Things That Sort of Scare Me….
Or That Completely Scare the Shit Right Out of Me
Or – Scary movies about teenage boys telling ghost stories, and then slugs start raining down from the sky, so they go hide out in their tent where their sock monkeys have come to life and lunge at their throats with their big scary red mouths and try to bite their major veins and arteries.
Just sayin’.
After everything that’s been going down, it was a fortunate thing that this last Sunday, Kayphore and Cookie and I had planned a little night out for ourselves. Of course, we had the typical evening of female bonding and enjoyed the traditional entertainment for such an occasion … Professional Wrestling. WWE Smackdown to be exact.
I am not a regular girl who likes regular things. I attract other girls with eclectic tastes. And by eclectic, I do mean, “of course I want to see overly muscled, nearly naked, poorly acting, greased up dudes roll around on the ground with other similar dudes.” Because really, who doesn’t love that?
Now I know what you’re thinking. I know because I hear it often enough. And I hear it often enough that I usually don’t mention that I enjoy the wrestling, like, ever…. to anyone. This has been a carefully guarded, deep, dark secret for quite some time. I’ve decided to bring it out into the light and show it off a little, because it really doesn’t make any sense to me that anyone could be befuddled by my enjoyment of such a thing. I mean, it’s gaudy. It’s ridiculous. It’s goofy. It makes no sense at all. It’s over the top. It’s laughable. It’s horrible. And damn it’s funny! I like professional wrestling like I like all those damn Bring It On movies. And The Cutting Edge franchise, as well. I’ve paid good money to go see Cool as Ice starring Vanilla Ice. And I’ve read those damn Twilight books and seen the movies, not because I’m on Team Jacob, or like things that Sparkle, but because they’re just bad.
Why, you ask? Because I’m a unique sort of person who gets enjoyment out of things that are, by definition, god awful. I love the things that are so bad that they’re good. I like not liking them. I like not being the least bit fooled by the pratfalls of professional wrestling. I like that Stephenie Meyer can’t write her way out of a paper bag. And yet, there’s something about it that’s sort of pure. I think that what really draws me to Crap is its lack of pretension. Bring It On is not aiming for high-brow, not trying to win a seat at the cool kids’ table, or looking down its nose at anyone. It just is what it is, and its ease with itself is infectious. When you’re watching WWE Smackdown at the Arco Arena, screaming at the Villains and hollering for the Good Guy, well, you can just be who you are.
All the better if you’re able to be with two of your best friends in the world, too. Two girls who love me for who I am, all my imperfections, my insecurities, my loud mouth, or my quiet, bashful, and nervous times. The ones who not only understand, but who share a few of my idiosyncracies.
And above all else, they can tell when I’m Acting Normal from when I’m being myself.
Of course I love professional wrestling. It’s so fake that you can’t help but be yourself when you watch it.
Just sayin’
It’s probably not escaped your attention, if you’ve been here any length of time at all, that I have two problems. For one thing, I’m a horrific insomniac and spend many days dragging ass as a result of the many nights I toss, turn, post blogs, toss some more, and tear my hair out. For a second thing, I have by and far the most inconveniently overactive imagination. When those two traits conspire against me at the same time, well, it can get pretty ugly over here in Whoville. (Am I the Grinch? Not yet, but if I don’t sleep soon, you never can tell to what I may resort.)
And so it comes about that I sit here awake, and since I happen to be sporting the Mother of All Crushes Wholly Unbecoming A Woman My Age (MoACWUAWMW), guess what that imagination is doing to me? I have no reason in the world to suspect that He is going to ask me what I’m doing this weekend, and after I rattle off the list of stuff I have planned, and He notices that I have nothing going on this Friday, He of course asks me to go bowling. And since this is a figment of my imagination, and not at all anything like reality, I quickly reply “Sure; that sounds fun,” before I truly understand what’s happening, and then I stammer out, “Um, oh, wait, um, is this a date?” In reality, if this happened to me I would most likely be wondering in my own head what it meant, arguing with myself, and finally deciding to assume that it’s not a date, because nothing that much like a romantic-comedy plot-line would ever actually happen to me. Of course, then I would proceed to lose lots of sleep over it. Anyway, I digress, because in my imagination, he laughs at me, and then says, “Yes, of course it’s a date.”
