Recent Entries

Current Music: My Alcoholic Friends-- The Dresden Dolls

TARDIS Take Me Away

I filled out an application for a position with a pharmaceutical company doing pretty much the exact same thing that I do at my temp job. In fact, the phrase "one-year contract" appears on this particular application and it makes me think that this is actually, probably, yet another temping job.

The following also appears on the job site:

-Tolerance for highly repetitive work
-Independent thinker

You know, job, I know you think you want "independent thinkers" but trust me when I say you don't. My independent thinking is what usually gets me in trouble at work. And I currently work in a "highly repetitive" job, which only exacerbates this problem.

How about you stop dicking around and tell everyone what you really want:

Current Mood: amused
Current Music: Gray or Blue-- Jaymay

The League of Extraordinary Fuck-Ups

It's been a bad week. Nothing spectacular, just continuing the trend of failing to find a job. I was surprised by what a nice weekend it's been though. I worked the open-afternoon shift at Adventureland yesterday so I could go to Rooney's party, and I hate opening. I loathe opening. I utterly despise opening. I don't know if Brad kept that in mind when he made the schedule or what, but he had me with Tyler, and I love Tyler. I gush about Tyler. He's absolutely the most precious human being on the face of the planet. He is, and I say this with a straight face, too precious for this world.

So, it wasn't a bad shift. It ended on a hilarious note when our replacements came in. At 17, Tyler is the youngest team member on the schedule and the rest of us, we suddenly noticed, are uncharacteristically old, as far as amusement park seasonal worker demographics tend to go. Tyler is already leaving us, only a month into the season. His family is going on vacation, and when he gets back, he has soccer camp until school starts, so it's just not worth it for him. This is his last weekend and we're all going to miss him. He's a delight. Brad said, "Have a nice life, kid." and Tyler got all pouty and said,"We'll see each other! And don't call me kid, you're like, two years older than me."

Brad, our Fearless Leader, is thirty.

This started a rousing game of "Guess my Age" and Tyler guessed that I am twenty-one, Molly is twenty-two, and Bethany is nineteen or twenty. We all laughed hysterically. Our real ages are twenty-four, twenty-six, and twenty-seven, respectively.

Tyler gaped, "Wow. You guys are old. Why do you still work at Adventureland? Don't you have real jobs?"

I deadpanned, "We're a merry band of fuck-ups."

Brad completely lost his shit and laughed so hard that he shot Gatorade through his nose, which sucked for him. Molly snorted and Bethany frowned and said, "Yeah. Pretty much."

At that point, the shift was over and Tyler and I had to drop our cash bags off at the revenue office on the way out. Tyler insisted on carrying my bag, "I feel really bad. That was kinda rude, what I said, wasn't it?"

"Eh. I mean, it is what it is. And you didn't say we were fuck-ups. I said we were fuck-ups."

"But...you're not. You guys are so awesome. And smart. And you all went to college-"

I shrugged. "And we all fucked-up in our own ways. Brad is lazy as shit. Bethany isn't rude but she tends to come off that way. I majored in English, a degree that is really only good for getting more degrees. Molly had a real job but she got laid off-"

"That's not her fault."

"No."

"And it's not fair."

"No, it's not."

"I feel really bad for saying that though."

I threw an arm around him and said, "Don't feel bad, seriously, no one in there is offended. We know what we are."

I thought he was going to cry right there in the midway. This is why he rocks at Guest Services. Also? He has Sam Winchester Puppy Eyes of Doom. You come up to him and you're bent out of shape over a cold corn dog and you might as well tell him that all of the kittens in the world just dropped dead.

"Dude." I said, "You're being a bigger girl than me. Stop it. I mean, it's not like our lives totally suck."

"Brad lives in his mom's basement. I thought he meant, like, for the summer, but he meant all the time. That's horrible!"

I opened the door for him and we lowered our voices because the full-time employees get pissy when the seasonal employees are noisy in the offices, "Tyler, I'm sure he's not living in squalor. I'm sure it's a very nice basement. Also? He's fucking Kelsey. So his life doesn't suck that much."

"Wait, Brad's fucking Kelsey?" Tyler's voice cracked and he handed our bags through the window. The revenue worker rolled his eyes when Ty ignored the sign-in sheet to give me a pointed look, "Is that even legal? How old is Kelsey?"

