radiumgirl: (noob)
 Today was my first day back at Adventureland. The park doesn't open for two more weeks, but it was some charity thing down in the picnic pavilions. I was told I would be escorting one of the costumed mascots because not only was our mascot going to be out and about, but our two sister parks' mascots would be making appearances as well. 
 
I got to the park and ended up in a suit after all due to a staffing snafu. I got to be Dunkin. Dunkin is a dragon. He's the mascot for the waterpark our parent company owns. I was peeved, but whatever, all I have to do is walk around and hug little kids, right? I can do that. 
 
I did it for about an hour. The suit was unbearable from the get-go and the humid, muggy weather today didn't help. Furthermore, since I was under the impression that I would be escorting, not dressing, I wore pants. 
 
The suit is wool and heavy. Dunkin' is plump and pear-shaped, so there's a ton of extra padding in his lower half that make walking a real work-out. Dunkin' also has webbed feet that like to trip each other up. Dunkin's head is a torture device, tall and top-heavy. Wearing it is like balancing a stack of books on your head while being smothered. I felt like I was suffocating as soon as I had the head on. 
 
But I'm a trooper, yo.  I was prepared to suck it up and hug some fucking babies. 
 
We had to dress in G-Serv and walk down to the festivities which were taking place about half-way across the park from our starting point. As soon as I stepped out of the G-Serv building, I tripped over my feet and my head went rolling across the midway. 
 
I was so padded that I didn't feel a thing and I literally laid there laughing my ass off while my escort scurried to retrieve my head and my supervisor scowled and a random kid pointed and screamed. 
 
Traumatized child count: 1
 
We got my head back on and wandered down to the crowd and I was okay for an hour. I hugged some kids. I took some pictures. I even danced. I was pleased with myself. Then I took a nice deep breath...and swayed. I instinctively shoved the head up and poked my nose and mouth through the seam in the neck, sucking greedily at the fresh air. My escort shoved my head down and hissed, "You can't do that."
 
"I need...to go back."
 
I could hear my blood rush in my ears and I kept gulping at air. I'm sure I was getting enough, realistically, but it didn't feel like it. I felt like the mesh over my facehole was smothering me. I needed to be out of the suit, out of the suit, out of the suit now. 
 
In retrospect, I think I went into some claustrophobic meltdown. I started pawing at the gloves, my collar, my head. My escort reminded me that I couldn't take the costume off in the middle of the park. She pulled on my arm and said, "C'mon. Keep walking. The sooner you get back, the sooner you can get the suit off."
 
I tripped over my feet twice and my escort caught me. After the second stumble, I was practically weeping. We were near my old ride section at this point. I remembered the phone in the pavilion and the merch counter that no one used anymore. I stumbled into the pavilion and hit the floor, ripping the head off and trying to pull my legs and my tail out of the sight of the passersby. 

It didn't work. A little girl started pulling on my tail. I groaned and jammed the head back on and promptly laid on my back. A little boy pulled his grandma over and leaned over the counter, "Look grammy, the dragon's taking a nap."
 
"I don't think he's napping." Grammy said and pulled Junior away. 
 
Traumatized child count: 3
 
I pulled the head up and ground out, "Get me water."
 
My escort shook her head, "We need to get your head back on."
 
I started crying, "Please get me water. Please. I can't breathe. I'm gonna throw up."
 
"We have to get you back!"
 
Before you think too badly of my escort, I'd like to point out that this is her first season at the park and she's only seventeen. Once I was coherent again, I apologized because at this point, I literally yelled at her. 
 
"I can't get up, Heather. You're gonna have to call for a cart."
 
"Okay. Okay, just put your head on. There's a supervisor coming--"
 
"THEN GO GET THE SUPERVISOR. NOW." 
 
Then I barfed in a cleaning bucket I found under the counter. 
 
Heather disappeared and I went back to trying to burrow into the floor. 
 
The next thing I'm aware of is two supervisors pulling me up by my arms. My supervisor is in my face, shaking my chin, "Hey. Hey, you with me? Wake up, Mary. C'mon."

"I need m'head." I slurred. 
 
"Don't worry about your head."
 
"Dun wanna tram'tize the kids."
 
"You won't." 
 
"Gimme m'head."
 
I resolutely shoved it on and sank as far down as the golf cart seat would let me. I realized that my gloves were gone and threw a fit, but having relinquished the head, no one was about to give me back the gloves. As we inched our way through the crowed, several children commented that Dunkin' had no hands. 
 
Traumatized child count: limitless
 
I ripped the head, the cape, the boots off as soon as we got back to G-Serv. I peeled the top half of the suit off, but stopped at the waist, because it got hard. I barfed again and said I didn't want to talk to First Aid. I talked to First Aid anyway. 
 
