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Current Mood: exhausted
Current Music: Best I Ever Had-- Vertical Horizon

My Life as an Anthropomorphic Dragon

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.

Current Mood: aggravated
Current Music: Dream On-- Aerosmith

So it Goes

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.

Current Mood: determined
Current Music: Oh Bo-- Bo Burnham

Topography of Concave Anatomy

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.

Current Mood: nervous

The Man who Would be King

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. )

Current Mood: sleepy
Current Music: Jar of Hearts-- Christina Perri

SPN FIC: Last Call, A For Keeps Prequel

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... )

Current Mood: curious
Current Music: People All Get Ready-- The Frames

Tiny Flags (My CNN Weekend Round-up)

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.

Current Music: Drop it Doe Eyes-- Los Campesinos

How Hockey Led to a Pre-Move Meltdown, Four Months Premature

( Cut for Picspammy Goodness )

Current Mood: crushed

In which one must talk the entire hockey-watching population of Pittsburgh dahn off the bridge...

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:

Current Mood: cheerful
Current Music: You! Me! Dancing!-- Los Campesinos

It's okay, baby, he just doesn't understand us...

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!

Current Mood: sad
Current Music: Titanic Suite-- James Horner

My Fellow Ameri-Whovians

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.

Current Mood: giggly
Current Music: The Washington Capitals can go fuck themselves.

Frontierland

I was drinking heavily during last night's Supernatural, but its okay, I took notes.

Cut for spoilers.

( I love posse... )

And then I continued drinking rum and watched Milk and cried forever.

Current Mood: awake
Current Music: I Don't Wanna Wait-- Paula Cole

Chronic Geek!Fail: Or, I Was an Adolescent History Hipster

I'm still on the fence about how I feel about last night's SPN ep, although I made dolphin noises at the TV every time there was a subliminal Titanic detail thrown across the screen, like the E.J. Smith travel agency and the clock, the CLOCK showing the time the Titanic struck the iceberg.

I was a big Titanic geek in my childhood, okay?

I said this to Katrina as we were watching Show last night when she demanded to know why I knew all of the things.

"And it had nothing to do with the movie. This was before the movie even came out."

"So, what you're saying is that you geeked out about the Titanic before it was cool to geek out about the Titanic?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"So. You were like, a Titanic Hipster when you were ten years old?"

"If it makes you feel any better, I had like, no friends, because dragging a tome like Titanic: An Illustrated History out to the playground at recess tends to peg you as a freak."

"Good. I'm glad."

Right. Okay. So. The rest of this post pertains to boring RL. Apologies.

Lucy the Staypuft Marshmallow Car is at the body shop awaiting parts for repair. I've renamed him the Danger Magnet for the time being. Psycho!Bambi did about $3500 in damage: new fender, new hood, new front drivers side door, plus painting. Fuck you, Psycho!Bambi.

I'm slated to have the Danger Magnet back on the 26th. In the meantime, I borrowed Katrina's car, "The Tick", and on Monday, her mom is letting me borrow her Jeep, which Katrina and I named "The Divorce Settlement, Part 1."

We like to name cars, okay? Chrissy drives "Echo the Dolphin Car" because it's little and silver and the satellite radio antenna looks like a fin. My car before Lucy was named "Cthulhu" because...well it was a small Honda of questionable road-worthiness and I wanted to let it know that I still thought of it as a badass. Owen drives a blue Honda Fit that we call "The Mighty Bubble."

My brother refuses to let us name his car because, "You guys come up with stupid-ass names."

Whatever. Ass.

I completely rewrote the beginning of "Leap Year" while at work this week and mapped out the remainder of the storyline. It has gone off in a completely unintended direction, but I really really like it, and Case and Gertie are still totally Case and Gertie. I want to finish the rough draft by tomorrow night so I can spend the next two weeks revising. There's a deadline for a themed lit mag on the 30th that I think this new incarnation of "Leap Year" (currently renamed "With Honors") will be perfect for.

I'll post some crap as it comes together.

Chao, kids.

Current Mood: flirty
Current Music: Come on Eileen-- Save Ferris

I Get all Tingly When You Take Control Like That

From here.

“There’s nothing serious about a plan that claims to reduce the deficit by spending a trillion dollars on tax cuts for millionaires and billionaires,” Mr. Obama said of budget proposals put forward by Republicans in the House. “There’s nothing courageous about asking for sacrifice from those who can least afford it and don’t have any clout on Capitol Hill. And this is not a vision of the America I know.”

