very stable, level-headed, and smug-married with boring friends.

This Wednesday's Stranger Than Fiction topic: Love.

Do you know the word stumblejohn? I didn't until recently, when I learned that that's the word for what I am when it comes to expressing matters of the heart. Harold Crick, for example, is a classic stumblejohn, though not an irredeemable one. He does manage to go from sitting alone while the beautiful Ana hates him with all her might on the other side of the window, to living happily ever after on a diet of cookies and love, and all it took was the constant threats of impending death issued by a disembodied voice to give him some perspective.

I'm not sure where Harold's hangups came from, but for me, I think it has to do with trying to balance the desire to be honest and take a risk that might be worth it versus the desire to not be exposed to heartache or embarrassment. Oddly enough, this holds true for both potential beginnings and endings, if the ending is one of those "we just grew apart" kinds of things. Sometimes the feelings that suddenly need to be discussed are our own; sometimes, the issue is that we're getting a vibe from someone else. Sometimes, it's a combination of the two, and that, my friends is the kryptonite of the quixotic stumblejohn.

To quote another fictional expert on relationship ruination, Greg House, M.D. issued one of my favorite lines when it comes to this sort of debacle. He said, "it might not be easy, but it is simple," or something to that effect, and I couldn't agree more. The simplicity lies in having to choose from one of only two options: speak up, or don't. The hard part comes after that. If you decide to speak, there comes the agonizing over choosing the right words to say exactly what you mean with the right levels of class and dignity. This is especially difficult if there's a friendship you want to preserve - whether you're wanting to remain friends after breaking up, or you want to remain friends in spite of the other person possibly not sharing your more-than-platonic feelings. If you stay silent, then you have to watch the opportunity pass you by and wonder what might have happened if you'd had a little more courage.

Harold, of course, gets it just right. Ana is a baker who deals in blunt honesty but has a sense of humor, so his one-two combo of "I brought you flours," and "I want you" is a solid win. Hell, that'd work on me.

Despite the title of their movie, this I feel is too strange to be anything but fiction. Harold and Ana are clearly a couple of messed-up individuals, but neither of them really seems to have any baggage. I just listened to the audio recording of David Sedaris's When You Are Engulfed In Flames, and in one of the stories, he hit on a point that pretty much sums it all up. Once you've experienced heartache, you are then officially in posession of Relationship Baggage, and your only real hope of a successful relationshp in the future lies in finding someone whose baggage goes with yours, so you can have a complete set.

I actually think that's a fairly realistic hope, and I suppose that's why I do eventually manage to muster just barely enough courage to speak up, even if my best efforts tend to wind up nowhere near as clear and sophisticated as I'd like them to be. Instead, the outcome seems to effectively be the same as if I'd tried to ask someone how many quarts are in a gallon, and getting a response informing me that the square root of 4 is 2. Both parties are most likely wondering what the hell the other is talking about, and not entirely sure where to go with it.

This is why it amazes the hell out of me when I realize that I actually know quite a few happily paired couples. I wonder what would happen if I go back to:

Commedia di Sonno

2009-07-07T01:05:00.003-05:00

Don't think for one minute that you're fooling anyone, Insomnia. I know what you look like. You think you're Harlequin - trickster, with all of us under your spell. Think again. Your legs are too spidery. Your teeth are too sharp, and those eyes... they don't even hold a cruel joke in a parody of mirth.

That nightmare, I'll grant you was a nice, nasty piece of work. I know you left it there, waiting, waiting for the moment I hit a low enough note in the rhythm. The bit with the big, scary bird with the mask, eating my heart... that was masterful. And the way it smelled and the fluorescent lights... You knew I'd be desperate to claw my way back to wakefulness and then you'd have your chance.

You can hide in my shadow, under my bed, in the creaking of branches outside. Lurk all you want, you bastard. I will beat you.

Chemicals are wonderful things. You're no Harvey Dent, no Scarecrow, not even a Penguin. You're just Insomnia, and no one ever named a Batman villain after you. You don't even make the DC/Vertigo pantheon at all, but you know who does?

Morpheus. Sandman. Sleep.

You will lose.

One night.

Soon.

I promise.

Fade To Blonde

2009-06-24T01:11:00.002-05:00

I don't feel like myself lately.

I think the best compliment I've ever received was, "it's always half-full with you, isn't it?" and that's something I've tried to carry with me, especially these past several months, when the search for gainful employment has reached critical, kafkaesque levels of demoralization. I like that someone pretty exceptional, whose opinion I value, thinks of me as an optimist. I always feel triumphant when I can report that indeed, I have continued to look on the bright side.

Another thing I really love hearing is when people say they can't picture me as a blonde, even though that's the color my hair was from the time I was born to 2006. Even people who knew me before I started coloring my hair say they can hardly imagine blonde being my natural shade.