And in my imagination, I respond with a simple “oh good” and then blush deeply. But not the kind of blush I do in real life, but more like that super-endearing anime princess kind of way.
And, then I giggle of course, and it doesn’t sound like a gerbil being squeezed to death at all, and no one gawks at me or asks me if I’m dying or faking. (What? It’s my fantasy. Give me this one, OK?)
So, all of that seems lovely, doesn’t it? But not enough to keep me up all night, right? Well, of course not, but once we’ve agreed to go on a date, then I have to imagine what I would wear, and how I would tame my hair. And then there’s all the conversations that I can’t stop myself from imagining happening.
Then it occurs to me that the least I could do is get a blog post out of this. If I’m going to be awake, that is, I might as well be doing something with the fairy-tale in my head, right? Right?
And maybe, just maybe, if I could just get some sleep, I might not scare the crap out of my Object of Crush looking like a crazy woman with the bags under the eyes and what-not.
Just sayin’.
Remember this? One year later, and I’m still as giddy about that news as I was then.
I think this calls for a beer!
So, if you’ve been paying any attention at all to me or my blog, you know that I’m really great at making conversation at parties…..or not. Since I usually localize my awkward around some sort of food spread, I have been referring to this for some time as “chatting up the bean dip.” Usually I’m standing there, eating way too much bean dip, and screaming at myself in my own head, “THINK OF SOMETHING TO SAY TO ANYONE, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!” I like to go real easy on myself like that.
Anyway, so since yesterday was the 14th of March (3.14), Kayphore put on her second annual Pi Pie Party. You know, because Π is roughly 3.14. It’s a math pun. Get it? No. OK, well, just go with me and keep in mind that we’re all nerds.
The annual Pi Pie Party involves two things, making a pie and then eating a whole lot of pie. It’s a pie baking contest combined with a contest with your own will power to shove as much pie into your pie hole as possible. I know that eating a bunch of pie just sounds like fun, but trust me when I say that it can be a lot more complicated than that.
But it’s a party. And that is its own challenge. So, I decided to sort of combine my awkwardness with the theme to make a joke that only I would really get. Why? Because I’m a nerd. A shy nerd. A shy nerd who is too easily amused.
I conceived of the perfect pie to sum up (hahaha ….more math puns) my party induced social awkwardness – the Vegan 5-Layer Bean Dip Pie with Fritos Crust. I chose to go with a vegan pie so that every possible party goer could sample some. I didn’t want to limit my audience. And after last years massive sugar crash, I decided that a savory pie was the way to go. I looked for a recipe for a corn chip crust, and found one that was pretty basic. Crush up the corn chips and mix with butter, form into a pan, and bake. However, since I was going to be going for vegan, butter was out. I opted for olive oil. I have to say, the crust did not turn out the way I wanted it to. Other pi party attendees commented that I had not crushed my chips enough. Next time, I’ll have to try finer chip crumbs, and also some sort of binding unit to add to the mix.
In the pie shell, I layered refried black beans, chopped black olives, salsa, guacamole, and vegan “sour cream”. If you ever find that you can’t come across vegan “sour cream”, try vegan “cream cheese” mixed with lemon juice. I topped the whole thing in a sprinkling of green onions and served it with Fritos scoops on the side.
I actually got a few compliments on it, so it wasn’t a complete disaster, or anything. Of course, once again, I did not win any of the prizes. But the party did end up being fun, and I did manage to carry on a few conversations with a few actual human beings. There were many more attendees than last year’s pi, which was equally fun and nerve wracking. I think I made a fellow nerd giz in his pants when I told him where I work. That never gets old.
So, now I have two imperfect pie recipes under my belt. It might help if I started making pies in-between pis, but honestly, I’m not that sort of well prepared type of person.
Just sayin’.
When was the last time you had a crush on someone? I mean, really legitimately had a Crush on someone? Junior High or High School, perhaps? Well, my 32-year-old ass has got one. Got it real bad, in fact.
I’m sure this guy has no clue. Also, I’m about 90% sure that he’s off the market. And yet, I’m totally dumb for him, and I can’t stop my brain from wandering in his particular direction. Unwelcome and unbidden thoughts popping into my little brain while I’m trying to go about my life, attempting to be a human being. It’s really hard to look at HTML when your brain is flashing kissing scenes in your head. Can I just reiterate that part where this person is oblivious to me? Maybe if I keep reminding myself, it’ll all go away. I don’t want to be this stupid.