"She's my age, dude. Sign the fucking paper before Fred stabs you."

"Really? Is Kelsey a fuck-up, too?" Except it sounded more like he was asking, "Is Kelsey a superhero, too?"

"No." We swiped our time cards and started to climb the hill up to the employee parking lot, "Kelsey's a doctoral student."

Current Mood: curious
Current Music: Come Monday Morning-- God Help the Girl

Family Remains

Despite the fact that *facepalm* tends to be the default regard that I hold for pretty much everyone who shares DNA with me, I'm pretty fascinated by my family. I've been intrigued by my ancestors since I was a kid, mostly because I don't know very much about any of them and alot of what I do know is heavily ancedotal across the board. Apparently my dad's grandmother was a snake-charmer in a travelling carnival. All I have as evidence of this is a picture of an old lady in a pink sundress with snake tats all over her arms. Oh, and her name was Claire.

It's occured to me that if I'm going to talk about family history in Radium Girl (the memoir, not the Livejournal), I should probably have the facts straight.

So I signed up for an ancestry.com account. It's not the best method, I know, and believe me, if I could hire a real geneologist I would. But it's something. And I'm making headway. But Jeebus, geneology is hard.

I really wanted to get some confirmation on the more ancedotal "facts" that my family swears by.

Ok, so really I wanted to get confirmation of the ancedotes that My-Mother-the-Convict swears by.

Melinda's family fascinates me. She was an only-child. Her father killed himself before she was born. Her mother remarried an abusive alcoholic when Melinda was five and didn't divorce him until Melinda was out of high school. I'm fairly certain that alot of this plays into why Melinda is a psycho.

I even wrote a paper on it, once, for a Sociology class, about how fucked-up people make fucked-up kids, thus producing generation after generation of fucked-up people. It's why I'm completely terrified of eventually making babies because Melinda is a head-case and I'm not too far behind her and I want to think that my compulsive drive to be as un-like my mother as humanly possible means that I'll adore my kids and not ruin them, but then I guess everyone ruins their kids if you think about it. Most people don't even try. I would say that Owen's parents are, like, textbook suburban affluent borderline-obsessed-with-their-children parents who did everything "right": private school, stay-at-home mom, sports and piano lessons; and yet Owen can't sleep at night if he thinks too hard about whether or not his dad is proud of him and once he got really really drunk and cried about how he and his dad never do "father-son" things anymore.

Anyway, Melinda always made a big stink about how her grandfather was at Lakehurst the night the Hindenburg crashed, how he worked there, how her mother said she sat up all night with her mom listening to the radio broadcast and worrying.

I thought this was awesomesauce when I was a kid.

As I got older, I started to doubt this. I mean, Melinda's crazy, after all. And she told me the story after I came home with the book about the disaster when I was eleven, so she probably just wanted to...I don't know. Get me to pay attention to her instead of the book for ten minutes.

Well...I haven't exactly confirmed Melinda's story, but I've found enough evidence that I feel confident enough to make the claim myself.

1930 US Census, baby. I found him. There's a box for "occupation" and it said "railroad" and I was like, "see, lies" and then I scrolled over and there was a box for "employer" and there, in glorious scrawling ink, "Naval Air Station Lakehurst."

So, I think it stands to reason that he very well could have been there on May 6, 1937.

Then there's his wife. She's proving harder to track down because I don't know her maiden name and I'm not calling Melinda just to ask, which is a bit of a shame because she's the legacy here if we're being honest. She's the original (alleged) Radium Girl, and her nickname was meant to evoke a lot more than bad personality traits and inherent potential pickled in Patron.

And when I say she was "the" Radium Girl, what I really mean is that she was "a" Radium Girl because there were many.

Read: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Radium_girls

All I know about Melinda's grandmother, my great-grandmother, is that her name was Olivia, she worked in a clock factory during World War I, she had two kids: my grandmother, and a still-born son who was apparently horribly deformed, then she died of a brain tumor when she was 39 or 40 and my grandmother inherited a buttload of money "because of it."