I can't help but wonder, then, how much of my angst comes from the fact that because I can't seem to find a paying job, I can't justify spending money on hair dye, and the blonde is really showing - about 2 inches at the roots, and is a really stark contrast even against the faded purple of the rest. I've taken to wearing scarves a la Grace Kelly, but every night, when I brush it out, there it is, mocking me, reminding me that no matter how I try to cover it up or change it, I am forced to be as I was, not as I have chosen to be.

High school senior pic vs. a few months ago. Note: I have not turned green IRL.

No, YOU grow up!

2009-06-15T16:57:00.003-05:00

My friend Chip and I have a long-standing tradition of odd middle-of-the-night conversations. If you're not new to my blather here, you know that this is mostly because we both just happen to be nocturnal by nature and have a Star Wars quote for every occasion, not to mention that we have the kind of friendship that withstands dead relatives who interrupt and the fact that The Great Hemingway vs. Austen Debate will likely never be settled. The 2:00 a.m. phone calls have increased of late, as he's working the graveyard shift, gets lonely, and knows I'm still up.

Last night, Chip and I somehow got to talking about things we'd change about The Way Things Are if we were given our druthers. I said I felt like it would be a good idea if, instead of automatically considering every 18 year-old an adult (and conversely, everyone under that age not an adult), one would be legally regarded an adult once he or she had completed a checklist of accomplishments. That way, exceptional young people who truly understand what it is to be a good citizen could vote, and 30 year-olds who still don't know their asses from holes in the ground could not.
Chip suggested we each come up with a list of 20 things that'd be on our checklists and trade to see how many things overlap, and how many things we've completed from each other's lists. This was to be done quickly, just off the top of the head, so the lists are by no means comprehensive or immune to argument. Here are the results:

My list with his responses*

Job: answer phones ...many
Job: front desk/direct customer service Almost all my jobs
Job: handle money (cashier, payroll, bank teller...) Done
Teach - can be in a classroom, a group of boyscouts, whomever. Looking good so far
Work in food service Got it
Work with the elderly ...not my strong suit
Work with children I worked with [a man-child we both know], does that count?
Gain understanding of basic rudiments of some art form - a musical instrument, painting, sculpting, acting, whatever Guitar
Read at least one entire novel and one entire non-fiction book Uh, yeah! Do we get extra credit for writing one?
Known how to change oil, flat tire, & check fluids in your car I heard that in a class somewhere once
Sleep outdoors overnight When I drove cross country
Plan and execute a meal (and have no one die of food poisoning) good call on the food poisoning.
Learn enough of a foreign language to introduce yourself, obtain basic necessities, and understand basic directions to a destination Spanish, though if you mean understand directions, they would have to point...
Participate in a team sport (incl. understanding all relevant rules of play and participating long enough to have won and lost at least one bout each) Good one. Football.
Attend a religious service of a faith different from your own [yes]
Job: retail grocery store. Or my folks' bike shop
Be responsible for the health and well-being for an animal (or at least a high-maint. plant) Puppies!
Travel outside your familiar community (spend at least a day among those who are not "your people") [yes]
Work in public service (at least in an administrative capacity for police, fire, rescue, etc.) Almost done!
Speak in public ...I have, in fact, spoken aloud in a communal area.

*edited somewhat for space & relevance, though he'll probably chide me for omitting some of his snark at my expense.

His list with my responses

work at a job where you are paid in tips (3 months) Hole in the wall diner.
work at a job doing manual labor (3 months) Ice rink - if you count having to clean the place, sharpen skates, and do basic maint. as part of the duties of the job as manual labor.
work in retail (3 months) 2 bookstores
work a job where you have to wear a uniform (3 months) Umpire...
wash, dry, and iron your own clothes (1 year) Yep.
plunge a toilet Yep.
have a non-family member as a roommate (6 months) Luke, Joe, Betsy, Emily, Erin, Paul, Delia, Carrsha
mow you own lawn Tricky - mowed lawns, but I've never owned a lawn
cook a meal for 4+ people (dishes included) Many, many times.
drive somewhere more then 8 hours away I think the 63K miles on my [2 year old] car are testament
support yourself independently (one year) Barely sometimes...
learn to sew a button Yep.
learn to change a tire and your oil I wasn't allowed to drive until I could.
learn to swim The hard way. Fell in the lake.
learn CPR Yep.
spend a week in a city where you know no one Does that count traveling companion? If not, then yes. I definitely didn't know anyone who hadn't come with me in London, Quebec, or Paris. It's unlikely I'd ever move to a place where I didn't know anyone, and nearly equally as unlikely that I'd travel for a week-long trip to such a place alone. If I were going for a day or so, I might, but I'd almost certainly take a friend for a week-long trip.
ride some form of public transportation On two continents
spend a night in the hospital (ER counts) No, not unless infancy counts. I have spent an entire day to very late at night, then come back subsequent days when a friend was on suicide watch.
Get hit (play a contact sport, get in a fight, car accident, something like that) Hockey
keep a pet or plant alive for 2 years (no cheating) Yes, plants and shared responsibility for pets.