He said people like him “don’t need a tax cut,” and added, “Not if we have to pay for it by making seniors pay more for Medicare, or by cutting kids from Head Start, or by taking away college scholarships that I wouldn’t be here without.”

“To meet our fiscal challenge, we will need to make reforms,” Mr. Obama said. “We will all need to make sacrifices. But we do not have to sacrifice the America we believe in. And as long as I’m president, we won’t.”

Oh sir, SIR! I remember why I voted for you now. I'm so glad you remembered where you hid the daddy pants. Please don't lose them again sir!

(Keep it up and I might even rehang that poster I took down as a display of disapproval when you came up with Obamacare.)

Current Mood: irritated

This is Why You Don't Get Nice Things

A deer ran into my car.

When I say that, I'm not trying to shirk blame. I didn't hit the deer. I didn't even see the deer...until it's head was in my window.

I may have, metaphorically speaking, shit my pants.

I was also covered with glass. My face is cut to shreds, my arms, the inside of my mouth, and possibly my esophagus. I keep coughing up bits of my window. My landlords, who are awesome, said they would drive me to the hospital if I feel that I need it. I don't think I need it, but I'm being cautious. If I start coughing up blood, I'll go.

So, yeah, I was driving to work. My work commute entails that I drive through Keystone State Park. It was right after the park police station, so I was only going about 30 mph. I didn't even see the deer. I heard a THUMP and glass shattering...I looked up and there was a deer's head in my window, flailing and jerking.

Somehow, Psycho!Bambi extracted itself from my window and scampered into the woods. I hope it dies a horrible death.

I sat in my car taking in the glass, the blood steadily dripping from my face. I slowly reached over and turned off the radio. I noticed my mirror lying in the street and wandered out to retrieve it.

My poor car. My poor, poor car.

I have to report it to my insurance. I need a new window. I can't fix that myself.

$500 deductible.

There goes the Michigan fund.

Anybody know a quick way to make a buck?

Current Mood: chipper
Current Music: Jar of Hearts-- Christina Perri

Lazy Sunday

I have nothing of substance to offer. It was a gloriously lazy Sunday. I woke up at 7 because my job has broken my ability to sleep in, though admittedly, when you wake up at 4:30 everyday, 7 is pretty amazing.

So, I woke up at 7, did the dishes that piled up over three days, mopped the kitchen and the bathroom, and folded some clothes. I watched some BBC documentary about Anne Frank, then Jesus Camp, which is fucking horrifying and had me rethinking my childhood for a good two hours because I was totally shipped off to bible camp every summer when I was a kid and it was pretty much exactly like that except without the speaking in tongues because we were Baptists and didn't hold with that nonsense. But the creationism textbooks, the complete lack of understanding of abortion, the I-Pledge-Allegiance-to-the-Bible, and the cliquiness...it was all there. I read some articles and reviews about the movie afterwards that called for the parents and directors of that camp to be called up on child abuse charges.Those kids are going to be FUCKED UP when they grow up. Trust me. Been there, done that.

Anyway. It was a beautiful day here. 80 degrees and sunny. I opened my windows and sat on the porch until just about an hour ago.I worked on that Bobby-centric For Keeps story and "Eleanor Rigby at the Tree of Knowledge" (Yay! Hack writing! Now featuring Beatles references!) I was totally stoked that a citronella candle I left out on the window ledge all winter still lit.

( Here. Have some picspam. )

Current Mood: hopeful
Current Music: watching "The West Wing"

Everything I Need to Know About American Civics, I Learned from Watching The West Wing

Or: hey, the government isn't going to shut down. Sweet.

So, watching CNN like a hawk for the past week has put me in a West Wing mood. I watched the entire first run way back when I was a wee one. I have seasons 1-3 on DVD and my brother has 4-7.

FYI: We were painfully uncool twelve-year-olds.

I remember reading an article in (possibly) TV Guide in response to the first season finale. We're talking about an article that ran twelve, maybe thirteen years ago, but every time I haul my DVDs out, I remember a line from it that said something along the lines of "...former White House workers have praised the show for it's honesty, realism, and accuracy...blah blah blah...you want to hear that the real West Wing is like this because you want to believe that the people in the White House are just as passionate, idealistic, and altruistic as their fictional counterparts. You want to believe that art imitates life in this case. These are the people you want watching over you as you sleep."

I paraphrased like whoa. We're talking about an article I read a decade ago, remember?