Apparently the money was squandered through the combined efforts of her alcoholic second husband and her "not-quite-right" daughter. That's a quote lifted from her diaries, there. I don't like to read them, but I made myself do it once because I remembered her writing in them when I was a kid and I was genuinely curious. They're pretty dark. Not alot of details, just general unhappiness with life. It bothers me how often she writes about Melinda being "not right" and "manipulative" and "nasty" though. The diaries I have in my possession cover 1975 until her death in 1992. I never understood why no one did anything about it if it was so clear that my mom has always had problems...unless they did try, and failed, like me.

So, Melinda says Olivia was a Radium Girl. I say the ancedotal evidence points that way,and the find about my great-grandfather definitely gives Melinda a shiny little brownie point in the credibility department (cherish it, crazy-pants), but I want confirmation before I make such a claim...especially if I'm going to put that claim in writing...like in, say, a memoir.

Ah well, back to digging. I have six hours on a bus tomorrow to get my hands dirty. Maybe I'll even cave and call Melinda once we're firmly across state lines.

Current Mood: amused
Current Music: Awake my Soul-- Mumford & Sons

A Little Less Rage, A Little More Sixteen Candles

Oh my god. Doctor Who and Supernatural. Together. As one.

I'm sorry. I have to go change my panties now.

Alright. Back to the job hunt.

Current Mood: happy
Current Music: Gravity-- Sara Bareilles

Epilogue

The first job I ever had was as a burger bitch at McDonald's and it sucked, but I was sixteen and I needed to work somewhere that I could walk to. I had a manager named Nina whom I adored. Nina was loud and funny. She was short and had a tattoo of Bowser from the Mario games on her forearm. We went to the same high school, not at the same time, but close enough that we knew alot of the same teachers.

"Is Mrs. K still there?"

"Yeah. She's on medical leave. Got her tubes tied or something."

"About fucking time. We called her the baby machine when I was in high school. How many kids she have? Eleven?"

"Thirteen."

"Jesus fuck."

For the brief time that we worked together, Nina probably did more to sexually liberate me than my boyfriends did. She was the Rizzo to my Sandra Dee.

"What do you mean you won't let him eat you out? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

So really, it was only a matter of time before Nina got herself fired.

I was devastated. Nina wasn't all fun and games all the time. After we closed, all the smokers went out behind the dumpster to steal a minute to fuel their habit and even though my habit didn't start until college, I'd go out with them because why not?

Nina was a recovering meth-head. She had two boys that CFS had taken away. They lived with their dad, Nina's ex, who was also a meth-head, but he hadn't gotten caught. Nina lived in a shitty apartment above the tobacco shop downtown with her boyfriend who would come in and help us clean-up after close so we'd get out earlier. He had really pretty tattoos of flowers and skulls on both arms. Nina was serious about staying clean. She smoked, but she didn't drink, and she always told Gary-the-Pot-Head that he was going to ruin his life.

I thought that Nina's determination meant that the rest of the world should be just as determined to help her out. And if that meant that she shouldn't be fired for losing her temper with a customer who was making an excessively big deal about cold fries....then so be it.

(I'd like to say that I've grown out of this attitude, but I really haven't, and it shows in my work ethic.)

I wrote a letter to our franchise owner explaining that Nina was an admirable employee, she was just having a bad day, and don't we all?

He said that my letter was very well thought-out and eloquent considering my age, but the customer she insulted was a close personal friend of his and he didn't take insults to his friends lightly.

The last time I saw Nina was the day she was formally asked not to come back. She showed up for work and was turned away. She was sobbing, head down, manager tie dangling from one hand as she started walking back downtown.

Flash forward eight years.

Today I had to run to the mall to exchange a pair of shorts. I came back through town and ended up stopped at the light on Depot Street. It's a warm, sunny day and alot of people were out. I gawked at the joggers coming out of the park, people on the sidewalk by the dry-cleaners, the Sunoco...and there she was. There was Nina. She was with the same boyfriend from our McDonald's time, I recognized the tattoos. He was carrying a pizza box from the Dominoes up the block, his other arm wrapped around Nina's shoulders. He was smiling and she was laughing and behind them, walking close and shoving each other playfully, were two boys, one was tall and dark haired, maybe fifteen or so. The other was smaller, softer, maybe around ten years old. Maybe a little younger.