The thing is, though, that all this stuff, for me, well it’s been awhile. Let’s think about this. I’ve been single for almost two years. Actually, next Saturday will be exactly two years. So, while I’ve stuck my pinky toe in the dating pool a few times in the last two years, mostly it’s just been a big fat awkward mess. A mess that isn’t helping my confidence level at all. I mean, how do I Do This? How does a Crazy Single Girl let it be known when she wouldn’t mind too terribly at all if you brushed the hair out of her eyes, ran you fingers down her cheeks, lifted her chin…Oh crap. I’m doing it again.
Anyway, so before a year and 51 weeks ago, I had been with the same guy for over two years. We started dating a day or two after my previous boyfriend dumped me. (I don’t recommend this, by the way) So, in effect, it’s been almost five years, since I’ve played this game, and I am having trouble getting back into it.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, how do you let someone know that you have been thinking about him. Thinking about him more than just a little, but rather a lot actually. And I’d like to spend more time with him. Listen to him talk about anything. To sit him and stare into his blue eyes. (of course they’re blue) How do you even begin to tell someone all that, you know, without sounding like a complete nutter?
The answer is, you don’t. There’s no way to dive into all that without coming across as a stalker. So, the question is, how do you start? Where do you start? What do you say that will eventually lead the conversation in that direction? I wouldn’t even know where to begin. And I don’t want to be an ass, assuming that I’m right and he is off the market.
And so, you see, I have a silly crush, and I don’t know what to do about it, and even if I did know, I shouldn’t do anything about it.
Just sayin’.
I’d like to introduce you to my new friend Blinky:
Blinky is my new friend, who came to the party on Christmas Eve. As you can see, she’s an elf. Not just any old Tolkein elf (one of those is in the background of the photo) or fairy, but a real Christmas Elf. All the elves were invited to the house party, you see. She works in Santa’s workshop, though she doesn’t work on making toys. Blinky’s area of expertise is bows. She makes all the pretty bows to go on all the lovely presents that Santa takes to all the good boys and girls for Christmas.
But Blinky isn’t just your run of the mill cheerful little elf. No, you see, there’s something very special about Blinky. She’s Santa’s only Punk Elf! She loves punk rock music and mosh pits.
Since, I’m sure you’re just dying to know all about Blinky, I asked her to fill out a profile that I could share with my readers, so here’s everything you want to know about Blinky the Punk Rock Christmas Elf!
Full Name: Blinky Margaret Twinkle-Toes
Age: older than a fresh fallen snow, but younger than a twinkling star in the sky (and that’s all you need to know)
Relationship Status: Single
Occupation: Head Bowstress at Santa’s Workshop (with 17 years experience)
Hometown: The North Pole
Favourite Bands: The Clash, Blondie, Spiderbait, The Phenomenauts, The Epoxies …..oh, and Bikini Kill
Favorite Book: The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K Le Guin
Favorite Movies: Amelie and Pump Up the Volume (I bet you thought I’d say Elf)
Turn Ons: Fudge, Cinnamon, Brown Sugar, Popcorn with lots of Butter
Turn Offs: Naughty Boys and Girls
Perfect Date: December 26th
New Year’s Eve Plans: Plan to have a blast wherever I may be!
Goals for 2010: To launch her own fragrance line.
I think we may be seeing more of this elf around.
Happy New Year, everyone. Thank elfing heaven that another year has come to an end.
I’m just sayin’.
Now that my parents have opened their gifts, I can post this blog about how I made them. I couldn’t before, because Mom reads the blog. (Hi Mom!)
I had two matching 4×4 picture frames to start with. I decided to paint a matching scene on each, but one would be a day time scene, and one a night time scene. I traced the glass and drew a simple scene to fit the size, made two photocopies of the drawing, and then taped the drawings to the glass to use as my guide.
I painted the two scenes simultaneously – side by side. Since I was painting directly on the glass, I painted them in reverse, with the highlights and foreground painted first.
I did all of this on the floor of my bedroom. It was a lot of fun, but at times it was hard to be patient while I waited for the paint to dry. Oh, and about the paint, it’s acrylic.
Finally I got to tackle the sun and moon which really set the two apart.
These pictures aren’t the absolute greatest, because I took them with my phone. I still need to get a new camera.
I filled in the last of the sun and moon, and the finished off the trees and mountains, too.