But that's the gist of it and it's pretty true. Honestly, I'm alot more cynical than I was when I was twelve, so I'm not about to sit around all googly-eyed and think that there was some epic romantic moment that saved us from an all-out shutdown. But it's nice to pretend. And you know what? When I woke up this morning, I jumped on CNN.com honestly expecting the headline to say we were at a stand-still, that all of our social programs were shut down, education was decimated, etc etc etc. I try to avoid pulling out my soapbox here because it tends to get nasty, so bear with me. This probably won't happen again. Owen and I have a strict no-political discussion rule in effect. He thinks I'm a communist and I think he's naive. I'm an unapologetic Democrat, and he registered Independent to avoid giving his father the satisfaction of knowing that he registered Republican, but he's quick to jump to his dad's defense when I call him a corporate blowhard.

I say that affectionately. Owen's dad is a great guy. He just needs to lay off the talk radio.

I don't mind paying taxes if the money is well-spent. I firmly believe that the government has a responsibility to look out for it's most marginalized citizens. I support Planned Parenthood and WIC and I know they are abused, I know this, but everything is abused, really. Look at outsourcing. And if you make more money, I believe you should pay more taxes. If you are making enough money that you can pay your bills and support your family and go to the Bahamas and send your kids to a good college and retire to Florida...and you are bitching about your taxes, taxes that will go towards better education, technological advancements, etc etc etc and sure, even the military...I have no respect for you. None whatsoever. "With great power comes great responsibility." Life lessons from Marvel Comics, kids.

Ok. I'm done. And if you now think I'm a crazy lesbo liberal anti-America commie, I'm sorry. But please to be not picking a fight with me. It'll get nasty and I will be sad. I respect your opinion. I mean, I'm dating a guy who, just last night, informed me that he would be okay with living in a world where Donald Trump was the President of the United States. Honestly, if you aren't Glenn Beck...I don't long for your disembowelment.

/rant

So, I was shocked and pleasantly surprised to see the headline say that the government wasn't shutting down. That's the moral of the story.

And I'm totally geeking out to one of my oldest fandom loves. I called Gabe earlier. One of our cracky plans is that he will run for President one day. That's not entirely cracky, actually. The cracky part is that I will be his speech-writer when I grow up. So, I called Gabe and I was like, "I'm watching West Wing. Can I still be your Sam when I grow up?"

"I thought you were going to be my Toby."

"Toby is too important. You know I'll inevitably get inappropriately drunk at some state function and call your opponent a fascist. Or the press will get a hold of someone I went to college with and run a story about that time I drank a bottle of wine and peed in an alley while at a party full of underagers. No. I'd rather be your Sam."

"Okay. You can be my Sam."

"I'd even settle for being your Donna."

"No. You're going to be my Sam."

Hee. I leave you with my favorite moment from The West Wing. I ship Donna/Josh so hard. SO. HARD.

Current Mood: aggravated
Current Music: Some Other Way-- Peter Lewy

Radio Silence

Guess who got a shiny new rejection letter in the mail? That's right. This kid.

I generally try to be a good sport about these things. I make coasters out of the rejections from The Gettysburg Review because they're printed on such nice paper, with such nice calligraphy; they're such a nice way to say "no."

This one wasn't from The Gettysburg Review. I had a good feeling about this one. I thought this one might be it.

I mean, not it it, but a good step onward and upward. Yes? Yes.

So. I spent the past day-and-a-half ~~moping~~ throwing a non-alcoholic pity party and I dove into work this afternoon because if I can't be the best damn writer ever, I can be the best damn temp ever. Or something. I even considered buying my co-workers donuts as a show of affection, then rejected the idea because the other admins will probably think I'm sucking up. They already think my professed love of stiletto heels is a bid for undue attention. Sometimes I feel like Dexter when I'm at work: it's all an elaborate act.

Except for when it isn't.

I also hung pictures in my new cubicle which, despite the suck-ass location and suck-ass commute, is actually Very Nice.

This is my dad and I on Myrtle Beach in July, 1987. I'm five months old.

I cannot fathom being this baby. I cannot fathom it to the point that this morning, while having a post-conference-call meltdown, I convinced myself that there is no possible way I could have ever been this baby. It was bizzare. I was sitting there wondering what happened to that baby when Dolores leaned over my side of the desk and ran her finger over the picture tacked up next to a snapshot of Owen and I, "Wow, you haven't changed a bit."

"Uh...what?"

She tapped the picture, "You're one of those people who looks the same as a baby as they do as an adult. It's your eyes. You look like your dad, too."

"Everyone says I look like my mom."

"Well, you don't have any pictures of your mom hanging up so I can't judge. But I think you look like your dad."