Jake, my EMT, sat there for a good forty-five minutes, fingers clamped over my pulse, pressing a cup full of water against my lips. 
 
"How 'bout you get the rest of the suit off for me, okay?"
 
"Nuh uh." I grunted. 
 
"What if we help you?"
 
"Nnnnoooo."
 
They helped anyway. 
 
After losing the pants, downing three bottles of water and a pack of fruit snacks, I grew more coherent. My pulse slowed down and Jake deemed me "okay, but if you get chest pains or can't breathe again or anything, go to the ER."
 
"Kay."
 
"Drink more water. Gatorade, if you can get some."
 
"Kay."
 
I spent the next two hours curled up on the floor of my supervisor's office. I woke up in time to process a season pass order and help the new girl balance her drawer and cash-out. I drove home and slept some more. I noticed a rash developing on my back and my legs. If I caught MRSA from that fucking nasty-ass suit, I'mma be pissed. 
 
And yes, I'm completely mortified at having the cart called for me. In six-seasons of Adventureland indentured servitude, I have never had the cart called on me. I was a badass. When I tripped over a pulley at the rafts, I duct-taped tissues to my knee and carried on. When I got stung by a bee while working the super slide, I shrugged it off and only brought it up to bitch about my bra strap rubbing the sore spot. I have only gone home sick once. And it wasn't my call.  My supervisor thought my carting the garbage bin from ride to ride looked...suspicious. 
 
It's the end of an era, kids. I'm so mortified. 
 

 
 
 

So it Goes

Saturday, May 14th, 2011 08:38 pm
radiumgirl: (exploding angels)
Disclaimer: I started writing this entry before I went to work this morning and I'm just now coming back to it after a marvelous shift spent laying on the floor of my supervisor's office while the nice EMT tried to get me to drink water and take my pants off. More on this later. In the meantime, forgive any disjointedness. I'm still semi-comatose. 
 
So Chrissy and I went to Rivers to blow off some steam  last night because she got into a fight with her boss at work and is probably going to get fired and I realized that my cousins only count me as "family" when they want to show me off at church, not when my uncle is in the hospital and the visiting hours policy is "family only."
 
I would say "fuck it" and just not speak to them unless spoken to from now on (which isn't so far from our current policy, actually) except that would be a very Melinda-esque thing to do and I really have no doubts that the uncle in question adores me and would have loved to see me. 
 
I'm so sick of the family drama though. I try so hard to ingratiate myself to my aunt and my cousins. I get alot of brownie points on virtue of whose kid I am. My dad was the second-born of seven kids, and he was the "hero", I guess, if we want to apply broad stereotypes to him and his siblings (which is appallingly easy, actually). He lied about his age and joined the Air Force when he was seventeen. He flew cargo planes in Vietnam.  I grew up to stories about his plane, nicknamed the Road Runner; how it was shot down, how Dad came home in a body cast, how he threw a bedpan at the doctor when he was told he might be in a wheelchair because of the shrapnel in his legs and hip. 

He wasn't. 

He married my mother, who was beautiful and not-on-parole at the time and he got a good job working on airplanes and "always took care of his family. Always. Always." my uncle says. 
 
Aka: he bailed their asses out of jail when they needed it, took their kids in when CFS took them away, and made sure his mother had heat in the winter because the rest of them were too busy polluting the gene pool to bother. 
 
And then he died. 
 
So, as the offspring of dear Saint Charles, my brother and I definitely get allowances and respect that I think other cousins don't. Even when I was little and he was still alive, we were always seen differently. There was never any doubt that we would go to college. Why? Because Charles said that we would.  We also lived in New Jersey for the first half of my life, and only saw the relations in the summer. We didn't have the thick Pittsburghese accent (yet). We had no interest in hunting, only marginal interest in fishing, and had no fear about taking a bus or a train somewhere and (GASP!) sitting next to a black person during the trip. Thus, we were vaguely exotic creatures. We were poked and prodded and gawked at and picked on, sure, but it was always friendly. We were still part of the fam. 
 
After Dad died, that sentiment seemed to evolve. My brother and I became these holy items, these relics. We are Charles' flesh and blood. Suddenly, we were scrutinized not for our alienness, but for our Charlesness. I have his chin. I have his nose. I have his hands. Chuck has the nose, the chin, the sense of humor. We both have his temper. These things became sacred. They were fawned over and encouraged and we were loved because we were Charles' children. 
 