I grinned like an idiot. I always thought of Nina whenever I drove past the shitty apartments above the tobacco store, with the dark, narrow windows and the peeling paint on the door. I watched Nina and her family turn up the street and head towards the small cluster of modest houses by the ice cream place. It's a cute neighborhood. I almost rented a house there myself, but the rent in my current apartment was cheaper. It's a tree-lined street, hilly, but close enough to walk to most of the places downtown. The yards are small, but well-kept. It's a modest neighborhood, working class definitely...but eons away from the cramped quarters above the tobacco shop.

I'm so happy that things worked out for Nina. I'm happy that I have a new "last time" to replace the one that I've carried for the past eight years.

Current Mood: awake
Current Music: Grand-- Matt and Kim

Back in the Saddle

Yesterday was my first day back at Adventureland. It was pretty standard for an early season outing: long line for season pass pictures, printer jams, pissed-off people. Alot of rides aren't open yet because they either haven't been safety tested, aren't assembled yet (I laughed my ass off, I mean really?), or failed a fire inspection (and just when I don't think I can laugh any harder, I do). Apparently the radio frequencies changed between this year and last because I called my supervisor three times on the public safety channel. The general lack of communication is still in place: I called down to the Main Gate looking for a credit card that had been delivered to us an hour earlier.

Gabe is in Guest Services this year. He's on vacation because he's a sloth and no one knows when he's coming back because it's his dad's beach house on the Outer Banks and it's not like he really needs the job anyway. When I call him to make fun of him, I stick with "sloth" though, because he gets sad when I call him "cake eater."

There are a few returning ladies of G-Serv other than myself and, I was surprised when I looked at the schedule, a few new male additions. There was a running joke last year that Guest Services was Brad's personal harem because it was staffed entirely by women, except for him. It didn't help that he started dating one of us towards the end of the season. I leaned against the door of Brad's office and held the schedule up, "Way to turn your harem into a sausage fest."

"Are you complaining?"

"Nope. I love the men. Are they pretty?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Yes you would. I know when women are attractive. That doesn't mean I want to bang any of them."

"Well Gabe is here."

"And he is a bronze god."

"Travis will be in later and you can report back, okay?"

"Aye, sir."

"I love when you call me 'sir.'"

"It's more sarcasm than respect."

"From you I would expect nothing less."

It's a little freaky how easy it is to slide back into that rhythm. I've been at my temp job for six months now and I still walk in and panic because I don't know what's going on half the time, don't know which co-workers I can talk to, play with, or trust. Walking back into Adventureland, details like the radio frequency aside, was like slipping into a comfortable pair of old shoes.

And apparently, Travis and I know each other already. He used to be a rides extra, a rides person who was trained on everything and belonged to no specific team. He was loaned out to teams as needed to cover call-offs. I feel bad because I don't really remember him, but he rang on the window next to mine, and at one point, during a lull in the line, said, "Hey, you're the old Jungle manager. I worked with you once."

"Oh god. I'm sorry. Was I mean?"

"Nah. You made this really amazing buffalo chicken dip for your team and let us all take 45 minute breaks."

"Wow, you got me on a good day."

"Yeah. Gabe warned me when we walked down. I was supposed to be on the Ferris Wheel, but you had a call-off and on the way down he asked if I had worked with you before and I said 'no' and he got this weird look on his face."

"Oh noooooo. I bet he told you I was a bitch who regularly made my team members cry."

"Nah. He said you were a little rough around the edges, but a total sweetheart."

"Of course he did."

"No really!"

"Did I make anyone cry that day?"

"Not that I recall."

"I must've been off my game."

So despite the fact that I don't remember him, I love Travis and he's my favorite sausage in our harem.

It's good to be back, kids. It's good to be back.

Current Mood: tired
Current Music: Defying Gravity-- Idina Menzel

Random Fangirl Observation of the Day

Ok, so my brother and I had a small finale-marathon tonight: Swan Song, Let it Bleed, and The Man Who Knew Too Much and the thing is, I've been wondering about some details regarding soulless!Sam in the S6 finale.

I initially had the thought, and I've seen it floating around the interwebs, that there shouldn't have been a soulless!Sam hallucination during Sam's headspace roadtrip in 6.22 because, um, soulless.

So, there's that. But then, the whole, "We're in your grapefruit, Sam."

That's a Lucy quote, kids. And as soon as that came out of soulless!Sam's mouth, I was like, "OH SHIT SON."