Lastly, I filled in the sky for the background. I decided to make the night sky purple so that the scene would stand out. Makes sense, really if there’s a full moon, right?
Then I had to let them dry over night. This was the tense part, because I couldn’t really see how they turned out. The view from the front was covered by the drawing, and all I could see from the painted side was the last coat. I didn’t want to take the guides off until it was dry, because I was worried that I would smear the paint.
The next morning I carefully removed the drawings and tape to reveal the paintings and placed them in their frames.
Even my art student housemate was impressed, so I must have done something right. Mom and Dad liked them very much, and said they’re planning on hanging them together somewhere in the house.
I’m an artistic genius, it seems.
Just sayin’.
As I am a bit nutters and also completely single, I decided a while back that what I really wanted was to be left utterly alone on Christmas. With a house full of housemates, it didn’t seem that would happen if I stayed home. Going to my parents for the holidays was out of the question, as Washington between December and February is impossibly cold for me, and also, what I wanted was to get away from some of my responsibilities, not be surrounded by them. So, I settled on spending just one night, Christmas night in a hotel. And the more I thought of it, the more I thought that a rather nice hotel would be, well, nice. And upon consulting my memory of some of the nicer hotels I had ever stayed at, only one stood out in the area. This hotel was where a friend had been married several years ago, and I stayed over night, and thought it was very nice indeed. I confessed my plan to this one friend alone, and she said she thought it was a lovely idea, and pointed out that they have suites with fireplaces and very yummy room service. I began day dreaming of myself in pajamas and a robe, reading Austen in front of the fire, and ordering in a decadent dessert. So indulgent, I know, but I rarely get the opportunity to really spoil myself. And since my credit card is already straining under the burden of my new transmission, I figured a few more pennies worth of debt couldn’t hurt. After all, the only thing I really wanted for Christmas was an exceptionally warm bath and bed for an evening. To be left all on my own to read a book or three, and also to have a hot fudge sundae. It sounds perfect, doesn’t it?
I arrived at the earliest check in time, eager for my leisure to begin. I asked the desk person, as he was checking me in, about room service. I suspected that there could be some issue with it, since it was a holiday, and all. He said that they might be serving a limited menu, but he didn’t know for sure. I thought it was odd that he wouldn’t know for sure. However, it didn’t seem like it would be a complete lack of service, but rather that they might not be serving everything on the regular menu, so I didn’t think much about it. He finished checking me in and gave me my keys and I was on my way.
I walked into the room, and set down my things. I immediately went to the fireplace, and found on the mantle a framed note that said that the fireplace was out of service. Oh no! What the? Why didn’t they mention this when I checked in? I immediately called down to the desk to find out if there was anything to be done about that. They said that they would send a service guy around to check it out. He came in, took a look at the note, and declared that it must be out, but that he didn’t know anything about it. He called the front desk to have them arrange to put me in a different room. Then he handed me the phone. I was told by the man at the desk, the same who had checked me in, that there was no other room available with the fireplace, and that the room they had originally planned to put me in was being occupied by another guest whose reservation had ended, but that had decided to extend. So they got my room with my fireplace, and I got this one without. I asked him if there was something to be done to make up for my inconvenience, a credit to be given or anything, and he said that since I got the room I booked, fireplace or not, there was nothing to be done. He said it rather rudely, actually.
I was rather disappointed, but I didn’t know what to do. I figured since I had already paid for the night, and was already there, I would go ahead and try to make the best of it. I decided to take a hot bath and crank up the heat in the room to make up for the lack of fire. I set the thermostat to 75 and took my toiletries to the bathroom. I was really looking forward to the bath, since I don’t get to take them at my house, but that’s when I discovered, to my dismay, that the stopper in the bathtub did not work. I suppose I could have reported this to the front desk, but after they were so helpful about the fireplace . . . . I took a very long, very hot shower instead, put on my jammies, and wrapped myself in the hotel bathrobe. I sat myself down in the chair in my room (no foot stool) and dove into the large stack of books I had brought along.
It wasn’t long before I realized that the room wasn’t really warming up like I would expect it to, considering that the heat was cranked, and I could hear that the fan was running at intervals. I investigated the heating vent, putting my hand in front of it to see how warm the air was. That’s when I realized that the vent was pointed up at the vaulted ceiling. No wonder it wasn’t warming up! All the hot air was being directed to the ceiling 20 feet above my head. That’s when I found myself on a chair, redirecting the vent so that the air was blowing into the room. I put the chair back, and then cranked the heater up even higher to about 82.