This has been the case for almost ten years. But slowly, things have changed. I feel like another evolution of sentiment has happened right under my nose and that somewhere along the line, we because somewhat resented. Oh, we still have that diplomatic immunity that comes from being Saint Charles' spawn, but beneath that, there's this sense of obligation(?) towards us. We aren't precocious kids from that foreign realm of New Jersey, and we aren't these troubled pseudo-orphans anymore. We're adults in our own right. And rather than point out all those traits that we share with our late father, over the past year or so, I feel the attention has been shifted to the ways we "dishonor" him. 
 
My brother is now twenty-two years old. He still has zero interest in hunting and less of an interest in fishing, guns, or cars. This would almost label him a girl in our family, except that the women tend to be just as passionate about those things as the menfolk. My tattoos, my Catholic boyfriend, my impending move to Michigan; these are black spots on my pedigree. I am no longer this little four-year-old that hoards pennies in my change purse. I've struggled for awhile now, trying to reconcile who and what I am now with who and what I was and I think that my uncle and aunt and cousins are finally starting to do that too. 
 
I was shocked and hurt to basically be told not to come to the hospital. My aunt called me yesterday morning to tell me my uncle was being released today. I have a hard time talking to my aunt under the best of circumstances. She's a very rough, very practical, very traditional mountain woman. I once visited the fam after a job interview and I was in a suit and heels and black pantyhose and when I walked in the back door, she stopped kneeding the bread she was making, looked my get-up up and down, and said, "I wish your daddy was still around to explain you to us because I just don't know what to make of you."
 
Yesterday's phone call was more painful that usual due to the circumstances. She mentioned Michigan and said, "Its a shame how small this family keeps getting."
 
"I'm pretty sure that moving to Michigan doesn't rewrite my DNA."
 
"What the hell are you talking about?"
 
"I'm still in the family. After the move."
 
"Not really."
 
Oh. 
 
So going to the casino in hopes of becoming well-financed individuals seemed like a great idea to Chrissy and I. Especially since parking is free and we're both hella-poor (as usual) and hey, maybe we'll win!
 
I managed to stretch my twenty bucks into four hours of playing, but in the end, I went home empty-handed, as did Chrissy. 
radiumgirl: (kobra kid)
 Once upon a time, I was a concave human being.

I wasn't always concave. It took alot of work to get there. I am not one of the fortunate few (Jared Padalecki, I'm looking at you, and envying your metabolism) who was birthed into the world with any sort of genetic "gifts." My mother's family is full of round people and my father's family is full of short people and together, they make a Radium Girl, which is, at heart, a rather slothful creature who enjoys donuts and lattes and binge drinking. Her default shape is akin to that of a Snooki. 

But oh, for one brief, shining period of about two years during undergrad, I was concave. I spent hours at the gym, everyday. I only ate green things. I didn't drink. My arms were toned. My ass was cute. And I could see my hipbones, which I named Frenchie and Rizzo. 
 
I bought a black string bikini, the first bikini I had owned since I was three. It's still shoved in my bottom drawer. I stubbornly refuse to throw it out because I have a dream that someday, I will be able to poke Frenchie and Rizzo again. 
 
I feel like that time has come. On Thursday, I went dress-shopping with Chrissy in the South Side for the wedding I'm going to in a few weeks. We're big H & M fans. The last time we were there, I saw a dress that I wanted for the wedding. I kept it in mind, and when I had the money, we went back. On Thursday. It was lacy and yellow with a cinched waist. I grabbed another dress as a back-up plan, red and ruffled and sleeveless. I skipped merrily to the dressing room. 
 
I grabbed size 12 because that's usually what I wear. I couldn't get either of them over my boobs. 
 
I went back and grabbed another red dress, in 14. I got it over my boobs, wiggled as I tried to get the hem over my hips. 
 
No dice. 
 
I tried stepping into the dress. 
 
Nada. 
 
I double checked the tag.  Maybe I had a dyslexic moment? I mean, how could a 14 not fit? Even at my most Snooki-esque, a 14 was fine. 

I didn't misread the tag. I went back to the floor and looked for a 16. There wasn't one. I asked an attendant if they carried any of their dresses in 16. She said, "Our sizes only go up to 14 in dresses and large in casual."
 
Oh. 
 
So, what you're saying is that I'm very close to being unable to shop here. For dresses, at least. In casual-wear, I'm still firmly entrenched in sizes medium and 10. And Chrissy, noting my panic, immediately pointed out, "Hey, dresses are weird. Don't worry about it."
 
But I did worry about it. I remember how easy getting dressed was back in my concave days. Everything fit. Everything looked good. There was no agonizing in front of the mirror for twenty minutes over every little lump and bump. 
 