And then we were re-watching Swan Song tonight, and you know what? Swandive!Sam and soulless!Sam have the same wardrobe. I mean, it's the exact same jacket, shirt, everything. Ok, sure, Sam was wearing that outfit at the very end of the episode, when he was being a creeper, and was technically, at that point, soulless. But IDK. The grapefruit quote still rubs me the wrong way (in a good way). Jared even said it like Lucifer.

So. I don't think my bleeding fangirl heart is going to be able to take that, if Sam's post-wall state ends up being what I currently suspect that it might be. I just want Sammich to be okay (after, you know, an episode or two of post-wall residual effects of win) and mostly, himself.

Aw. BB.

Also? My brother is not one to usually comment on actors and their skill. So my brain melted a little when we were watching Swan Song and my brother looks over and says, "Wow. Padalecki can really act."

"Um. I know."

"No, but, like, even the body language between real Sam and Lucifer Sam.... It's really something."

"I know. The internet knows. We just wish that the Gods of Casting for films of a higher caliber than Friday the 13th and the Christmas (fucking) Cottage knew."

JARED! I less-than-three you! You are shiny. Your smile powers the sun. Also? I've seen the con pictures and your hair is beautiful. Don't listen to the dissenters. Haters gonna hate. KISSES!

Okay, kids. Radium Girl's beat. She walked through a thunderstorm to pay the nice mechanic an ungodly sum of money (ok, not really, but it feels like it) to make Lucy the Staypuft Marshmallow Car roadworthy again. More substance tomorrow; possibly a discussion of how I inadvertently became the office whore without even sleeping with anyone.

Current Mood: tired
Current Music: I Love the Way you Lie-- Eminem ft. Rihanna

SPN FIC: ...and God has Turned His Back

Title: ...and God has Turned his Back
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby, Cas (mentioned)
Word count: 465
Summary: Coda to 6.22.
Warnings: Spoilers for the finale. Angst. Bobby!POV.
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.
Notes: OH HEY LOOK, SOME NON-FOR-KEEPS FIC. I'm working on some whumped!canon!Dean. Consider this a prequel. This was actually the introduction to that fic, but I think it works on it's own.

( Bobby keeps his eye on them. )

Current Mood: cheerful
Current Music: We Will Become Silhouettes-- Postal Service

You! Me! Dancing!

The wedding was fantastic. It was, undoubtedly, the highlight of an otherwise completely suck-ass week. It cost $240 to fix the transmission cable in my car, then, literally the next morning, the sensor in my gas tank stopped reading the fuel level. We haven't fixed that one yet. My mechanic is looking for a cheap replacement and I just literally don't have the funds right now. Plus, I still need new tires on top of everything. I keep trying to get approved for a credit card, just for emergencies like this, but I keep getting denied because of my pathetic income.

Whatever.

Like I said, the wedding was fantastic. It was beautiful. I have never seen the bride and groom so happy. There was assigned tables, but whoever did the assigning (the bride, I'm told) did a great job seating everyone. Owen and I were at Table 14, which ended up being nicknamed both the "Adventureland Table" and the "Drunk Table." It was Owen and I, my G-Serv supervisor and the Splash Zone supervisor, two random kids from IUP who were literally sucking down vodka cranberries two at a time, and Caroline, an ex-rides wench. Caroline's fiancée, Ashton, and Gabe, were both groomsmen, so they didn't sit with us, but they visited alot.

We would wait until the bride and groom were about to put food in their mouths and then bang on our glasses to make them kiss. Gabe and I made threatening gestures at each other from across the room. I made the throat-slitting motion and he dove under the wedding party table.

You can dress Adventureland kids up, but you can't take them out.

There was a wedding polka. Owen was SO HAPPY. YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW HAPPY OWEN WAS. For those of you unfamiliar with the wedding polka tradition, it's awesome and you're missing out. It's an Eastern European tradition. Owen says Hungarian, but I always say that's just because Owen is part Hungarian. My mother's family did it at their weddings, and they're all Polish. My dad's family doesn't do it though, and they're German. So. The bride either wears an apron, or makes the maid of honor hold a sack. All the guests line up and put money in the sack or the apron, and get to dance with the bride for a few seconds. Then they get to do a shot of either schnaaps or whiskey. Meanwhile, the groom is chillin with his homeboys somewhere. After everyone has danced with the bride, they make a circle around her and dance and the groom has to fight his way to the center of the circle with the aid of his groomsmen. I was worried that Owen was going to break the groom. He takes the wedding polka very seriously.