Then, as I was reading, I began to nod off. I decided a nap was in order. The bed, at least, was very comfortable. It was a King, though, as that is the only size available with the fireplace. I didn’t care in the least that it was a king sized bed. I’m just one gal. I would have been just as comfy in a full or queen bed, so the bed didn’t really make up for the other lacking amenities.
When I got up from my nap, I was getting a little hungry, so I decided it was time to investigate room service. I called down, and was told that they were only serving the late night menu. This menu consisted of a meat and cheese plate, a chicken caesar salad, a hand-carved turkey sandwich with applewood smoked bacon, or a trio of sorbet or ice cream. Not only were they not serving any of their regular dinner menu, but also none of their regular desserts. I wasn’t in the mood to go out, so I decided to just go with the turkey sandwich, since the bacon did sound nice. I have recently begun eating bacon again without being overwhelmed by the flavor. A short time later, my sandwich arrived. It was indeed hand-carved turkey, but it was cold and served on a hamburger bun with lettuce and tomato only. NO bacon. Also it was served with Lay’s potato chips. Lame. And with tax and service fee, it came to $20.
I ate my sandwich, read my books, wrote in my journal, and then went to bed. When I woke up in the morning, I decided to take full advantage of my time I had paid for, and to not check out any earlier than I needed to. I took another long hot shower, and got dressed and ready. As I was getting ready, I noticed that the bill had been slipped under my door, so I picked it up and took a look. In addition to my $20 sandwich, there was also a $10 overnight parking fee, which I had not been told about when I checked in. It just kept getting worse.
Finally, at about 11:30 I went down to check out. I asked to speak to the manager. Thankfully, as I was explaining how the desk attendant from the night before had said that nothing could be for me about the fireplace, she seemed mortified, and began apologizing profusely. I didn’t even really get to the part about the bathtub or the bacon-less sandwich. She took care of my bill for the room service and parking fee, but said that since I had booked and pre-paid for the room using Orbitz, there was nothing she could do about the fee for the room. She offered me a voucher for breakfast in their restaurant. At first I declined, but then the thought of some pancakes or hot oatmeal and tea did sound nice, so I accepted the voucher.
I took my bags out to my car and then went to the restaurant, where the hostess told me that they were no longer serving breakfast – no pancakes. She said that she would check to see if they could get me lunch instead. I waited in the lobby, and as I did, I noticed that the voucher said that it did not cover gratuity. I really didn’t want to spend any money, even on a tip, at that point. Then I overheard a man say to the hostess as he was leaving that his family had just received the worst service he’d ever seen in the restaurant. That was the final straw for me, so I told the hostess that I was not going to have lunch after all, and I got the hell out of there.
So much for my nice little treat to myself. I could have taken a bag lunch to the Best Western and had just as nice of a time for a fraction of the cost.
Just sayin’.
I’m not sleeping again. I wish I had some good company for this. Someone to make popcorn and laugh with about just how tired we are, and yet how unable to actually obtain unconsciousness. I would write a Craig’s List strictly platonic ad to get this, but man, have you seen those listings? Some people need to be learned the difference between “strictly platonic” and “casual encounter”.
Strictly platonic means just friends, people. Not just friends who have sex with one another. I don’t want to kill any time while I’m not sleeping with sex with a stranger. I’m cranky. My eyes are burning. My throat is sore. There is nothing sexy happening over here. Nothing.
Really, the perfect strictly platonic bedfellow that I would like to find would be My Sleep. I wonder if I can post a personal ad for that. Something a little bit like this:
Me – single, 32, female. Exhausted. Wrapped in layers of warm blankets. Prone to long-winded late night blogs about everything that ails. Interests include music, movies, dancing, writing, feminism, and travel.
You – soothing, refreshing, relaxing, revitalizing lack of consciousness with or without vivid imaginary adventures. Please be swift, effortless, and be able to last eight full hours.
No Snuggling.
OK, yeah, that was pretty lame, but what do you expect? It’s going on 4 in the morning, and my whole body knows that there is no reason why I should be awake, on the computer, and certainly not writing this blog.
I’m just sayin’.
Peggy Lu Who's Just Sayin' 