I got stopped in the mall once, when I was concave. I was just walking past the food court, minding my own business. I was just wearing jeans and flip-flops and a blue and white striped baby-tee. I was around size 4 at this time. A boy randomly came up to me, college-age (music major, I later found out), and stopped me. 
 
"I just wanted to say that you're stunning."
 
I, of course, was completely like WTF, "Thank you?"
 
"This is weird. I'm sorry. I just...I just wanted to tell you that."
 
"Oh. Wow." I managed to grin like an idiot, "Thank you!"
 
We actually traded phone numbers (this was before Owen) and went on a few dates before it fizzled out. He had family issues. I was just coming out of an exceptionally bad relationship. We stopped things before they got bad and parted ways amicably and I still smile when I think of our strange little first encounter at the mall. 

Two months later, Owen slid into the seat in front of mine in the Adventureland break room and said, "Its so refreshing to see a beautiful girl reading something more intelligent than Cosmo in here," and the rest is history. 
 
Now, Owen doesn't say much about the 20 pounds I've packed on since that day in the break room. For one thing, he's gained some weight too. He's realized it though. He recently had to get one of his suits re-tailored and he's freaking out, but putting that anxiety to good use. He's been jogging and hitting the weight room and he joined an ultimate frisbee league in Kalamazoo. Whenever I make disparaging comments about my own weight, he's always quick to say "You're still pretty."
 
But the dress-shopping fiasco was my final straw.  I've already cut back on my binge drinking, and drinking in general. I'm proud of that. It was definitely a big problem. In a way, it still is. Everyday, on the way home from work, I have to make a conscious effort not to go to the liquor store. Every week, when I do Happy Hour with Chrissy, I have to make an effort not to have more than two or three beers. 
 
My willpower is constantly getting a workout. 
 
And its about to get worse. 
 
Now it's time to tackle everything else. I don't have the time to just jog for hours and hours and hours anymore. I'm not sure how I'm going to be able to do it, honestly. I also hate jogging outside, but I don't have a treadmill, or gym membership, so I don't have much choice. But I'll suck it up. I'll figure it out. I'll make this work. 
 
Later, kids. 
 
 
radiumgirl: (awkward teddy)
 I was so happy, you guys. SO HAPPY. 

Cut for episode spoilers and hardcore speculation for the rest of the season.

Cas is still a shitty liar. )
 
radiumgirl: (brothers)
Title: Last Call, a For Keeps Prequel
Spoilers: s!6 general (If you know what's going on this season, you'll be okay.)
Genre: AU, For Keeps 'verse
Summary: It’s not Sam’s birthday, but it’s close enough.
Warnings: swearing, slightly disturbing imagery (Sam’s been to Hell, after all)
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.
Author’s Note: Belated birthday fic for our ‘lil Sammeh. Takes place prior to the main events of the For Keeps ‘verse.

Almost angelic... )
radiumgirl: (Elphie)
 So, as much as I didn't want to get sucked into the royal wedding...I kinda did. I mean, I didn't get up at the ass-crack of dawn to watch it, but the highlights were on CNN at lunch and now...now...dammit. 

Owen is totally making fun of me, calling me up and putting on a really bad English accent, "Hello! I suppose you'd like to marry a prince now, eh?"

"Dude, 'Eh' is a Canadian expression. Get your dialects straight."

"Oh poppet, you fancy yourself a princess?"
 
"My daddy called me his princess all the time." 
 
Whatever. I justify it with the argument that we don't really have anything that compares. I mean, no one cares when the presidents' kids get married. One of the Bush twins got married a few years ago and it was like, a 30-second blurb on the news.  Chelsea Clinton got married and the only thought I had was, "To a guy? Really?  I thought I read somewhere that she likes girls?"
 
Yeah. So. I liked Kate's dress. That girl needs to eat a sandwich (or three) though, seriously. I keep calling her "Princess Skeletor" in my head because I'm an awful person. And she needs to eat a sandwich. Several sandwiches, in fact. 
 
Camilla looked good. There. I said it. I really liked her everything though. The coat. The hat. The hair. Gold star, lady. 
 
Posh Spice and David Beckham are scary looking. My landlord and I had tea together tonight and she said that she thinks they're androids. I think they are too. I couldn't even look at pictures and be like, "David Beckham is so hot" because all I was thinking is "David Beckham is too hot."
 
Also? I really liked the Spice Girls when I was in 4th grade. I cried when they broke up. CRIED. I was also eleven. My dad laughed at me. 
 
In conclusion, Harry is cute and I want to go get drunk with him. He's also older than me, which surprised me, because I thought I was older and felt like a pedo every time I thought, "You. Me. Royal pub crawl."
 