I didn't catch the bouquet and Owen didn't catch the garter. Gabe caught the garter though, and he did a sexy dance when he had to slide it onto the chick who did catch the flowers. He knocked back gin and tonic all night. It was brilliant. He kept trying to get the Splash Zone supervisor to dance, and she vehemently refused to leave her chair, so he got Brad from G-serv to help him carry her, chair and all, to the dance floor, where he proceeded to dance around her while she sat sulking. At one point, I left my spot at the table, having been throwing back vodka cranberry at the same rate of Gabe's gin consumption, and I wandered over to Daphne, pointed to Gabe, and said, "Those are beautiful abs. How can you not want to dance with those abs?"

Gabe said, "Yeah. My abs are a work of art." He winked at me, "Wanna touch them?"

My hand immediately jutted out, "Like carved from stone."

"You can touch the pecs too if you want."

"Oh, I think I will."

And then his arms tightened around my waist and he twirled me right into the groom's grandma. She thought it was funny. Gabe giggled, "Is Owen gonna kick my ass?"

"Oh darling!" I yelled, waving for Owen to look at me, "Can I dance with the pretty man?"

"Oh Cupcake!" He yelled back, "I don't care what you do. YOU, however," he pointed at Gabe, "Will find yourself on my list if I leave this party single tonight."

Gabe twirled me and dipped me and chastised me for not letting him lead. I said, "Why should I let you lead?"

"Because I'm the man."

"I never let you boss me around when you were actually my boss. I'm not about to start now. And not with a flimsy excuse like that."

We had to stop dancing because Gabe was laughing too hard.

There was an after-party at Sharkey's that Owen and I went to for a bit. It consisted mostly of the Adventureland Table, plus Gabe and Ashton. Gabe ate all of my mints. I ate all of Owen's popcorn. Brad hit on the waitress. Caroline and Ashton decided they didn't want to run away and get married in Vegas after all.

( Here. Have some pictures. )

Current Mood: aggravated
Current Music: watching Tosh.0

If My Life Wasn't Funny...Oh Screw It.

I got in my car today, Lucy, the car I've only had in my possession for about three weeks or so since the deer damage was repaired, and I turned the ignition and went to shift out of park...and couldn't.

Sometimes it's sticky in the morning. Sometimes I just have to pull a little harder than usual.

I should have probably stopped when I realized I was bracing myself against the dash to get enough leverage to make some sort of impact on the shifter.

Oh, it shifted alright.

No longer stuck, the shifter moved freely from gear to gear, but it wouldn't lock into any of them.

Then the ignition wouldn't relinquish my key.

Lucy has since been towed to the garage up the street. I'm still waiting on the verdict. The mechanic said he didn't think it was the whole transmission, but he wouldn't know for sure until he looked at it. I was hoping he'd call me at some point today because I'd really like to know what this is going to cost me. But he didn't. I'll call tomorrow if I don't hear from him before lunch.

My landlord's kid let me borrow his car so I could go to work today. I'm borrowing my brother's tomorrow. After that, we'll play it by ear. The mechanic said if it is what he thinks it is, I might have it back tomorrow night or Thursday...assuming I can pay for it.

It's kinda funny. I spent the weekend desperately looking for cheap tires because Lucy's are looking kinda rough and I couldn't find anything in my budget and I can't help but wonder if I was meant to lose out on tires so that I would have the cash to repair the...whatever it is. Crap like that seems to happen to me all the time. Idk.

I spent the morning staring at my computer screen alternating between laughing in my head and sobbing inconsolably. Then I scribbled up some purely escapest For Keeps fic. THEN, I did a job search for gigs in Kalamazoo because between the tranny, the tires, and whatever disaster awaits me, I don't see my "save-alot-of-money-in-case-you-don't-get-a-job-right-away" plan working out so well. I wanted to move with a solid grand socked away. Owen said he'd cover rent and utilities for awhile, so I'd just have to worry about my car, phone, and student loans...but I don't see the grand happening.

So I'm reworking my resume. I found a position as an office wench at The-College-That-Owen-Doesn't-Work-At. The deadline is Thursday. I think it would be kinda adorable if we ended up working at rival schools.

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.