Outcome: He needs to brush up on his Spanish & work with the elderly. I need to suffer some grievous health issue and be more independent. We did both include notes that allowed for things like physical limitations and living situation. Also, it seems like both of our lists are focused on self-sufficiency and the ability to understand those from different walks of life, so that one might be a more compassionate citizen who makes choices motivated by more than pure self-interest. This is hardly surprising to me since he and I have managed to become and remain very good friends who have widely differing origins, experiences, and career paths ourselves.

What do you think? What would be on your list?

From where the sun now stands, I will fight.

2009-06-12T19:35:00.004-05:00

Chief Joseph actually said, "I will fight no more forever," but he'd done his share of fighting, seen horrors enough already.

I see the same kinds of injustice in my world today. Today, I woke up in a world full of the same kinds of hate and injustice Chief Joseph saw - the good of the many obliterated to placate the will of the few in power. He said:

"There need be no trouble. Treat all men alike. Give them all the same law. Give them all an even chance to live and grow. All men were made by the same Great Spirit Chief. They are all brothers. The earth is the mother of all people, and all people should have equal rights upon it.”

And how right he was! Why is this such a difficult concept to hammer into the heads of those who insist that their warped understanding of a religious text, or some ill-conceived directive from someone they find to be charismatic tells them that it is not only right, but just to deny basic rights to our brothers?

Why is an innocent man going to die because the "justice" system is failing him? Why is his life not worth the trouble and cost to take what's broken and fix it? How dare anybody put a monetary price on human life and happiness? Who are these people who would rather take a life than take extra time and do extra work or - dare I say - admit they were wrong? A life, people, a human life.

Why am I allowed to get married to the right guy if such a man and I ever chose to do so, while my friends who have been together for over a decade and raised children together may not, simply because they're both women? I patently refuse to accept that legal recognition of the family unit which already exists in their household can have anything to do with what goes on in the home of the judgmental, bigoted married couples who say that gay marriage is a blight upon the institution.

Guess what! I've been married. Guess what else! I have gay friends who would get married if they could. Guess another thing! If the marriage they've been living since before I ever met my ex-husband had ever been legally recognized, it would have had absolutely no effect on my decision to get married, how long I stayed married, the problems that cropped up in said marriage, or the resulting end of it. How could it?

I want to just grab each and every one of those people who talk about the "sanctity of marriage," shake them, and scream EVERYTHING IS NOT ABOUT YOU! How self-centered do you have to be to honestly believe that you personally are threatened by someone else getting married, whomever they may be? I am sick and tired of seeing relationships freely entered into by consenting, healthy, non-related adults who love each other, lumped in with child abuse, pornography, and incest.

Honestly, can we just stop pretending that Fred Phelps's First Amendment right to free speech, which allows him spew hate and filth via every medium he comes across is more important, more sacrosanct than his victims' right to be treated with respect and dignity at the very least?

My heart is sick and sad, but I will fight. Forever. News days like this remind me why.

Silence Is Not The Answer

2009-06-06T02:14:00.003-05:00

In addition to this personal blog and PoetryAssignment, I have been invited to be a regular contributor, covering the West Memphis 3 at Justice Undone, a Mosaic Free Press blog.

Odds are you already know that this case is one I've been very vocal about for the past decade or so. In that time, I've seen some people who refuse to care, but they have not deterred me. I urge you to learn about the case, ask questions, and if you feel compelled to do so, get involved. You deserve to live in a world where "And Justice For All" is more than just a Metallica album.

Mirror, Mirror

2009-05-31T01:21:00.006-05:00

When I was in high school, I had a friend who, despite being pretty, kind, and interesting, had the worst taste in boyfriends you could imagine. Seriously, it got to the point where we were no longer surprised to get collect calls in the middle of the night from Inmate du Jour.

One afternoon, this friend - we'll call her Adora - had invited another friend - and we'll call her Jerrica - and me over to hang out so she could lament the precarious status of her relationship with a boy we'll refer to as Zartan, the current ankle-bracelet-bedecked jackass who was wasting her time. We let her go on for a while, until finally, Jerrica and I could stand it no longer. We were tired of seeing Adora teamed up with some scumbag who wouldn't deserve to kiss her feet, much less treat her like the dirt beneath them. Our solution was simple. From that point forward, whenever Adora would mention his name, we forced her to look in the mirror and recite:

"I am beautiful. I am wonderful. Zartan is a pig."

This went on for weeks. We really did drag her to the nearest shiny surface and make her say the words every time. Eventually, it became something of a mantra for us, long after Zartan had been replaced by another winner.

There will always be people who don't deserve our attention, but get it anyway. There will be things that shouldn't bother us, but do.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to find something reflective. Where's Destro when I need him?

I Cheated

2009-05-30T02:47:00.002-05:00

...on this blog. I wrote for another site!

Find my article about the West Memphis 3 at Justice Undone.