And then I watched The King's Speech and was all inspired and shit. Every time I watch historical dramas, I have to remember that (delightfully paraphrased) quote from Elizabeth Barrett Browning, "Every age feels unheroic to those who are living in it."
 
In conclusion, Happy birthday, Sammich Winchester. I was going to write you a story, but I got distracted by CNN and "Ding Dong, Osama's Dead" and trying to figure out whether I should pull out my tiny little American flag and start USA chanting or wring my hands and try to figure out if my joy makes me a barbarian. 
 
radiumgirl: (all-star)
Cut for Picspammy Goodness )
 
 
 
radiumgirl: (han shot first)
 I was going to angst last night, but I was too busy throwing things at my TV, so now I'm just going to repost my Facebook status because hockey season is over and no amount of sleep is making it hurt less:

So, I thought sleeping on it would make me feel better, but really, I still want to set the Tampa Bay Lightning on fire and kick each Penguin in the shin. It was 6 on 4, you guys. 6 on 4. The sky opened up, Jesus smiled at you, and you blew it.

I really thought we'd make some miraculous comeback in the end there, when Kuntiz broke his stick and the Lightning got shafted with a penalty. Certainly, fate cannot love the Tampa Bay Lightning. No one loves the Tampa Bay Lightning. I've heard on good authority that Tampa Bay isn't even particularly crazy about the lightning. 

So, the season is over. And I didn't get to watch a single playoff game on the lawn outside the arena. I have no idea when I'll have that opportunity again. By this time next year, I'll be living in Kalamazoo, surrounded by *shudder* Red Wings fans. 
 
Here, have an adorable kid to ease the pain:
 


radiumgirl: (brothers)
 Lucy the Staypuft Marshmallow car is back in my possession after a traumatizing two weeks apart. Stupid deer. 

There was a tense minute (closer to 30) where the foreman at the garage 1: couldn't find my car, then 2: couldn't find my keys. I raged silently because the electricity was out due to some impressive storms that rolled through the area and the receptionist at the garage apologized profusely and said that if their computers were up and running, this wouldn't have happened, because she could have looked up where Lucy was being stored. 

The foreman came back, soaking wet from running between the buildings, and huffing and puffing, "'05 PT Cruiser. Came in for hail damage, right?"

I shook my head, "No. I hit a deer. Well...it hit me, technically speaking..."

I trailed off and this look of total comprehension crossed his face, "Oh. OH. Well, that explains why I couldn't find it."

He ran back out into the rain and five minutes later, I was headed home in my baby. As soon as I pulled out of the parking lot, Lucy's gas light came on.

"You're fucking hungry already?"

I cranked up the radio and kissed the steering wheel, "Okay, I'm sorry. I missed you."

And then I came home, jumped on the internet, and heard about season 7. Hells to the YEAH. This totally makes up for the fact that I think my mother has taken up drinking. More on that later. I have to go work. In LUCY! MY LUCY! HAI BB! HAI!

radiumgirl: (you are here)
I was sitting on my sofa this afternoon, slightly distraught that I don't get BBC America (I used to, before I downgraded my cable package) and could not, therefore, watch the series premiere of Doctor Who tonight, when I remembered that the UK is shiny, and, more importantly, five hours ahead of me, which means that the episode already aired on their side of the pond.

Which, in turn, means I should be able to download it.

So I started an epic quest for torrents, and stumbled upon this. 

I'm so sad. So so sad. 

Sarah Jane Smith was an iconic character (in my humble opinion) and so important to the Who mythos, not only in the classic series but (again, in my humble opinion) even more so in the new series. She was a vital link to the past and the present and Elisabeth Sladen's enthusiasm, support, and constant contributions to the new series was nothing short of glowing. 
 
There have been companions both before and after Sarah Jane's departure, but to me, personally, even though I came into the show through the new series and, admittedly, have watched only pieces of the classic series, to me, Sarah Jane Smith was THE companion. She was Every(wo)man. During her time on the TARDIS, she became more than a damsel at a time when women needed to see that on their televisions. Later, when she resurfaces decades later in the new series, we see something that the classic series tended to gloss over: life after the Doctor. There is a reason why the Doctor cannot fall in love with his companions. There is a reason why he has to let them go. Sarah Jane's reappearance in the series served to remind us of that, and the Doctor, of the maelstrom that is his entire existence, of the bittersweetness he leaves in his wake. 
 
To travel with the Doctor would be an amazing opportunity, but it wouldn't come without consequences. 


 
Goodbye, lady. You were brilliant. 
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