It was a weird day. I might have to take the picture of my dad down. I keep getting into staring contests with myself, a delightfully monotone voiceover in my head going, "This is your life. This is your life. This is your life."

But hey, I didn't crawl into a bottle of Fish Eye Chardonnay on the way home from work, so I count it as a win. Gold star for me. I did my brother's financial aid paperwork for next year and wrote a For Keeps installment to make myself feel better, which I'm in the process of editing. I also picked two journals to submit original stuff to at the end of the month because I'm a total masochist.

Current Mood: busy
Current Music: Oh Bo-- Bo Burnham

Favorite Son

Oh hey, kids.

So, there's this really sweet community called

spnquotefic that you should check out. For everyone who wanted a peek inside Sammy's head in the For Keeps 'verse, I've been trying for the past few weeks to cook something up, but Sam hasn't really been cooperating. It's understandable, really, but frustrating, you know?

Anyway, this week's episode is Born Under a Bad Sign and For Keeps!Sam saw the following quote and just wouldn't stop talking. Or...not talking, really. You know how For Keeps!Sam is.

Anyway, it's super short. I'm not even sure if I'll link it to the 'verse proper, but I'm excited because I feel like we're finally making some progress, Sam and I.

Favorite Son

More to come later, I hope. Now I'm off to ~~cult~~ church, with my cousins, who laid the guilt trip down yesterday. I won't drink the kool-aid, I promise.

Current Mood: excited
Current Music: Chances-- Athlete

Anglophilia for Beginners

I'd like to interrupt your Supernatural hellatus to bring you this very special, shiny, spam:

Eleven! Oh I love you, Eleven! I mean, Ten is still my Doctor, but truth be told, I think I'd rather be your companion. Ten was a little...how can I put this nicely...fucked in the head towards the end there. I mean, Katrina and I spent a month sobbing our eyes out when the ever-so-shiny BBC announced that David Tennant was leaving the role, and then what they did to Donna. DONNA. I'm still not over that, BBC. Seriously. Who do you think you are? The CW? Don't sink to their level. You're better than that. You're...you're...British.

Anyway, lookit Eleven. Lookit Amy and Rory.

Rose who?

(I'm sorry, Rose. I take that back. I love you. I wish I had Billie Piper's eyebrows.)

Is it can be Easter now?

Oh look, more spam. It's my favorite-est Doctor Who fanvid ever. I just want to hug it and love it and snuggle it forever. It makes me feel kinda guilty for not having a huge interest in watching the original stuff. Katrina mocks me all the time. She has mad mad mad love for Two, Three, and Four, in fact, she has a poster on her and my bro's fridge with Jon Pertwee slapping someone that says "You shut your whore mouth when the doctor is talking." Yeah. No. Really.

"You'll watch the stupid fucking American TV movie, which is like, fucking blasphemy, but cardboard Daleks are too much for you?"

"HEY NOW. PAUL MCGANN WAS IN THE STUPID FUCKING AMERICAN MOVIE AND HE'S SHINY. AND YOU SAID EIGHT IS YOUR FAVORITE "NEW" DOCTOR."

"...shut your whore mouth."

PS: Katrina turns 21 tomorrow. I plan on getting her drunk and picking fights over who the best Doctor is. XD

I'm sorry. I'll go sit down now.

Current Mood: contemplative
Current Music: Grey- Ani DiFranco

Second Person Twice Removed

I like writing in second-person narrative. I've utilized it in fanfic, original fic, and poetry with generally positive responses. I'm stuck in the mud with Radium Girl, and I've never used it for non-fiction, nor have I heard of it being utilized very often in the genre (though I'm more than happy to acknowledge my ignorance if anyone knows of any examples), so I'm experimenting.

Go forth, my little lab rats. Eat this tainted cheese and let me pick your brains. This is a super-short segment from the first (of three) sections in Radium Girl that I've rewritten in second-person, so it's pretty rough, but before I go ahead and do a large-scale rewrite, I would love some insight.

I'm concerned that it just doesn't work in a non-fiction narrative. Is it weird to be writing about myself and referring to myself as "you?" Is it a cop-out? I'm particularly worried about it being a cop-out because when I write about the really shitty times, I find it much easier to write about it with a buffer between us. Then again, maybe this just an elaborate way for me to write about the bad things I've done without actually taking responsibility for them?

This actually isn't a dark segment though, so don't worry. The angst is at a minimum. I don't even cuss in this segment. (I know, crazy, right?) This is just a quick and dirty rewrite for the sake of driving the shiny new narrative around.

( No white light )